Dani Klein Modisett: Last night, I set out a lovely meal of roast chicken, steamed broccoli, and quinoa. I don't even really know what quinoa is, but I read somewhere that it's good for me, and if it's good for me, it must be good for my husband and kids. I figured if I slapped enough butter and Parmesan cheese on it, they might even eat it. I gave myself a nice, healthy serving, not weighed out like every diet book I obsessively read tells me to, but reasonable amounts of each. I left one bite on my plate, "one bite for God," a professional dieter once told me.
I heard a little more about my husband's day, the medical bills that needed to be resubmitted to our insurance, the deadline for the soccer league that had passed the day before, and, without thinking, I ate God's bite. Then I started playing with the spoon in the overly buttered bowl of grains and decided the portion I gave myself was too meager. "Who am I? Someone from the cast of 'Oliver'?" I thought, putting an additional pile of it on my plate, fighting every impulse to lick the serving spoon. After all, I don't want to teach my kids bad habits.
"What do you think?" my husband asked me. I had no idea what he was referring to, because I didn't get enough chicken either, and that's what I was really concerned about.
"I'm sorry? What do I think of which part?" I asked, falsely implying that I had heard some of what he had said.
"Should we get a hybrid or not?"
"Oh, hybrid for sure," I said, hoping I'd remembered to replenish the supply of Healthy Choice chocolate fudge bars because I really needed one, or six. Six of them have 480 calories, and I had gone to the gym in the morning and figured if I skipped breakfast today, all would be right with my world.
What I really didn't want to do was have sex. I just didn't, and I knew he wanted to, so although I couldn't admit it then (I can never admit it then), I knew that if I ate half a chicken, a trough of salad, and six Healthy Choice bars (hopefully while watching "So You Think You Can Dance"), with any luck at all, I'd pass out in front of the TV, which is the best excuse I know of for not being intimate with my husband. Being unconscious is way better than "I have a headache," or worse, simply saying no.
There's nothing wrong with my husband, by the way. My husband is cute. It's me. I'm tired ... and I know it's the middle of summer, but I am not bikini-ready. I'm not even flannel-pajamas-lights-off ready. I have no excuse for this other than gluttony, and maybe fear of the everydayness of being married. Every day, good, bad, and ugly, I wake up and there he is! Frankly, it's terrifying.
And I don't mean to whine, because I actually really enjoy sex with my husband. It's just that sometimes, eating is better.
|Dani Klein Modisett is the mother of 2-year-old Gideon (pictured) and 6-year-old Gabriel. She is comedy writer/creator/producer of the show "Afterbirth...stories you won't read in Parents magazine." An anthology of stories from this show, published by St. Martin's Press, is now in stores everywhere.|