Please enter the realm of “gayle-phobias”.
My husband is this 6’4”, athletic, studmuffin. I could hold my own with him when we were first together but the minute that ring slipped onto my finger something happened….four times in a row.
For the next 8 years I was either gaining 50 lbs with a pregnancy or nursing for a year after, or walking around with a jiggly belly that some baby had just popped out of. I managed to bounce back to “presentable” after the last baby was born, but those 8 years were filled with all kinds of unmatched moments where, I’m sure, people pitied that handsome man and his dumpy wife.
But time took its toll and eventually my husband packed on a few pounds. And I was happy with our mutual pudginess. (Insert evil laughter here.) We finally matched and I didn’t have to lift one weight to do it.
But my happiness was short lived.
He decided that cellulite didn’t look so hot on him and he put on his running shoes and left me alone with the package of Oreo’s as he ran off into the sunset every night to work it off.
I should have been happy for him but I’ve learned that cellulite likes company and so now me and my celly sit at home eating bowls of ice-cream and waving goodbye to Chris.
So our Thanksgiving morning was spent cheering on my once-again firm, athletic and studmuffinly handsome husband as he ran his first 5K race.
My darn camera has a slow shutter time so this is the finish line that he just crossed. Can you believe I didn't actually get the crossing picture? Argh!
He finished at 31 minutes!