My wife is pregnant. Capital-P pregnant. Like, nearly ten months, ready to burst, hating life, “why did I do this?” pregnant.
I am not pregnant. But, out of solidarity, I spent the holidays doing my best to make it seem like I was. Because I’m a good husband.
And a stupid idiot.
Last year, when the holidays were all said and done, I had gained something like fifteen pounds.
It was the biggest I’d been since… probably ever, and I didn’t like it. So I dedicated myself to losing the weight and hitting the gym and in 2015 I made working out a habit that lasted, give or take the occasional fortnight or two, the entire year. And that way, plus some help from my son (see chart), I got back to fighting weight.
As I return to work in 2016, I’m in much better shape than I was at this time last year. But despite 2015’s bloat looming large (nailed it!) in my memory, I didn’t emerged unscathed; this time around, the Christmas smorgasbord was actually indulged for noble reasons: my wife is having a rough pregnancy, and she needed my support. So I did my best to give it to her.
I didn’t gain as much as I did last year – which, again, was achieved without the goal of incurring sympathy pain, I was just being gross – but I definitely gained a bunch. And now I’m paying the price.
I probably should have gotten her a push present instead.
Attempting to emulate your wife’s pregnancy via the deadly sin of gluttony is not a task that should be undertaken lightly. In fact, if it weren’t for the holidays, i.e., that blessed six-week stretch from Thanksgiving to New Year’s that only just ended and from which I’ll be recovering well into March, I doubt I’d have been able to manage it. But with my wife’s encouragement (read: complete obliviousness to the fact that my nonstop gorging had anything to do with her or was a disgusting attempt at solidarity via sympathy pain) and a steady diet of cookies, chocolate, finger foods, and roast beasts, I was able to pull it off!
I am somewhat less proud to announce that I am going to need the equivalent of an epidural to get rid of it. Thankfully, Pepto-Bismol sent one along to help ease my labor pains.
It’s a good thing, too, because when the actual human baby arrives, I’m not going to have the luxury of just lounging around, waiting for my intestinal discomfort to resolve itself, like Mom and Buried will. No, we men don’t get the full-on spa treatment expecting mothers receive during their multi-day labor extravaganzas, during which they’re waited on hand-and-foot by a team of medical professionals! No, I’m forced to fend for myself, with nothing but Pepto-Bismol to comfort me.
Which is fine. I can manage; I am a man, after all. I don’t need no hospital stay! All I need is some #pinkrelief from the items in that box and I’ll be all set! Men’s rights or whatever!
(Out of curiosity, does Pepto-Bismol make anything that will help soothe the pain from the beating I get after my wife – and every other woman who has ever actuallybeen pregnant – reads this? Thanks in advance.)
Disclosure: Pepto-Bismol provided me with some samples of its product, as well as compensation for writing this post. I provided the rest. Mom and Buried provided me with the couch for the next few nights.