Sir Monkeypants is training for a half marathon in May, and I’m rather cranky about it.
It’s not that I begruge him the time required for training. I’m happy to give him the time he needs to get Heart Healthy and to extend his stay on this earth as long as possible. And really, taking care of the kids for an extra hour or two a day isn’t so bad.
It’s not that I am bothered by the fact that he’s really excited about his new hobby, and wants to talk all the time about training schedules and running shoes and which set of earphones is the most ideal for fitting under his new running hat. I’m happy he’s got something he’s passionate about.
And it’s not that I’m worried about the extra expenses; these are lean times, sure, but running is a relatively cheap sport and my tap dancing classes cost at least twice as much as he’s spent so far on running supplies and gadgets.
No, my real problem is the eating. The constant, constant eating.
Sir Monkeypants and I use calorie counting software every day — me to help me lose those last five pounds of baby weight, him just to make sure he’s getting a good balance of all the required daily vitamins and minerals.
Every day, this software tells me I should be eating less, and eating less crap, and that in general, I SUCK. PUT DOWN THAT COOKIE. Hard news to hear, especially when you are STARVING TO DEATH. FUCK OFF, SOFTWARE.
Meanwhile, Sir Monkeypants comes home from work every day and enters the data for his training run, and the software merrily tells him to eat more! More more more! Have a big party, and don’t hold back when it comes to the buffet! And hey, why not have some chips, and cookies, and an entire plate of french fries while you’re at it? Something fatty and full of calories would be awesome!
So I am a wee bit bitter.
It’s not just that he gets to eat while I look on wistfully, cradling my cup of green tea for comfort. Oh no. It’s the GLEE with which he eats.
It’s all, “Look at that! I still have over a thousand calories today! I just don’t think it’s possible for me to even eat that much food!”
Or maybe, “Do you realize that I have more calories left to eat now, after dinner, than you have eaten all day?”
Or perhaps, “Where did you put that new bag of cheesies? Did you want any? Oh, sorry.”
He keeps reminding me that I could be running too. I keep reminding him that I do run, run like a chicken with its head cut off after three kids every day. Ten minutes on the elliptical in the morning is just about all I can squeeze in right now.
Those cheesies do look mighty fine, though.
If only getting my hands on some of them wasn’t so damn sweaty.