If you’ve been married as long as I have (today is our 24th wedding anniversary), you’ll probably know what I mean when I say that at times, my relationship with my husband is a love-hate thing. The hate is provoked by stupid little things, like: why must an adult male in good health and in possession of all his faculties spit toothpaste on the bathroom mirror every single day of his life? Ten minutes after wanting to throttle him for that, I catch a glimpse of him cuddling a tiny kitten and my heart melts. He has truly been there for me through thick and thin (more thick than thin) and I can’t imagine life without him, but the next time I walk into the bathroom and see the Colgate version of a Jackson Pollock painting on the mirror, Mr. P’s life will hang by a thread, at least for a few moments.
I also have a love-hate relationship with my band at times. I resent it because it prevents me from eating mindlessly. I love it for the very same reason, but when I’m tired or hurried or distracted, the effort to eat carefully seems enormous. Why can’t my band just do its job and leave me the heck alone? I’m by no means a lazy person but there are days when living with an adjustable gastric band is a lot of work. It’s certainly not a spectator sport – to win this game, you have to jump right in and get busy, and it’s not over when the cheers fade away…it starts all over again the next day, and the next day, for the rest of your life. Like me and the stupid bathroom mirror.
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