Plaintiff has decided that she’s going to go on the South Beach diet. Of course, by “she” – she actually means her and I both. Not sure how we got to this point in our relationship, but as I cannot figure out where in the house the “kitchen” is, I haven’t complained too much – until now.
Yes, I’ve gained a “few” extra pounds. So what if I have to stop at the truck scales to get weighed now. Yes, I’ve had that first “warning” heart attack. Yes, I get short of breath just talking about exercising. But is that any reason to go to drastic measures? Where the heck are the potato chips? Why have they been replaced with cauliflower? Humus? Isn’t that what the Native Americans used to put a wounded warrior out of his misery? Who the heck took my sodas? What the heck am I supposed to drink? Water. Really? There’s plenty of water in soda and it tastes so very much better.
In hindsight, I’ve always been slow to embrace change. The girls would spin the wheel-o-hair-color and Plaintiff would swear they looked like princesses. I would swear that the only “princess” I ever saw with GREEN hair was Princess Fiona – and she was an ogre. I’ve had the same hair style for the past 30+ years. I don’t talk to Plaintiff for a week or two each time she changes her hair style. I guess I’m trying to see if anything else changed along with the hair. Maybe I won’t like the new and improved Plaintiff? Having lived with me for the majority of her life, I’m not sure why Plaintiff seemed so surprised then to find my nose in the clouds at the thought of eating food that neither my father nor his father before him had eaten.
I’m not certain that I’m actually allergic to change, but I’m beginning to suspect that Plaintiff doesn’t like me….