A wise man doth not comment on his wife’s diet.
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These are my thoughts as I watch that needle at my feet go the wrong direction.
1. Never diet as a unit. God never intended this.
If it’s too late, and you are indeed on a diet at the same time, you will soon see the man that God gave you, melt before your eyes.
2. Do not hate him. Never complain or whine about his success.
“Hey Honey,” he may say, giddy with joy, “I lost five pounds.”
3. Avoid putting him into male fix it mode.
“How can that be?” I moan, watching him layer his sandwich like he is still upstairs building plank on plank in our remodel. “I have hardly eaten enough to sustain life the last three days,” I complain, never taking my eyes off the sandwich which is the height of our bedroom wall.
(A word to the wise: Men, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT reply to that. Bite your tongue. Hard.)
4. Never place blame for your inability to lose weight on your husband, on your children nor the chocolate sitting in your midst. Go to the source. Blame Eve.
5. Husbands. Please for your health and welfare, avoid questions like:
“Should you eat that?” “Is that your second piece?” or “Are you sure you want that?”
6. When the question reinforces the answer, “Yes, I want that.”
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“Listen to this,” I call out. “Prov. 23:2, ‘and put a knife to your throat if you are given to appetite. ‘“(ESV)
Food has tripped us up from the beginning. Eve ate the fruit, the Israelites wanted and didn’t want manna, they longed for the leeks and garlics and former delicacies, and the New Testament church didn’t know what to do with food given to idols and unclean animals.
I hear a murmur from the recesses of the kitchen. The sound is suspect.
“What are you doing? I ask rounding the corner to find Phil half-way inside the open fridge.
His head pulls out. He looks at me solemnly, a wedge of pizza in hand “I’m hungry.”
At this point I am reminded that Eve was the one deceived and Adam knew better.
Tomorrow I will be ten pounds heavier and he will be five pounds lighter.
“Wanna go get some ice-cream?” I ask. The “ice” cuts the air suspiciously like the hiss of a snake.
He puts the pizza back, closes the fridge and we head for the door.
“Chocolate concrete with cashews,” he says, and he definitely knows better than to say that.