It’s all about the six pack … and I’m not referring to soda or beer.
In this instance, the six pack, or rather, “getting a six pack,” is code for “the competition is on.” The competition sets out to prove who is in the best shape, and it starts whenever my husband and his brother are going to see each other. Suddenly, phrases like “road work” are in everyday use, and barbells and hand weights are strewn randomly around the house.
I’ve mentioned that we celebrated our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary recently. Well, the first round of this competition, the competition for six-pack abs, started about that same time, twenty-nine years ago … and there has yet to be a winner.
To be fair, I can’t fault either of them for something I do myself, which is procrastinating about the things I know I should do, know how to do, but just don’t do. I’ve confessed my routine of cleaning like a whirling dervish when company is coming. Why do I let the counters pile up with stuff and don’t notice when the leftovers turn to science projects in the fridge? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the same reason that my husband watches TV on the couch with his eyes closed, rather than using our home gym to work out.
Another warning sign that the competition is on is when I nearly break my neck after tripping on a forty-pound plate as I’m working my way over to the fax machine. Yes, fax machine—we still have one—and I needed to use it. And it happens to be located in the same room as our home gym.
This round of competition is a result of our daughter’s wedding, which will be taking place in a few weeks. We’ve shifted into high gear with shopping, planning, and making and checking lists. My husband insists that he doesn’t need to buy a new suit; he will fit into the one he has. I’ve ditched my fantasy of fitting into anything I bought ten years ago, but my replacement plan hasn’t worked out very well.
I thought I would save time and shop for a dress online.
I hate it.
First of all, it took two weeks to arrive, which seemed like an incredibly long time for Amazon Prime, and it looked nothing like what I had in mind. The dress I ordered was the perfect shade of sage green, sleek and sophisticated; the model looked like she could have been attending a wedding for the Queen of England. The dress that arrived … once I put it on, anyway … looked like a dress you might wear to a Holly Hobbie convention. There were yards and yards of fabric ballooning away from my body like a parachute. This might be convenient if I were planning a Mary Poppins-style entrance to the wedding reception, which I’m not.
And now I admit that I actually ordered two dresses. If the first looked like a Holly Hobbie parachute, I would equate the second to something an Amish schoolteacher would wear. Well, I’ve never been to an Amish school, and admittedly, I don’t personally know any Amish schoolteachers. I’m drawing from the movie Witness, starring Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis. Picture a plain and ill-fitting pinkish beige dress that is not full length and not knee length, but something in between and not quite right. That’s the second dress.
So, now you’ll understand why I won’t hold my husband and brother-in-law accountable for never declaring a winner to their competition. Those dresses will hang in my closet, perhaps for years, because I will never return them. I never return anything.
My younger self would beat myself up for such things. Why, why, WHY?
But now, I’m happy to say there are no excuses needed.
I’m with you! But I return everything🤣🤣🤣