Wait, Weight? Don’t Tell Me!

Earlier this week Gracie and I were working away in the kitchen on a chicken dinner (because we are a winner-winner, naturally). May gets home late on weekdays, so I try to come up with something to cook. This is harder for me than most because May does not have the same superpower I do of being able to eat the exact same thing 4-5 days in a row. Seriously, I could eat lingerie or spaghetti with sauce and grated cheese every day and be fine with it, but my wife is constantly insisting on this thing called “variety” which I have struggled to comprehend.

I mean, what do you mean you don’t just want peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for lunch? Don’t you realize that it has like, a whopping two of the four food groups in there?

Nevertheless, I had sallied forth into the kitchen to work on a chicken dish baked in the oven, and Gracie had volunteered to be my loyal kitchen assistant. I had already seasoned the poultry with, well, “Poultry Seasoning” (scout’s honor: that’s what it said on the bottle) and we were checking the chicken to see if it had been cooked through yet.

Side note: I like chicken, but the one thing I hate about cooking it is making sure it is already cooked all the way through. My problem is that I got used to seeing ads on TV for cooked chicken where the meat is stark white; whiter than my own skin on a hot summer day. So even when the internal temperature is 165 degrees F, I am constantly doubting how well done the chicken really is. Because getting Salmonella or worse yet, passing it on to loved ones, is not really something I want on my resume.

All of this is to say that I was bending over a lot to check on the chicken’s internal temperature. And one time, as I bent over I heard–and felt–a RRRRIIIIIIIIIIPPPP on my rear, and not the kind that is a byproduct of eating a lot of baked beans.

Fortunately, Gracie did not notice, too wrapped up in talking about some Minecraft lore or something, but a quick and ever so subtle check confirmed that I had, indeed, literally split my pants, giving anyone driving along 16th street the treat of a view of my Super Mario boxers (which, I will point out, contains many characters from the game series, including Boo, but interestingly enough, none of the female characters; I like to think is the politically responsible choice for men’s underwear.).

Now, in my defense, these were old and worn jeans, and my phone was in the back pocket right next to where the tear happened, which I believed added just a touch more strain than the threads could handle. Plus, the moon was in the 12th house, which is known to indicate an emotional attachment and sensitivity to all that is ethereal, groundless, and eternal, as well as a weakening on the bonds of trousers.

I managed to slip upstairs and swap pants while the chicken continued to cook, but I bring this up as I find it an excellent reason/justification for my willing participation in a series of small diet contests with a select few family members.

Now, before you lecture me on the importance of body acceptance and the doctor-diet cabal that runs our medical industry, let me first remind you of my poor pants. Also, I can reassure you that this is really more or less a nice way for us to stay connected through our group text chat. This is particularly helpful for my uncles out in California that I have not seen in probably about a decade, and allows us to talk and engage in meaningful discussions about how we actually gained a pound because of some delicious dessert that just had be eaten. Otherwise it would have been rude!

However, don’t let that layer of camaraderie and community fool you; the whole contest has been gradually raising the stakes (or should I say, “steaks”) over its inception. It’s always been something where we would go for a few months, take a break, and start again, but originally at the end of a contest, the winner would just have bragging rights and the knowledge that they triumphed over their kin.

But now, the contests have gotten much more intense. The first upgrade was an actual small trophy that was sent to the winner. However, this was supposed to be a “traveling trophy” and the previous winner would send it on to the next winner. Unfortunately, the first person who happened to win that trophy stated in no uncertain terms that they would NOT be mailing it on. I have this on good authority, mainly because it was me. I mean, hey, it was the first trophy I won since my NOSO (North Olmsted Soccer Organization) team won first place back in 1984. No way I’m letting that thing go.

Hence, it was changed so that each person would get their own trophy, and even personalized with a name, and everything! Woot! What more could one want?

Well, money, obviously.

Now the champion of this small contest with maybe 5-6 participants wins the personalized trophy AND $100! In cash!

Just a few more years before we hit the stages of toaster ovens and matching luggage sets! Yay!

Even better, new pants for the winner! Now we’re talking!