Everyone knows your body changes as you age.
As women, our boobs inevitably start to sag. Our hips spread with childbirth. Our asses – hell, I’m not even sure what’s going on back there anymore. But it aint pretty, that much I know.
But that’s life, right?
You age, you grow, you mature. You learn to appreciate your inner beauty.
So why the hell is my husband not getting with the fucking program yet?
I was reading Redneck Mommy’s ode to Moobs the other day and I realized that I am fucked. While she was reminding her husband that his body is going through its own metamorphasis, I was reminded that my husband still looks like an underwear model for the teen boy’s section of GAP.
Do you know that rotten son of a bitch actually weighs less than he did on our wedding day?!? LESS!
WHO DOES THAT?
And it’s not like he works out. Unless you count stuffing as much junkfood in your mouth as you can in one sitting as a workout. I don’t think the man even knows what the inside of an actual gym looks like. I think it’s been 10 years since he’s so much as attempted a push up.
I know what you’re thinking.
I should be grateful, you’re saying.
I should be proud to be married to a man that can still turn heads at a high school pep rally.
Except, as Tanis so eloquently pointed out, Moobs are supposed to be my vindication! When I kissed my teenage body goodbye at 19 and said hello to stretch marks and deflated breasts, I was reminded that men get theirs, too. Sure, it wouldn’t come as soon as mine, but eventually, they all told me, his body would succumb to the ravages of time and Cheetohs.
“He won’t be able to eat like that forever”, they said.
“His metabolism will catch up to him,” they promised.
“By his 25th birthday, all that beer will show up at his gut!” they all vowed.
The only time that man has anything even close to a gut is right after he’s eaten. I’m more bloated on Day 1 of my period than that bastard has ever been.
It’s not natural.
It’s not FAIR!
How am I supposed to get naked in front of the ageless freaking wonder? How am I supposed to not feel insecure about spider veins and cellulite bumps when he’s replacing his jeans because they’ve worn out?
Do you know when the last time I’ve had a pair of jeans long enough for them to wear out?
I give my jeans to charity because I can no longer breathe in them. And my husband is asking if I know how to patch the holes in the pants he’s had since highschool. Seriously.
That’s OK, though. He may be hot stuff now, and he might never get a beer gut or man boobs. But I am confident that, in the end, time and I will have our revenge. Because if there’s one thing my body and I have learned, it’s that you can’t fight gravity.
And I hope his testicles hit the fucking floor.