I apologize for being a delinquent blogger. At least this post is only a day late...it could be worse! My excuse (or at least my explanation) is this: I've been getting ready to start grad school (first class tomorrow!) and I've been freaking out. Because, as I've said, grad school involves being away from Ian. So I've had other things on my mind.
That is not to say that Ian and I did not cook this Sunday. We did. Well, I did. Um...I think he helped with a few things, but it was one of those utilitarian, I'm-hungry-so-let's-get-this-over-with kind of nights. We made minestrone (lovely, by the way--here's the recipe) and parmesan croutons. The food was delicious, but it didn't feel like it was supposed to. We ate very early in the evening (when dieting, I always feel like dinner can't come soon enough, especially when I get a free pass for a meal) and then had the traditional argument over whether to open a bottle of wine (this makes me sound like a wino, I know--I am always pro and Ian is always con. I just think that a nice meal should have a nice beverage to go along with it and Crystal Light fruit punch just doesn't cut it. Maybe we should switch our cooking days to Saturday since Ian's main argument is not to drink on school nights).
But here's what I really want to talk about: why is it that when two people diet together, there is inevitably a good dieter and a bad dieter? For a long time I was the good dieter, counting my calories and thoroughly planning our meals while Ian went to work and ate junk at staff meetings. It would frustrate me, but since I was the good dieter, I felt OK. I would help him, give him guidelines, etc. But now--the tables have turned. He goes to work with his low-calorie soup and doesn't snack all day (he never was much of a snacker anyway) and eats his low-calorie dinner and is good. But me--I snack. I'm bad, I know. And sometimes it adds up to more than I'm supposed to have. So now Ian is giving me diet tips, and it doesn't feel OK. I know better than to open a can of sweetened condensed milk to see what it tastes like and then turn it into a cookie-cake type thing (it was already open, I didn't want to waste it, what was I supposed to do, blah blah blah).
I guess dieting is, whether we like it or not, a competitive thing. I used to only compete with myself. Now, I compete with my husband. Not for the number of pounds lost or calories consumed--I know that our needs and thus our results will be different. It's like riding a mechanical bull, and lately I haven't been able to hang on. I guess instead of begrudging Ian his success, I should be happy for him. And instead of grumbling in the dirt, I should stand up and get back on the bull.