Mixed Resolutions

Weddings and New Years don’t mix. Not for the reasons you might think, a vow is close to a resolution and Aunt Gertie will still get plastered, fall face up, panties down, into some over iced cake or some other drink--no matter what you call the holiday. No, we’re not even talking about our glorious event coinciding with the New Year’s Holiday (Although yes, I have had that conversation. That’s a blog topic within itself). I’m just talking about talking about weddings over New Years.

Our conversation started, couch cuddling, in front of Jeopardy, much like this:

PQ: Let’s talk about the wedding.

Alex: It’s time for double jeopardy!

ME: (strange gasping sounds of choking in Chex Mix) MMMM, Waff?

See I had no idea I was supposed to talk about this wedding thing. My proposal was that she ran off, create a wedding and reception like God fashioning Heaven and Earth: by herself. God didn’t need me for the creation thing and he only had seven days. My queen’s got unt—She hasn’t even picked a date! Sure, I was married once before, but that wedding preparation ended as a weird exhaustive thing, stumbling over vacuous morphing nuptial concepts until confused cross-eyed we yelled, “Let’s go to Vegas!”

That’s not the Pirate Queen way. I proposed less than a month ago, and she’s already three columns of Firefox bookmarks and seven spreadsheets into preparation and she’s only asking, “What colors do you like?”

That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it has to do with that New Years thing I spoke of. See, with New Year’s comes resolutions:

“I’m not getting married until I fit into this dress.” She flashes a Google image of a curvy, statuesque gown with a waist that fits a Pixie Stick. I look at her and swallow the silence. Beside the picture, she looks up, expectant.

I smile, point back at the Chex Mix. “MMMf Waff!”

Contestant one says, “What’s another fine mess, Alex?”

I love my bride to be. I love her for all her curves. I love her better or worse. I love her thick or thin. but don’t know if we’re ever getting married if she’s planning on fitting the pixie dress.

She sits up and faces me. Cold air gusts past my exposed belly. “You don’t think I can get down into a size that would fit that dress?” Her command of my non-verbals is staggering!

“No, honey. Of course I believe you could fit that dress. I am worried about how long it will take you to lose all the weight.”

The cats clear the sofa.

“Hoof in mouth,” says Alex and leaves for a commercial.

There’s nothing left in the living room but me, my Chex Mix, and my icy-eyed Pirate bride to be—even the television has gone quiet.

The Pirate Queen puts down the TV remote control. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Of course not, my love! Look. You’ve got curves. I love your curves. They fit well against my curves.” I grab another handful of Chex Mix.

“You’re right,” she stands. Leaning over she grabs my Chex Mix bag and walks away. I hear a noise that suggests my bag is now in our trashcan. “We’re not getting married until we lose some weight and can stand proudly naked in front of our families.”

“Uhm, that’s not gonna happen even if I lose weight.”

“Oh, baby, I told you, size doesn—“

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I sigh. There’s no getting out of this, but I try. “We can stand proudly in front of them without losing weight.”

“No, because this is our New Year’s resolution: we’re losing weight.”

What the hell? It wasn’t my resolution three Chex handfuls ago. “It is?”

“Yep,” She comes back into the living room and slips back against the opposite end of the couch. “We’re going on a low-carb diet.”

“A what?” Now I’m not I dieter. I’ve lost weight, but I accomplished that the manly way: through sweat and exercise, not by giving up food.

“You’ll have to pry this Twinkie out of my cold dead hand!”

She goes further into describing the low-carb diet to me as “Something you’ll have to research. “

I do—the research. I already do the other. There are almost as many low-carb diets as the Pirate Queen has little wedding bookmarks. I find good carbs and bad carbs warring for control of my obesity, while lean and fatty proteins vie for my soul. I had no idea. And now my queen expects me to. Who knew that marriage came with such responsibility?

That’s why I find myself today at the bookstore looking through diet books to enhance my New Years. If our wedding planning continues to absorb and covert holidays, I’m screwed: if we don’t get this wedding planned before Mother’s Day, there’ll be no way she’s fitting into the pixie dress.