Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Can you believe that these two pictures are of the same person? I have read that we all have a little bit of a split-personality disorder (See: French Women Don't Get Fat). We have the Narcissus side of us: in love with his own reflection he values beauty so highly. And, we have the Pantagruel side: a giant who is found to have an entire world in his mouth. I would agree with Ms. Guiliano with some slight alterations of my own. I have always imagined a squat Italian mother in my noggin versus a Sophia Loren look-alike (minus those huge eyebrows). Remember "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"? Remember the mother? "You hungry?" "No ma'am, I just ate." "Oh...I make you something." This is the woman in my head. (This is also my real life mother.) This is the woman that says, "Just have a snack. It's been a tough day, right? The last thing you need to be doing is counting those calories. Raviolis make it all better." And, sadly, they do. For a little bit. But just as my eyes are glazing over from the carb-rush, in steps Sophia's cousin, Bitchia. "I can't believe you ate ALL that. Didn't we agree? Didn't we say we were going to get these last 10lbs off of you? How can we when you "tuck in" every time you're upset? You really need a better emotional outlet than food." And, so it goes. They argue back and forth for my attention. The point Ms. Guiliano makes is that we must fuse the two: we must have a balance of both the giantess and the waif. In my go-hard-or-go-home-gulp-your-beer-American-all-or-nothing mentality, this is a very difficult concept to grasp.  Last night, when Joe arrived home, he took my workout clothes out of the dresser and said, "Do I have to dress you or are you going to the gym like that, 'cause you're getting out of the house one way or another and don't come back 'til I put the kids to bed." Yes sir. I was so down from being with the kids tantruming the insanity all day long, though, I didn't want to go anywhere, especially the college gym. I drove around the parking lot even thinking, "No one will know if I just don't go inside." But, that's not how I roll. So, after I sweat my arse off, I felt amazing. No kidding. No Cosmo magazine bull$hit, I felt better. I felt better than I would have if I had unloaded on a Stoeffer's lasagna.
It was recently brought to my attention that though people have joked about me becoming a "trophy wife" in order to be presentable to Joe's colleagues, that is a highly subjective term. Yes, we all want to look good but no one looks good when they're surly 'cause they can't eat a piece of wedding cake. So, it is the balance between this duplicity that I seek. (And, answers to my stress that don't involve buttercream frosting. They're out there.)


  1. Yeah. Trophy wives are so non-original. Plus their spray tans look orange and orange is not a good color for you my dear. ;)

    Oh and you know you can always vent to me cause I sure as hell vent to you.

  2. Well said. I look jaundice with fake bake.