WARNING: This post contains both utter silliness and PMS. If you do not want to read about either/both and yet keep going from here, it’s all on you.
My boyfriend and I are an odd couple (at least, we think we are), and clearly, we admit to it. We try not to have public places fails… too often, anyway.
But, since we can’t be as weird out there, we have to make up for it somewhere, and that usually winds up being during a nice long cuddle, where topics of discussion range from how the day went to red pandas and bunnies to “I love you”s to Olympian slugs.
Let me explain.
My boyfriend is tall-ish and naturally rather skinny. Not unhealthy, but skinny. As he said the other night, “My metabolism does not know how to store things.” My metabolism, on the other hand… is quite the opposite. Well, it knows how to burn things, but occasionally, it fails to get the fire going. As a result, I’ve struggled with my weight in the past, but I’m healthy now. However, I am… how do I put this delicately… expecting a visit from a certain Aunt Flo. (Nope. Delicacy was nowhere to be found.) For me, this means mood swings, being unable to sleep all that well, and water retention and bloating. Those last ones really, really suck. It’s not that I think I’m ugly, but there’s nothing I can do to bring down that stupid tummy pooch, save for eating NO salt and halving my water intake. This, however, would be unhealthy and would likely not do anything for my mood, so I try to avoid it when I can.
It would be at this unfortunate stage that my boyfriend decided to talk about his having “fat days”. If you have ever seen him, you know this is the rough equivalent of dividing by zero—it doesn’t work. Most of the time, I would’ve given him a “really, now?” look and laughed it off, but this was just not one of those times. I buried my head under a pillow for several minutes and refused to come out, cranky, over-reactive little ball of hormones that I am at the moment, then sullenly tried to amend it to something else. To this, he did agree, as he says he does not feel fat; just unwilling to do anything, so we came up with “slug days”.
Ah, now you see where this is going.
I, myself, do have “fat days” (water retention is a bitch), “slug days”, and, on occasion, “fat slug days”.
It was quiet for a moment after I made this pronouncement, and then my boyfriend, who has been feeling rather puckish (and has only recently learned this word and loves it, so I must therefore use it), asked, “What; no Olympian slugs?”
Cranky, sullen, and generally crotchety though I had been, that made me laugh. The thought of slugs doing anything remotely athletic (at least, in a human way) is a pretty humorous one, you gotta admit.
Then, a moment later (again, from the boyfriend): “What’s your slug doing?”
Forget laughing; I had to stop and think for a moment. I had been imagining this, but I couldn’t decide between the two events my slug had decided it was good at: weightlifting, and sprints. (I am, somewhat ironically, good at neither.) The boyfriend thought his was doing shotput. Mine switched to running the stairs of the Olympic stadium.
It is at this point (or something like it) that most people likely will ask, “What are/were you on?”
Life? Love? A bit of both? Not enough sleep? Any of that is possible. Not mind-altering substances, though. We’re already strange enough as it is. Our friends and family can tell you this. (Though I, myself, was hard-pressed not to ask this of the boyfriend when I woke him up from a nap one night and he spouted off the second half of a perfectly coherent—and technically/stylistically correct—sentence explaining why I need a wrapper class to fetch something out of the middle of some data structure. He was very tired and does not remember this, though he does remember me telling him to take his hearing aid out and go to sleep, so at least there’s that…)
As for me? I can tell you that my boyfriend is a treasure, and I’d have him no other way; humor, puckish-ness, Olympian slugs and all.