My husband is on another weight loss kick.  Do any of you know my husband?  He is tall, thin, and devastatingly handsome.  In fact, when we’re out in public together, I often hear middle-aged women whisper, “Who is that tall, thin, devastatingly handsome man with the frumpy blonde?”  I then have to throw my voice loudly in their direction and say, “Beat it, sister.  Find a devastatingly handsome man of your own.”  But I digress.

So if you know my devastatingly handsome husband, you also know that “slow and steady wins the race” means nothing to him.  Everything Derrick does is a) All or b) Nothing.  Either one is fine, as long as he doesn’t land somewhere in The Middle.  (I, myself, love The Middle.)  Despite my pleas for him to stop tormenting himself with unnecessary diets, he constantly insists that he needs to lose a few pounds–usually for an upcoming climb or to zap his cholesterol–and he has gotten quite creative with the ways he’s going to lose them.  He came home the other night and made an announcement over my lovingly prepared potato soup and homemade bread:

“I’m giving up flour.”

(Sigh) “What do you mean.” (Period intentional.  Really not that curious.)

“I’m not going to eat anything that has flour in it.”

“Nothing with flour in it?  No bread, pasta, even tortillas?”

“Nope.  No flour at all.”

“You’ve already given up rice and potatoes.  What am I supposed to make for dinner?”

“Meat.”

At this point, the kids began yelling at their father that giving up flour was the stupidest thing they’ve ever heard.  (Our next home evening will be on Honoring Thy Mother and Father.)  I tried to laugh the whole thing off, but was inwardly troubled by what this would do to both my grocery budget and my tri-weekly cookie baking sessions, of which Derrick has always been so supportive.  We’ve been married and making cookies for fifteen years.  What would we have to talk about now?

Derrick quickly reminded me that he has spent the last fifteen years listening to me rant about calories, fat, and the dreaded “points” in food, so couldn’t I at least support him in this?  Yes, I told him apologetically.  Of course I’ll help you subtract the staple of the western world’s diet from your own. So like the dutiful wife I am, I sat down and made a dinner menu for our family based on various red, white, and other-white meats.  I went to the store and shopped accordingly.  That was on Saturday.

Today is Sunday.  I gently asked Derrick if he would mind my making some chocolate-chip cookies for the kids, as I usually freeze them and then pull them out for their lunches throughout the week.  I was surprised when he smiled and said, “That’s fine.  Don’t adjust the family’s diet around mine.” (Right.) So I made a double batch of my trusty oatmeal chocolate chippers.  I left them on the counter to cool.

As of this post, seven of the cookies are absent from said countertop.  Gone.  The kids and I have not had a single one.

The predictable wailfest occurred later this evening as we sat on the couch together while Derrick wallowed in the aftermath of his gluttony.

“Why do you do this to meee??”

“You are a grown man.  You are responsible for your own flour intake.”

“But your cookies make it so haaard!  When everyone else is eating them…”

“No one else was eating them.  Just you.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Listen, if your friends jumped off a cliff, and then ate some flour, does that mean you would do it?

“Well…”

“Where is your conviction?”

“In the cookie jar.”

“That is not a good place for it.”

“I know.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get more cookies.”

And thus begins the Nothing phase of Derrick’s All-or-Nothing.  I can’t pretend I’m sorry.  It’s a heckuva lot more fun than his All.