August 27, 2011


A few weeks ago with sixteen weeks until our fifth wedding anniversary, which is just shy of our ten year anniversary of being together, and just past our nine year anniversary of moving to Florida, we decided to get in shape. Not just lose weight, but really get in shape. He wants a six pack, and I want a great can.

So we joined the Y and have been going pretty regularly. And I’m pretty sure it made me gay. I mean I am constantly checking out other women.

“Look at the guns on her; she makes Michelle Obama look like Olive Oyl.”

“I bet she does squats…Her thighs make me sore just looking at her.”

“Have you ever seen boobs like that? I want to touch them. No I don’t. Yes I do, but not the nipple, I’m not that gay.”

“That ass is perfection. A solid gold glute machine and the world’s finest plastic surgeon could not give me an ass like that.”

“Look how much space there is between her legs; you could throw a cat through there.”

I said cat, if you used a different term, then you are a very crude person.

So I asked my husband, who promises he has not been checking out the same women I have, if he thinks I’m gay.

“Baby,” he said, in his sweetest condescending tone, “if you were a lesbian you wouldn’t do what you did to me last night.”

“I might,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he grinned, “but you certainly wouldn’t have been so into it that you stopped in the middle to yell giddy up.”

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