What’s Scarier than a Sexy Ebola Nurse Costume? Crossover Day!
Every Monday morning I step on the scale, close my eyes tight, and say “Please God, don’t let it be Crossover Day.”
Momus and I have been working more or less diligently over the past year to get in better shape. And when I say more or less diligently, I mean that we were doing really well there for a while, but for the past 3 weeks, we’ve ingested way more calories in wine and cheese straws than we’ve expended moving our butts off the couch. But we fully intend to get back on the beam again. Any day now.
Unfortunately, for a variety of reasons (which I will detail momentarily), Momus has the capacity to drop 5 pounds by batting his eyelashes energetically. I, however, have reached that age where women gain weight just by watching too much Master Chef Junior.
Thus, the specter of Crossover Day. Crossover Day is that horrific imaginary (please let it be imaginary!) day when our weights cross. I am sad to say that it is theoretically possible that Crossover Day might happen sometime in the next few months. Our current weights are less than 5 pounds apart and moving inexorably toward each other.
To be clear, I am not actually gaining weight. But at peak exercise and starvation levels, my ability to lose weight maxes out around 8 ounces per week. Meanwhile, Momus’ max is more like 8 pounds per week. So my line stays flat, while his just keeps on moving down. That’s like Sacco and Vanzetti level injustice.
But here’s the thing: the game is rigged. Momus is a former athlete. A bona fide high school track star. Still has the leg muscles to prove it. Those muscles consume calories even when he is sitting on the couch stuffing his face full of Popcorners. Damn him.
And he’s a good half inch shorter than I am (Momus required an official measurement when I initially wrote that it was a full inch). He likes to pretend we’re the same height, and usually I humor him. But we’re talking about Crossover Day here. The cards are all coming out. For the record, and I’m saying this of my own free will, not because he’s holding my grandmother’s quilt hostage: I am a fairly tall woman, he is not an unusually short man.
Finally, because Momus is a runner, when he exercises he runs. Fast. I, on the other hand, am all but incapable of moving faster than a brisk walk (see our Throwdown on the topic). Which means that when he goes down to work out on the treadmill, he expends about 42,000 calories in 45 minutes. When I “work out” on the treadmill it’s more like 12. If I’m lucky.
As you can see, the deck is heavily stacked against me. Unless I can manage to kneecap him (I have Tonya Harding’s crew on speed dial) or replace his diet lemonade with Mountain Dew, Crossover Day is on its way.
Momus, because he has intermittent bouts of idiocy, is very excited about the potential for crossover. He has even joked about a celebration of the day or a competition in which he wins some glorious prize once he bests my weight. He clearly does not realize the full psychological impact such an event (should it happen – please don’t let it happen) will have upon my fragile self-image and general womanhood. It really will not be a good day for him. Or me. Or anyone in the state of Massachusetts that happens to be driving that day.
In the meantime, I’m crossing my fingers, getting on that treadmill, secretly adding Crisco to all his food, and, just in case, sharpening the long knives.