Active folks that we are, days like that don’t come around very often. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t believe we’ve had one since, but then, there’s a good reason for that.
At the time, we were lounging on the bed in our room, where the only TV in our house resides. We had just finished viewing the very exciting and dramatic version of King Kong starring Jack Black, Naomi Watts and Adrian Brody, which, being at least a half an hour too long, had exhausted us so that we decided it was time for another nap.
I was about to doze off when Ward (my husband), who suffers from occasional bouts of logorrhea and who had begun to stroke my back absentmindedly, said, “Hey, did you ever see that Janeane Garofalo stand-up special on HBO?” I wasn’t sure what had caused this new topic of conversation to spring into his mind, but I enjoy Janeane Garofalo’s humor, and though I hadn’t seen her special, I was sure it would interest me.
“No. Was it good?” I asked.
“Yeah, she did this really funny bit about that firefighting movie with Kurt Russell,” my husband continued.
“You mean Backdraft?”
“Yeah, except she called it ...” At this point, my husband’s voice trailed off, which seemed odd, since he was never one to give up the floor prematurely.
“What?” I asked.
“Huh?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised, as though I had interrupted him in the middle of an hour long period of silent meditation. Had I not been part of it, I never would have guessed he’d been in mid-conversation with me. “Oh nothing. It was just really funny.”
His avoidance of my question, his refusal to make eye contact and his attempt to distract me by renewing his backrub with extreme vigor made me suspicious, so I wrenched myself free of his grip and sat up to face him. “What?” I asked. “What did she call it?”
“Nothing, it’s not important. I really don’t remember,” he insisted, still avoiding my gaze.
I narrowed my eyes and glared. Being a bit of a wordsmith, I was pretty sure I had parsed out the portion of the story he was omitting. “Did she call it Backfat? Is that what she called it?” I demanded as he stared sheepishly at the floor. “And did touching my back remind you of that?”
His silence was all the answer I needed. You can imagine the conversation that followed.
Eventually, my muffled sobs and tears gave way to several awkward variations of the question, “Do you think I’m fat?” all of which put a bit of a damper on our casual yet gluttonous day of rest.
But sometimes, all a horrific moment needs is a little time to transform itself into a good story, and now, after a year and a half — and the loss of five or so pounds from my posterior — I’m ready to laugh at it.
I’m also happy to say that Ward, my husband — who, contrary to my overuse of the word “husband” in this column, I still prefer to call my partner — has made an extra effort to keep his logorrhea in check ever since. At least when it comes to my backfat.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).