If you’ve ever wrestled, or if you’ve spent a lot of time around wrestlers, there’s one thing you know: The relationship between a wrestler and his/her food is a strange thing. It’s very…love-hate. Wrestlers tend to go from not eating much of anything four months out of the year, to gorging on everything around them for the eight months leading up to the next season. Watching this is, I assume, a lot like watching a bear preparing for hibernation…except instead of hibernation, it’s preparation for a quarter-year fast.
*Just a note: By the time you finish this post, Reader, you may be thinking to yourself that it actually has nothing to do with JD’s complicated relationship with food that stemmed from years of cutting weight, and is in fact just an obsessive, psychotic wife’s rant caused by a diet-induced rage. And I will tell you this: You’re wrong.*
Back to the story:
The eat-everything/don’t-eat-anything process goes on for years, and when these wrestlers leave their sweat on the mat for the last time, one thing still remains: an eating disorder.
JD is a perfect example of this. It’s been five years since he’s had to make weight. Five years. And yet, somehow, he’s still stuck in his old eating habits. He will go a few days only eating a couple of meals per day, to throwing anything and everything into that piehole of his. Reese Cups? Gone. Leftover Chinese? Demolished. Unidentifiable substance in Tupperware jammed into the back of the fridge? Never stood a chance. But somehow, amidst all of the crap he’s eating, he still manages to have a six-pack.
In the meantime, here I am, busting my ass and doing my best to not even smell junkfood in an attempt to lose babyweight. The other day, I accidentally knocked into a “50% off all Easter Candy” display, and the button on my jeans (okay, they were jeggings) immediately burst off and whacked some broad in the face.
Now, I guess you could say the fact that JD can keep food coming on a conveyor belt straight to his mouth and not gain a pound makes me a tad angry…And by “a tad angry,” I mean “pissed,” and by “pissed” I mean “almost put a pillow over his face while he was sleeping on Thursday night.” But, he’s done something now that has just taken it over the top. You see, I weigh myself on a daily basis; sometimes I even do it twice a day (don’t judge me). However, JD refuses to get on the scale. REFUSES. At first I would just say, “Hey babe, why don’t you hop on the scale while I’ve got it out and see what you’re weighing in at these days?” To which he would reply, “Nah, I’m good. I don’t really feel like weighing myself right now.” So, I’d let it go. Then, after a few days, I’d try again. “JD, I just checked my weight. Go check yours.” “Nope,” he’d say nonchalantly. “It’s the end of the day, and if I’m going to weigh myself, I’m going to do it in the morning.” “Oh. Um, okay,” I’d shrug. What the hell?! I would think to myself. Just get on the scale and see how fat you are so I feel better about myself. Jesus! Is that so much to ask?
I did my best to make it look as though I couldn’t care less. But JD saw right through me. Again, a week later, I suggested that he weigh himself since he’d slaughtered a box of Fruit Roll-Ups and Gushers the night before (I came back from the gym to find a crime scene littered with wrappers and sticky fingerprints all over my couch). “I’ve actually decided I’m not going to weigh myself this year,” he proclaimed with a smile. “Just get on the scale,” I said (with not so much of a smile). “Babe, seriously. I haven’t been working out that much, so I’m just not going to weigh myself for the rest of the year.” I tried breathing deeply and counting to 10 in an attempt to calm myself. “THAT’S BULLSHIT, JD. YOU CAN’T JUST NOT WEIGH YOURSELF FOR A YEAR. GET ON THE F-ING SCALE. NOW.”
So, turns out counting to ten and breathing deeply doesn’t really do a damn thing for my anger. This was my breaking point, meaning I went full-on psycho after the JUST-GET-ON-THE-SCALE-AND-PROVE-YOU’RE-FAT incident of 2013. My nights became consumed with plots to figure out how much he weighed. How? I would think to myself in the wee hours of the morning. How can I hide the scale under the mattress on his side of the bed and check his weight at the same time? (In case you’re wondering, that doesn’t work…I tried.) Once, he was about to put Sienna in the bathtub, and I tried sneaking the scale in front of the tub so he’d accidentally stand on it. My plan was to quickly check his weight before he had a chance to realize he was on the scale, then perform some mind-blowing mental math by subtracting Sienna’s weight from whatever number popped up, and then I would know, and all would be good in the world again. Turns out, it’s really obvious when a scale is right in front of someone, and so it’s really easy for that person to avoid said scale, and ultimately, the truth about how much the person weighs.
Reader, don’t for one second think that this post is about me being crazy or obsessive. I’m not crazy. He’s crazy. I mean, who doesn’t want to know how much they weigh? Seriously. What in the hell is wrong with JD? Right? RIGHT?
Then, the other day, the stars aligned, and I tried in a last-ditch effort to get JD on the scale. And guess what? He complied. Yup. Stepped right on there. I was so excited because the moment of truth had finally come, and JD was going to see just how much a fat slob he’d become. And then, he would join me in my weight-loss efforts and we’d be that adorable couple wearing matching tracksuits on Sundays, loading our cart full of produce at the local Shop Rite. I tried to contain myself, but inside, I was giddy like a schoolgirl about to meet Justin Bieber (who, for the record, is a turd, I’m sure).
JD’s tiny, hairy troll feet topped the scale. The numbers bounced around like they do on “The Biggest Loser” weigh-ins. Finally, the digits flashed, and the final number appeared. 147 pounds. One hundred and forty-seven freaking pounds. Are you shitting me? This guy eats like a damn garbage disposal, while I’m munching on lawnmower clippings, and he hasn’t gained an ounce. Awesome.
To top all of this off, just yesterday I was in the kitchen making “pasta” out of shredded carrots and zucchini, when JD says to me, “Last night, at like one o’clock, I came downstairs into the kitchen, and I ate the entire package of lunchmeat. I don’t know what got into me. I just…ate it all.” He was drinking a beer when he told me this, and the only response I could muster was, “I can’t wait until you get gout.”
So, here we are. I’ll keep sipping my unsweetened vanilla chai after spending two hours on a treadmill at the gym, and he’ll go on pounding booze and pork rolls while playing his imaginary friends on “Call of Duty.” I’ll barely be able to fit into a Snuggie by the time summer comes around, and he’ll have to wear a belt just to keep his pants up.
But, like I said before, this post isn’t about my resentment caused by diet-fueled rage…It’s about wrestlers like JD and the food complexes they develop, and how they’re the ones with issues…Not me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna’ go hide the scale under JD’s side of the mattress again.