minalisms

At a young age, I remember telling my cousins that when I find someone stellar to marry I am going to tell the whole world. I was talking about megaphones, newspaper announcements and marching bands.

Decades later, I’m a bit more modest about my plan. I’ve skipped the excessiveness but kept the sentiment.

And thanks to my immeasurably talented, artistic and geeky fiancé, I can still announce it to the world.

Why does the request “Smell my finger” bring on such dreadful disgust?

Every Sunday, Ben and I spend time with his parents — dad in the morning and mom in the evening. The day comforts me, because I get to be around parents, even if they’re not my parents. (But will be.) 

This past Sunday evening with Ben’s mom, Suzy, was especially entertaining because she not only bought a Wii, but a Wii Fit package. 

I don’t know how many people have a Wii Fit, but let me start off by saying that it’s freaking fabulous. It’s like having a personal trainer — in the form of a cyborg, no less — right at home.

Giddy like kids on Christmas, the three of us took turns playing with the new toy. We ecstatically set up our very own Mii profiles, picking silly hairstyles, and nose shapes before we could begin our workouts. 

But then came the disturbing part: We each had to post our age, height and weight to go with our Miis, which, of course, caused me to have a fit — no pun intended. After a bit of coaxing I put on my brave suit and posted my numbers.

According to Wii Fit’s calculations, my current body mass index puts me at the overweight side of the scale. Big surprise — I mean, isn’t that what I’ve been blogging about forever? But also, with the data I inputted, the Wii calculated my real age, my “Wii Fit Age”, which turned out to be ….

*DRUMROLL PLEASE*

… an unimpressive 31.

I scowled. I don’t need to be two years older than I actually am, not when the number is based upon health.

But then my 33-year-old fiancé got his results. And thank god he’s got a sense of humor because it turns out he’s 45.

45!

Ben and I have lots to work on.

My cat is situated 6 feet across from me, on the arm of the sofa, sleeping with one eye open.

Gizmo has trust issues.

I wonder where she picked them up.

I don’t know whether it was the fitful night of sleep, the overcast skies, the jitteriness from a too-large coffee, the empty stomach, the five-hour-long missing-cat episode or the donation of my cute clothes to a skinny friend, but today climaxed in big, sloppy tears.