The hubs and I have never been on vacation together. Alone. Sure, we’ve taken weekend trips to the mountains and went camping, but we have never really had a holiday where we can kick back, relax and pretend we aren’t married. With children.

It’s been a long time coming. Yet, after ten long happy years of marriage, three kids and a mountain of debt, the time has arrived. This winter, my Boo and I are planning on jetting off to someplace warm and tropical to do absolutely nothing but drink martinis, play in the sand and do some serious people watching from underneath our palm tree.

Good times, my friends, good times.

However, a trip such as this requires planning. Boo has yet to get his passport, we are still arguing over where our actual destination may be and we haven’t even thought about where our children are going to go while we frivously cavort on some tropical beach.

As long as they’re not with us, I’m a happy girl. I mean, it’s hard to act romantic and sexy when your ten year old son is kicking sand in your face and your daughter is playing chicken with the ocean waves.

Because time has taken it’s toll and we aren’t as young as we once were (re: I’m fat and wrinkled) we’ve both taken action to try and better ourselves. I don’t want to be the fat girl on the beach. The one everyone diverts their eyes when I walk past them.

We’ve hit the gym. Separately, of course. He pumps iron up north while I jiggle my way to fitness out here in the sticks. Boo is taking this fairly seriously. He’s not in bad shape to begin with (because the asshat never had to squeeze three large babies out of his nether regions) so he’s primarily sweating for sweat sake.

Unlike me. Whose belly button is slowly stretching across her abdomen, threatening to swallow her whole. However, unlike him, I’m not taking this so seriously. Sure, I joined a gym and am trying to quit smoking. (I could try harder I admit…) I’m actually going to the gym on a regular basis. Four times a week. Me and my geriatric fitness freaks, sweating to the oldies.

Good times.

But unlike Boo, my heart isn’t in it. Because unlike Boo, I’m physically unfit and enjoying the jiggles every time I move. They bring me comfort. I never feel alone when I’m feeling the ripple with my lard.

However, as an olive branch to my darling husband, who works tirelessly to support me so that I may sit around, read blogs and eat till my jiggle is content, I go. I bitch about it the entire time, but still, I go. After all, I’d much rather be the hot chick in the bikini on the beach than the pasty white girl who looks like an advertisement for why people should just put the donut down.

Until yesterday. The kids and I had optometrist appointments and I didn’t feel like getting up at the crack of dawn just to go and sweat. I figure Boo will be home this weekend for four days, I’ll get my exercise then. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Like he does every day, he called at noon to see how my workout went. Nothing like cracking the whip through the phone.

He handled it well when I told him I was skipping a day due to parental obligations. Or at least I thought he did, until he made some passive aggressive remark about how it was my body, and I’m the one who is going to have to walk around in the bikini, looking like that.

Excuse me? What the fuck?

“What does that mean, dickhead?” I asked, slightly hostile.

“Nothing. I would just think you would want to look your absolute best if your going to walk around wearing dental floss on some beach where other people can see your body.” He’s back pedalling now, but not nearly as quick as I’d like.

“And just what is wrong with my body, Mr. Schwarznegger?”

“Nothing. Sheesh. Don’t get all defensive. You know I love you no matter how you look.” Keep pedalling my darling asshat.

“And just how do I look? Do I embarrass you? Is my ass too wide? Because I’d like to see what you look like after carrying three kids–”

“Hold up,” he interjects. I could tell I had him by his grapes now. “YOU asked me to make sure you go to the gym and hold you accountable for your actions. I’m simply trying to be your cheerleader. You know I think you look great, I like the extra weight you’ve put on, your boobs are fantastic-”

“Did you just call me FAT???,” I screeched into the phone.

“Sigh.” There was a moment of silence on his end of the phone while he tried to evaluate where the hell he went wrong to begin with.

“Because it’s not exactly like you are Mr. Fitness yourself. You’re no Daniel Craig in a speedo my friend.”

“I never said I was. Sheesh.” He was sounding awfully resigned now. “You just said you wanted to look you best-”

“Are you saying I don’t?” I can’t help myself. I know I’m egging him on, but he just makes it so damn easy.

“No. Look, I’ve gotta go. Somebody glued their hardhat to a door knob or something. I’ll call you later. When you’re rational.” Oh, a parting shot. He’s getting feisty on me.

“So now I’m fat AND crazy, eh?”

Click.

All right. Perhaps my body image is a sensitive issue. Most thirty-something mothers don’t prance around in bikinis on a regular basis. Perhaps instead of twisting my husband’s words to watch him dangle in the wind, I should get my ass to the gym and twist my body into some yoga-like position.

But it’s just not as much fun.

Maybe I’ll just buy a caftan and do my best Mrs. Roper imitation. Let some other chick worry about stretch marks, jelly roll bellies and dimpled thighs.

After a few drinks, I’m sure they’ll all start to look the same any ways.

***Edited to Update***Y’all seem to have this delusional idea that I’m tall and thin and would rock the bikini. While I appreciate the (deluded) cheerleading, let me tell you, the rolls that hang around my middle and the dimples on my ass can attest to just how out of shape I have become. While things can always be worse, and I could look like one of my aunts (four feet tall and three hundred pounds), things could definetly be tighter, toned and more fit.

Which is what I’m working towards. Right after I have my iced cappucino and cheese croissant. Wink, wink.***