Good for the Gander, but My Goose Is Cooked

My husband and I have changed some of our lifestyle habits for health reasons – his. He developed a serious illness, so we changed our diet to cut out salt. He developed back problems, so we bought an extra firm mattress to support his spine while he slumbers. He developed knee issues, so we changed our exercise routine to limit the pounding on his joints. His health improved, and mine hit the skids. Our lifestyle changes were good for the gander, but my goose is cooked!


While he managed his blood pressure and stopped hypertension drugs, mine plummeted to such depths that I developed fainting spells. The super firm mattress we bought for his aching back sent me into such paroxysms of pain that I stole, er, borrowed, my 90-year old father’s walker. Sorry, Dad, I thought you were in bed at the time; I didn’t know you needed it that night. In an attempt to join, not beat, my husband, instead of my usual jog, I met him for brisk walks around the lake. While walking can be strenuous, I didn’t burn enough calories and love handles sprouted where svelte once reigned. I hardly recognize myself anymore because now I swoon with vertigo, sport a muffin top as my fall fashion and I no longer swagger like Jagger.

Perhaps I’ll just sneak a few shakes of Morton’s salt onto my food when he’s not looking. Maybe live it up with anchovy pizza in the bathroom while he’s munching his salt-free veggies in the kitchen. Keep a box of extra salty chips in the medicine chest, under the table, in the attic. The mattress needs to go or I’ll start camping in the backyard. A sleeping bag on the ground must be way more comfy than that extra-firm hunk of queen-size foam that now dominates our bedroom. Hmmph! I was once the only queen in that room. Beating it with my fists might be a good way to pummel my love handles into submission, while getting rid of the aggression that I am feeling with all these new problems.

Today I found myself at Bed, Bath and Beyond squeezing foam pillows like they were rolls of Charmin’ toilet paper. Lest you think I’ve hit a new low in my love life, what with me being ousted as queen of the bedroom and all, and resorted to cavorting with strange bed pillows for kicks, let me explain. My husband wants to try foam rather than down-filled to ease his aching neck.

A few nights of that and next time you see me I’ll be in a brace. (Oh, and note to the guy next to me at Bed, Bath and Beyond squeezing king-sized pillows: your secret’s safe with me.)

Has anyone else sacrificed their health (unknowingly or knowingly) for their loved one?


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