Pointing, I asked Dan about the source of a rouge red spot at his waist.
“What did you get on your new shirt?” I wondered.
“Huh,” he said, looking down, thumbing at it a little. “I have no idea.”
Seeing as how the conversation wasn’t exactly scintillating, we both just went back to watching TV.
“Oh, wait,” he piped up a few minutes later. “I forgot, they had donuts at my meeting earlier and I ate a couple raspberry jelly ones. Totally spaced it. That must be it.”
He turned his attention back to the TV once again, while I was left staring incredulously.
“Hold on,” I finally managed. “You mean to tell me that you ate not one, but two donuts, and it meant so little to you that you were able to forget you did it?”
This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the vast differences between men and women. Or at least any of the women I know.
Because I’m pretty sure the last donut I ate was sometime in 2017 — and I’m still beating myself up over it.
I was so in awe of this behavior that I texted my friend Lacey to tell her.
“That is just guys in a nutshell!” she messaged me back. “I would die to be like that. Can you imagine being that free?”
Given that, as I sit and type this, I’m eating the same exact lunch I eat every single day, chosen as much for its vegan-ness as it is for its predictable calorie count — whole red bell pepper, half an avocado, two tablespoons of hummus and two apples — I think I can safely say, no.
No I can’t.
Before anyone feels the need to write in and tell me that some women do, indeed, consume donuts without shame, allow me to say that I have also heard tell of such creatures. And I’m impressed by their existence.
I have simply never seen one in the wild, myself.
Whereas nearly every man I’ve ever met has been able to snack on chips, down pints of ice cream, polish off burgers and crush entire pizzas without killing themselves over it afterward.
Or, indeed, even committing the act to memory.
And I admit: I envy it more than almost anything in the world.
Anything, that is, except the ability to do all that and somehow miraculously stay the same pants size, regardless, for eternity.
Meanwhile, I’m running home after half a muffin to make sure my jeans still fit, and writing off sleeveless tops for the summer thanks to the side of fries I dared to eat that month.
It isn’t only the human males in my life making me jealous these days, either.
At Mr. Moo’s last vet appointment, a mere day after Dan’s big double-donut reveal, the doctor walked in and immediately marveled at his perfect physique.
“You have the ideal body type,” she told him, patting his fatless little haunch.
I’ve yearned my whole life to hear those words.
Then when I finally do, they’re being said to my dog.
And did he even weep for joy, the way I would have?
Nope.
He simply ate another treat, without a care in the world.
Just like his daddy.
Katie McDowell is a lifestyles writer/copy editor/hungry, green-eyed monster. Email her at kmcdowell@dominionpost.com.
