I didn’t grow up eating healthy food. For me, a healthy option was “fried” rather than “deep fried.” So I’ve always assumed I would be dead by the age of 60, with my last wishes scribbled on a nearby take out menu . . . and I’ve been okay with that.
Apparently, Heather wants me around longer because she keeps trying to sneak healthy ingredients into my food. I’m not the least bit happy about her well-intentioned but fraudulent culinary actions, and I’ve told her so! (Take note, men.)
To her credit, no matter how much I complain, Heather just smiles and keeps working to prolong my life. I’ve tried to be more cooperative lately, but it isn’t easy. Every time Heather asks me to try something organic or green or non-artery-clogging, I make this face . . .
And when she tells me I can’t go through a drive-thru because it would be a bad example for the kids, I immediately make this face . . .
I have a feeling I’m destined for a long life of frowning at my food.
(Special thanks to Mel Gibson and Tommy Lee Jones for helping me communicate my emotions to my wife. You guys make my marriage better.)