Seriously. It's on. Yesterday things went to a whole new level of competition in the Russell Household. After a good workout and signs of progress in the weight department, at around 6 o'clock my lovely wife encouraged me to have a beer. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? When I was done with that one she went right to the fridge a pored me another. By itself this is nothing to complain about, in fact having a wife do this for her husband is a joy that all men hope for (it's one of the top 10 reasons I married her). However, in the context of this competition, I had my suspicions that she may have had ulterior motives in getting me to drink up. It's called Fat Tire, after all. Well, later last night my suspicions were confirmed when, in an act of "goofing around" my dear wife kicked me in the left shin. Hard. Drawing blood. And today there's a welt the diameter of a golf ball that hurts when I walk.
So this morning, bloated and hobbled, I stood on the scale and saw the weight that I had lost over the last week right back where it started. And as she kissed me goodbye this morning on her way to work, I thought I saw the glimmer of victory in her eye.
I have presented the evidence as it happened. So while she might speak encouraging words and offer a warm hand of friendly competition, watch your back. And you legs. Personally, I will take to wearing my shin guards around the house.
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