It’s summertime. And that means farming is in full swing. Irrigation is running, the equipment is running at high gear, the animals are heading out to summer pasture, and everywhere you turn you see itty bitty, teeny weeny, little polka dot bikinis.

That’s right, it’s swimsuit season.

Not wanting to miss out on the pain of swimsuit shopping, I found a black and white polka dot one I liked, and went to try it on. I quickly realized my caloric intake outnumbered the polka dots. Guess it’s time for a little spring cleaning … starting with the refrigerator.

My husband came home just as I was starting the cleaning process.

“The horror,” his face seemed to cry. And that began our spring diet dialogue.

Me: We’re overweight. Him: We’re under tall.

Me: Nothing wrong with exercise. Him: Nothing wrong with extra size.

Me: We should work out more. Him: We should cook out more.

Me: The road to health is paved with good intentions. Him: The road to the kitchen is full of new dimensions.

Me: Here’s a dumbbell. Him: You are the dumbbell.

Me: How about a stationary bike? Him: I just sat in a stationary car...

Me: Buns of steel. Him: Mmmm … buns of cinnamon, with sugar, and frosting …

“Well, at least you’ll never have to worry about your abs of steels setting off the airport metal detector,” I snorted at him.

“I don’t need exercise,” he told me, “I already have the body of a god. It’s not my fault you don’t like Buddha.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t need to limit my dairy,” he continued, “because I’m saving up for a triple bypass. So why should I exercise? When I can just save up for a lap band?”

The only exercise my husband seems to enjoy is sidestepping the issue, pushing his luck and over-working his brain to think up excuses for not having to work out.

That evening I went jogging alone, all the while thinking about that cute polka dot bikini. After all, running is a strenuous exercise which would help convert fats, sugars and starches – into aches, pains and cramps. The next day I was going to go jogging again, but as I picked up my sneakers, my toes voted against me 10 to 1. I may have flabby thighs, but at least my stomach covers them.

The next morning, I finally found an exercise we could do together: Up 1,2, 3; down 1,2, 3 … And then the other eyelid.

Brianna Walker writes occasionally about the Farmer’s Fate in the Blue Mountain Eagle.

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