I Married a Fat Kid

"Cupcakes" by Pamela Johnson

I once read about this family that adopted three or four orphans from Sudan, or maybe it was Zimbabwe- one of those 3^rd world countries that doesn’t have Wi-Fi or a Neiman Marcus. Shortly after their newly adopted children arrived, the parents had to put a chain on the refrigerator and a lock on the pantry door. The orphans had grown up in a state of constant starvation, and the abrupt change of environment which provided not only regular meals, but instant access to an abundant food supply was completely overwhelming. If ever left unattended, these kids would gorge themselves on all the food they could get their hands on.  Apparently one kid ate something like 40 hot dogs in one sitting while the parents went next door to visit a neighbor. Why these people had 40 hot dogs in their home to begin with is definitely questionable, but that’s beside the point.

This story has always stuck with me. Probably because I feel like I adopted one of those kids when I married my husband, Chris.

Chris eats more than anyone I’ve ever met. He consumes food like a competitive eater, not the kind that can scarf down 6.8 hotdogs per minute, but of the breed that accepts those challenges at shoddy road-side restaurants: If you eat this entire 76 ounce steak, it’s free. That’s who he is, the 76 ounce steak guy. The guy you can’t help but watch while you feel simultaneously impressed and nauseated at his incredible talent of eating a slab of meat the size of a cinder block.

My husband survives primarily on a diet of Taco Bell, subsidized with heavy helpings of wings and pizza, bolstered with regular intervals of doughnuts and all washed down with large amounts of Big Red. He also harbors a deep appreciation for chocolate milk, pouring towering glasses of the white stuff and then dumping an economy-sized bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over it for the better part of a minute. The resulting brown sludge is so thick I wouldn’t be surprised if it would stay in the glass if turned upside-down, like a blizzard at Dairy Queen.

His daily diet resembles a crescendo as his calorie intake gradually increases throughout the day. He hates to eat breakfast, enjoys lunch, relishes dinner, and adores late-night snacks. Several hours after his evening meal and usually just before bed, Chris regularly devours entire boxes of cereal, pints of ice cream, and sleeves of double-stuffed Oreos.

Like a sommelier searches for fine wines, Chris is constantly on the lookout for restaurants that serve exceptional versions of chili-cheese fries, as not all samples are suitable for his elevated palate. He holds the hot dog chain, Wienerschnitzel in particularly high esteem for their talents in this field. “Now they know how to make chili-cheese fries,” he often comments, appreciatively.

Chris’s love for fast food is marred by any changes these restaurants make to his favorites. He still mourns the loss of Whataburger’s A1 Thick & Hearty Burger. The new Steak House Burger just doesn’t cut it. He also turns his nose up to the modifications Taco Bell has made to the standard enchirito.

“It used to come with black olives,” he complains every time he orders it. “It was way better with the black olives.”

“You could just dump some black olives on it when you get home,” I once suggested.

“I know that,” he spat out, bitterly.

Like any true carnivore, anything that grows from the ground Chris regards with deep suspicion while he holds no such reservations about eating any food material that falls under the category of meat. After killing a deer on a hunting trip, Chris brought back a startling amount of processed venison in neat packages wrapped in white butcher paper. I didn’t have a problem eating it until sometime later Chris brought back the mounted head of the deer, christened him “Brutus” and then proceeded to hang him on a prominent wall in our living room. He hangs there directly opposite from the kitchen, staring at the freezer that contains his remains. There’s something about having your prey look at you with huge, unblinking eyes that makes chewing their dead body somewhat uncomfortable.

“Those aren’t even his real eyes!” Chris said when I told him I couldn’t eat any more venison with Brutus staring at me. “You’re being ridiculous, that deer is delicious.”

Undoubtedly, most people would envision Chris to be extremely overweight. The type of obese individual who uses a motorized cart at Wal-Mart. Not because there is anything wrong with his legs, but because the effort of shopping for food is too strenuous for him to do without the aid of a wide leather seat and a powerful electric motor. But they would be wrong.

Whether he was born with perfect genes or drank some sort of magical elixir, I’m not sure, but Chris is perpetually thin, despite the thousands of calories he consumes. Even more unfair, his body is also remarkably responsive to even the slightest level of physical training. On a whim, after years of inactivity, Chris moseyed over to the gym and signed up with a personal trainer. He now works out for an hour once a week.

“I really need to start eating more,” he told me after his second work-out in two weeks, looking down at his taunt stomach that bulges in six neat squares. I nodded in what I hoped was an understanding manner, still sweating from a boot camp I go to several times a week.

“I just keep losing weight,” he continued, mournfully. He said this as if I should be sympathetic, as if this is a problem that I can relate to. I tried not to give him dirty looks while I picked at the green tissue paper that composed my dinner. Right, because you’ve worked out for two hours in the last 14 days, you’ve lost 10 pounds and need to eat even more. That’s just awesome.

Sometimes I can’t help but complain about my difficulties of living with someone who eats like a beluga whale. My friends and colleagues are always quick to offer feedback.

“Well, he won’t stay like that forever,” they often tell me. As if the idea that my trim husband will soon swell to the side of a Biggest Loser contestant is uplifting. The more sensitive point out, “His arteries must be awful.”

Apparently the hope of an impending heart attack is supposed to comfort me.