And Betty’s Buns

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

My bride Management and I will be celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary next month. I wrote the following column seven years ago and oddly it still applies. The only real change is my weight has continued to creep up and now I am forced to address the issue of my excess me and take steps to reduce my mass.

Management and I will celebrate our 25th anniversary next month. Twenty-five years ago I promised her I would never lie to her, I would not cheat on her and that we would never be rich. I have kept those promises although just last week I have to admit I did sneak out for a little rendezvous.

Frankly, it was her fault. Since she has been on a diet I have lost five pounds. I did not intend on losing five pounds and I was not planning on joining her on this diet. The sad fact is that she does most of the grocery shopping and has quit buying real food. I cannot buy real food and take it home without sabotaging her diet.

One of the signs of a mid-life crisis in a man is when he starts losing weight.

Management has quit cooking food except for baking cakes and cookies for folks who are in need or have a death in the family. She made three cakes, two pies and a bunch of cookies last week, all of which immediately left the house.

I attempted to show her that it is possible to slice a cake into 18 slices, remove three, push the rest back into cake shape and no one will even suspect there are slices missing, but she thinks cakes must be delivered whole. It appears that the only way I am going to get dessert anytime soon is if I die.

As anyone who has lost weight already knows, the places you wish it would leave first are the places it is most stubborn. The places you can’t afford to lose are the first to go. I would be happy if I could lose ten pounds off my stomach. Instead any weight I lose leaves my almost non-existent butt first. This creates a small problem. My stomach pushes my pants down and I don’t have a rear end to hold them up.

This leaves me with a couple of options, neither of which is appealing. I could get some suspenders or I could buy some baggy pants and a long tee shirt and join the young folks with my pants around my thighs.

Management is unsympathetic and just laughs and makes comments about assets. For a while I took her comments as compliments but I am beginning to wonder is what she really said was I have an assette which would be a rude thing to say.

In any case, last Friday we were installing a door at the Son’s house. As I was making a run to pick up some materials, I passed a place I used to frequent in my pre-Management days.

A few minutes later I was sitting at the bar. I admit I may have been overindulging a bit and I should have realized I was playing a dangerous game. I was about halfway through when I remembered I am out of practice on these things.

Early on I learned that anytime I was doing something I should not have been doing someone I know would show up. This has happened in numerous towns and in a dozen states.

Sure enough, someone called me by name. I was caught once again. There I was sitting at a bar with a partially consumed cinnamon sensation in front of me and nowhere to hide. If you have never eaten a cinnamon sensation, I highly recommend them. They are a large hot cinnamon roll, topped with frosting and ice cream.

I knew I would have an easier time of talking my way out of lipstick on my collar and perfume on my shirt than cinnamon on my breath.

So I did the only wise and honest thing. “Honey, I stopped and had a cinnamon sensation and it was delicious.” (That takes care of the honesty.) “I was just working on my asset.” (That takes care of the excuse.)  and “I brought you half.” (And that made it all right.)

This week it was exactly the same except I have upgraded to Betty Baldwin’s homemade cinnamon buns.  The problem is they are smaller BUT they come in a pan of 18. I bought four pans for Easter, one for each family gathering and one for me. AND this year my confession had to include, “…and I’m going back on my diet as soon as they are gone.”