Like a lot of women, I gained weight after I got married and have often wondered if the two things were related. Turns out, they just might be. Not that I needed an article to confirm my suspicion: I have only to think back to this weekend, when a combination of Saturday night insomnia and a lingering sinus infection left me reliant on my husband to do the cooking this Sunday.

Breakfast consisted of two eggs, fried, served alongside a rasher of bacon and a slice of buttered toast. Fine, I figured, I can handle such high calorie fare for one meal. Besides, wasn’t it nice of him to cook? I shambled from the bed to the sofa to get some work done online between bouts of sneezing and coughing. I figured those things, at least, might burn off some of the calories from breakfast.

But come lunchtime, he dashed out and returned with double-cheeseburgers, large fries and vanilla milkshakes, and I began wondering if I wasn’t going to be adding GI problems along with a mild cardiac infarction to my list of maladies. I ate half my burger, thanked him, and fell asleep on the sofa dreaming of broccoli while he tried to cheer for his favorite football teams without waking me. He finished my meal while I slept.

Dinner time on Sunday is 8:00 p.m. at our house usually, a schedule so predictable you can set your Vacheron Constantin watch by it. We feed our son first, then usually my husband and I enjoy a quiet, sometimes candle lit dinner together. Not this time. I was simply too tired, so once again he donned the chef’s hat.

Which means, he called out for pizza. “Man pizza,” I might add: the meat-lover’s edition on which even non-veggie vegetables like onions are considered blasphemy. Can’t have them taking over the pizza real estate that’s wholly reserved for meat, meat and more meat (along with two other meats, too).

I ate half a slice of pizza and fell back asleep. Steamed carrots and peas had joined the broccoli dancing around in my dreams, while my stomach seemed to be keeping a counter-rhythm with a strange series of gurglings, burbles and shudders. As I dozed, my husband managed to polish off the pizza — all of it — followed by a bowl of ice cream.

Around midnight, I finally lurched off the sofa to head back upstairs to bed. My husband followed along, burping and farting the entire time and muttering about whether he wanted a quick snack before going to sleep.

“Do you realize,” I asked him, “that you haven’t had anywhere near a serving of vegetables today, but you’ve managed to take in a week’s worth of meat and dairy, and probably two weeks’ worth of fat?”

“Great, isn’t it?” he belched.

Then he headed to the kitchen to polish off the last of the oatmeal cookies. Because, you know, they’re grains, and grains are supposed to be good for you, he said.

Nice to know he suddenly cares.