In the 10 years that I’ve known him, my husband’s weight has never deviated by more than 5 pounds. Not once. Not even with a nightly routine of eating a half-gallon of ice cream topped with hot fudge sauce and a quarter cup of brown sugar. (Really.) Not during the holiday season when he washes his ice cream down with a quart of store-bought eggnog.

Not once.

Not more than 5 pounds.

You can imagine how incredibly jealous this makes me. Some nights, when he’s snoring particularly loudly, I sit up in bed and plan on ways I’m going to spend the huge life insurance payout I’ll get after those lunchtime double-cheeseburgers with bacon and his nightly post-meal snacking combine to clog up those arteries… just as I’ve always told him would happen.

Last week, he stood on the scale and discovered he’s somehow gained 11 pounds. He claims he has no idea how this happened, and I know better than to suggest perhaps it has to do with his meat-and-sugar diet.

I know, I know: I should be worried about his health, but there’s only so much nagging a wife can do. If the man won’t eat vegetables and give up ice cream, there’s not much I can do about it.

Except grin.

Yeah, I’m enjoying it. Does that make me awful?