I am a bowling trophy

My husband's 20th high school reunion is coming up in two short months, and I'm beginning to panic about the figure I'm likely to cut at the big event. Yes, I did just have twins two months ago, but I'm afraid the absolute truckloads of sugary snacks I've consumed since then have more to do with my gelatinousness than the babies themselves. Sadly, I don't seem to be able to exert any control over my cravings. I don't usually have oodles of willpower anyway, but when I'm sleep deprived, some inner neanderthal kicks in and demands fat and sugar in large quantities to keep going. I would like to convince this neanderthal to use the more than ample existing stores instead, but she's not listening. Bitch.

My evening routine is to zone out after the kids are finally in bed and largely ignore my husband until we actually get into bed, always later than we should, and then I start chattering up a storm as if to pack all of my thoughts into the final five minutes of the day. I don't know why I put off conversation until we're both too tired to talk, or why my husband patiently participates in my desperation-tinged last minute rambles, but that's what happens. Last night, as my husband's red-rimmed eyes started to close, I mentioned my concerns about the upcoming reunion. He tried to reassure me, but I said "people will look at me and say 'what kind of trophy wife is that?'" (I'm younger than my husband and his second wife). My loving husband immediately and with no hesitation replied - "a bowling trophy."

He's so funny, I can't even be offended. So there it is, I am a bowling trophy.