February 21, 2011

Are You There, God? It's Me, Gwen.

Dear God,
Why did you give me bad genes?  I thought you treated all of your children equally.  I thought you loved all of your children the same!  But it isn’t true – you have your favorites!  You love Allan more than me!  *Sniff*. 
Allan (my husband) eats bacon, eggs and toast with butter and jam every morning.  He eats fried spam and corned beef hash.  He eats canned chili for lunch – do you know how much saturated fat is in a can of chili?  He makes fried eggs sandwiches for midday or late evening snacks.  He salts everything in sight.  His blood pressure and cholesterol are fine.  He drags trees home every day and chops them up.  He runs the dogs five times a day.   He’s tall and lean and doesn’t gain an ounce!   It just isn’t fair, God.  *Whine*. 
You can’t possibly love me as much as you love him.  You gave me terrible genes.  I can’t eat any of the things he eats.  If I even smell a piece of bacon frying, my butt starts to grow and the buttons on my jeans pop off under pressure.  I don’t eat bacon, I don’t eat eggs, and I definitely don’t eat spam.  *gags*.  I eat oatmeal, healthy cereal, non-fat and low fat everything.  I eat chicken breast.    
When it’s Allan’s turn to cook dinner, he fries pork chops and calls it sauté.  When it’s my turn to make dinner, he asks what kind of chicken breast I’m making.  Like I only make chicken breast or something?!  I don’t only make chicken breast!  I make um, uh, ah ...other things, too.  Yes, you blessed him with wit and a stupid good sense of humor, too. 
You, Dear Father, also have a good sense of humor, albeit a little cruel, I might add.  The joke fell flat.  You know that I love chocolate and candy and dessert in general.  But of course I can’t eat any of it because of my weight and high cholesterol – You went just a little too far.  Just sayin’, Father, a child knows when I’m she is not the favorite. 
Now, you wouldn’t want a child of yours to think that you’re partial, would you?  So here’s what I’m prepared to do; I’m going to give you the chance to make it up to me.  If you take it all back, and bless me with good genes too, I’ll forgive your cruel little joke and never mention it again.
(P.S., Happy Birthday, Allan!  I love you, and I’m very jealous happy that you have good genes!). 

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