If you lose your keys, you're supposed to pray to Saint Anthony. But if you lose your abs along the way, you can pray to Dave Scott. Is Dave Scott a saint? Um, well, he's my husband. He's done 17 years of hard Baggott-as-your-wife labor. He's on his way.
Dave will be one of those old men people call "spry." His mother's a Shriver and he's not Maria Shriver spry but he'll be the kind of old man to hop a gate -- one of those short little Irish gates. And his abs, at 44, are what I call "rapper abs."
Let me boil this down for you: he's annoying. And after four kids, I do not have rapper abs. At all.
And so here's one of the meanest things I ever did to Dave Scott (the love of my life). After one of our kids was born -- who knows which one -- I told him he had back fat. I was embittered, perhaps hormonally imbalanced, but still shrewd. I knew he couldn't see his back so he'd have to take my word for it. He said, "Really? Huh." He was -- even more annoyingly -- unfazed.
Time passed -- maybe years. It's hard to say. And one day, he's talking about something and mentions his back fat.
I really thought he'd forgotten it. I had. But, alas, he hadn't. It had stuck in there -- this supposed flaw. I told him immediately what I'd done. Lies, all lies. He was shocked at my vicious cunning -- I'm usually either pretty kind or upfront. Passive aggressive makes no sense to me whatsoever.
Anyway, suffice to say, we're better now.
But, still, I'd like to find the Real Patron Saint of Lost Abs. I've got a few Hail Marys to offer up.