I was pleased and a bit surprised yesterday at Fred’s enthusiastic embracing of our new regimen. He bounced in after work with his list of his daily food intake, carefully written down on a napkin filched from Whole Foods.

“I’ve done pretty well, I think!” he said. “I wrote everything down–I probably ate about ten points or so. I had just potato chips for lunch, and then a little bite at Whole Foods after work. But I’ll have to add it up.”

“That’s great, honey!” I seethed, thinking of the 33 points he gets to eat every day as opposed to my 20, because he is a man and the Weight Watchers scientists are clearly misogynists.

He went over to the dining room table and took up the Weight Watchers pamphlets, points calculators, and other paraphernalia.

“Let’s see,” he mused, chewing on the end of his pen. “Two servings of potato chips–that’s 6. How much was the pork? Okay–let’s say 5 for that. And the beef was . . . looks like 4. The blueberry pie–oh.”

Pause.

“Well, I really had just a bite of that, so we’ll just say 3. Sweet tea–that can’t be much.”

Pages shuffle. Another pause.

“There’s no entry for sweet tea. What’s wrong with these people?”

“It’s probably the same as for Coke,” I chimed in, helpfully.

“Oh.”

More shuffling. More pausing.

“Another six points, I guess.” Sigh. “Six points just for tea!”

A few more shufflings, pauses, and sighs later, he looks up, despair clinging like an old cobweb to his face. “I’ve eaten 28 points already!”

I smile. It’s an unkind smile–the type you might see on a spider when she feels the first twitch of a fly, or on a hawk when she spots a little bunny hop across the field.

“That’s okay, honey.” I said. “I’m fixing broccoli for your dinner.”