Dining dilemmas with my skinny sweetie.

There's this great commercial for a diet product that's currently running on TV. Though the name of the product escapes me, the message is loud and clear -- and so, so true. Here, the animated female protagonist laments about wanting to lose weight while her already pretty slim hubby sits idly flipping channels on the couch. She declares that she tried drinking only water -- and the animation shows how only her lovely lady lumps got smaller. She then says her husband did the same thing (drank only water) and the animation shows what happened when HE did that -- his entire bod slimmed down. And this is my life.

My genetic makeup defies me at every chance it gets. My Italian heritage gave me booty, boobs and an appetite to boot while robbing me of any real shot at height to make up for my curvaliciousness. The boy, however, does not have such genetic malfunctions. Let's just say at 5'11", he's STILL dwarfed by his little brother and doesn't suffer from the "mangia, mangia!" Italian outlook on life. No, no this Irish ancestry boy stands long in lean in his Levis and isn't burdened with small details, such as paying mightily for that thousand calorie milkshake you sucked down when you try to fit into your skinny jeans later.

So you can imagine eating out with him is a real treat.

I routinely ask him what he had for lunch and the answer is usually the same -- "pizza." I grumble as I reflect on my own lunch which is usually satisfying -- but often agonized over. And I don't even bother to ask him what he had for dinner on the nights I'm not there, the answer is always one of his two specialties -- Elio's pizza or an entire can of mixed nuts. Look, I understand that the boy grew up in the Bronx and knows the true meaning of "pizza," I have much respect for that -- it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him. But while cheesy, gooey, glorious concoction might be his main source of sustaining life -- it's one of my biggest kryptonites.

Now, credit where credit is due -- the kid walks A LOT. Way more than my cab-hopping butt could ever dream of. And also, he truly wants me to enjoy myself and doesn't care about the few extra pounds. Endearing, dude, but help a sister out here a little. I'm still the girl that he knows and loves -- the one that scoffed nastily right along with him at something that was supposed to be "pizza" and would drive all the way to Philadelphia for the world's best vegetarian cheesesteak -- but this fool is the one that started all of this when he put a ring on it!

My lovely and supportive guy switched from regular soda to diet and lost a few extra pounds that were malingering from the holidays, I switched to diet and rewarded myself with an extra cookie. Clearly we're never going to be on the same page but to all you other well-meaning fellows out there, a few changes are simple. As an example, I've never met a French fry I didn't like, but can resist the call of the onion ring. On a recent trip out to dinner, I asked if he would spare me the urge to snatch his entire side-dish and order onion rings instead of fries. He got his fried goodness, and I kept my sanity -- another fairy tale ending to this love story.