So I’m walking around the house sans shirt yesterday after a midday shower. The Dev stops me in my tracks and starts staring at my belly. Without a word he commences to poking. and squeezing, and pinching my blubber. He is not smiling. His facial expression is reminiscent of a doctor performing a checkup and finding something he’s become fascinated by, or perhaps concerned with. Then he drops the bomb:
“You have a fat belly.” He was deadpan in his diagnosis.
“What?“ I chuckled.
Squeeze, squeeze. Pinch, pinch.
“Way too fat.”
Then, as if his work were done, he walked away.
He shouldn’t talk. He doesn’t exactly have a six pack. Good thing I’m working out again (I’m calling it “getting back to basics”). I can’t deal with such candor from a four year old.