Tonight the Mister and I had a Date Night. We went to a local Mexican restaurant.
I ordered the Fish (grouper--yes!) Tacos, and the Mister ordered the All You Can Eat Enchilada Dinner.
For the record, I am opposed to going to any type of Buffet or All-You-Can-Eat place for dinner on a Date Night (for the family, ALL for it, because growing boys can eat their weight and not feel full). But for this Date Night, I didn't say anything because the restaurant is tiny and in a quaint, artsy neighborhood (meaning, not a person under 21 in sight), and because they make a mean margarita and I've been known to knock back a margarita or two on occasion.
Ever since we started Insanity, the Mister has been quite faithful to the eating plan. And his stomach shrunk a size or two, but he didn't realize that until tonight.
The first plate brought out beans, rice and two enchiladas each the size of an adult chihuahua. Historically, two enchiladas of any proportion is nada for my man who has his picture up on the wall at our local Prime Quarter---two pictures, in fact---for eating some ungodly-sized slab of cow carcass.
But for Mr. Insanity, he was beginning to feel full. "Another round?" the waitress asked expectantly. The Mister glanced at me. I ignored him and took a swig of margarita.
"Bring it on!" he cheered himself on, since I was otherwise occupied.
The second equally large plate arrived. Four bites into the first enchilada, I think he groaned. "I'll have to get a to-go box like yours," he said, nodding in my direction.
"Are you kidding?" I screeched. "You can't ask for a To Go Box at an All-You-Can-Eat meal. That's tacky!"
Seriously, I'm not the only one who thinks that, right?
So the Mister finished his plate.
(Note to the Mister: I didn't say you had to finish your plate; I just said you couldn't ask for a To Go box!).
When we left, I noticed little beads of sweat on his nose, and a definite waddle in his walk.
We went to the video store to rent a movie. At one point, he was groaning and on his knees. I think he was about to roll around in the aisle, before I (gently) gave him a little "love kick" in the ass and told him to get up.
"I'm so ashamed," he said, turning green. "I couldn't even get to a third plate. I need to turn in my Man Card."
I so wanted to retort, "You turned your Man Card in when you ordered a blended Passion Fruit Margarita, Pretty Boy," but I didn't.
Because the Mister was in physical pain. And I'm a compassionate wife like that (eyes rolling.)