...help you? Ha ha, you want help. Okay... Babe, how have you not figured out what’s going on here by now? You not being able to get out of bed on your own has kind of been the point all along.
No reason to look so shocked. I mean, you had to know something was up at some point. Most people wouldn’t keep shoveling food into their partner’s fat face once they’ve ballooned up a few hundred pounds. You really didn’t think anything unusual was going on when you hit five hundred pounds, and I started to pick up the pace with your meals and portion sizes? I could have sworn you did.
No, most people would have pumped the brakes once they got that big. It’s easy to forget how big a quarter ton is for regular people — most can’t even imagine being that size. But you blew right past it. I guess it’s probably easier when you have someone to take care of getting all your food and finding clothes to fit all the new fat that invariably follows. I was expecting that something — the heavier belly, the thickening thighs, the water-wing arms, something — would get your attention, though. But it never seemed to faze you.
Most partners probably would have sounded the alarm at some point, too. They would be worried by the warning signs of worsening morbid obesity, like when their partner got out of breath waddling from one room to another. When they got hungry again right after a big meal. When they needed help washing everywhere because their fat rolls were too heavy to lift on their own. When they got too big to fit in a standard car or in the clothes I bought, no matter what size they were.
Instead, I made all that stuff sexy. I pampered you and sympathized while you were catching your breath. I treated you with extra snacks and kissed your engorged belly while you ate them. I turned shower time into our time for a little naughty fun while I was diving into your rolls anyway. And I took care of any trips so you didn’t need to go out, and could lay around the house in your skimpy underwear looking ravishing as ever.
Looking back, maybe I did too good a job. I could have scolded you about your health, told you to watch your diet and exercise a little more. I wonder what would have happened if I’d pointed out how much more of the loveseat you were filling up, or how much more you were having to struggle to haul all your flab around. Maybe it would have kept you from becoming a physical wreck quite so soon; maybe you were already out of control and it would have just made it that much more apparent. We’ll never know, will we?
But I do know what I see in bed with me. A huge, wobbling belly hanging from your torso and spilling into your lap like a giant water balloon. Two bloated, distended legs pushed outward by a protruding fat pad between them. Biceps (if you can call them that) wider than your head, bulging out as your body has struggled to find places to store more fat, leading down to that dimpled elbow roll and an almost equally chubby forearm. And that gorgeous face — always so cute, no matter how many chins you get, how much your cheeks puff out, or how much you give me that indignant, horrified look I see right now.
So no, sweetheart, I’m not helping you up. You should have realized this day was coming a long time ago. But doesn’t it seem like a nice morning for breakfast in bed, anyway? And you must be hungry. Fortunately there’s a dozen eggs, a dozen doughnuts, and a couple pounds of bacon in the kitchen with your name on them.
I’ll have everything ready in a jiffy... no need to get up.
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