Showdown at the Chowdown

I have been known to stress over my husband’s diet, making certain he eats healthy on a daily basis. He, however, remains as cool as a cucumber, unfazed by a product containing upwards of thirty ingredients (or more) on the packaging. Some of which are impossible to pronounce, and I am certain no longer resemble—or perhaps ever resembled—whole food. He is not the least bit worried. What an enviable position.

Now, we love doing things together, but shopping for groceries with my husband in tow is another matter altogether. “Not in our household,” I say to him each time he chooses an offending unhealthy product. And, if my look is harsh enough, I swear I can make the product levitate from his hand back onto the grocery shelf, and he walks away in guilt and defeat.

This was not a happy situation. Truly, the stress I was creating for both of us, was far more unhealthy than a serving of hydrogenated vegetable oil. Now mind you, this arteriole struggle has been a ten-year battle. It was time for a truce, or at the very least, a compromise with a capital “C”.

I was not liking the militant, hyper-vigilant, uptight, sphincter-shrinking food patrol I had become. It’s true. You could see me approaching from a mile away, with my red light flashing on the top of my head. I looked for violations everywhere.

What then created this seismic shift? I was beginning to realize that even with the best of intentions, I cannot create change by means of control, which only leads to rebellion and fast-food restaurants.

It was best to begin with acceptance for what my husband liked to eat. This, then, created the space for his happiness, receptivity, and the possibility for change through honest communication.

Maybe, too, there was a bigger lesson here for both of us to learn. During one of our recent dietary sparring matches, my husband flat out said to me, “I would rather be happy than healthy.” Wow, I certainly did not see that one coming. Here he was standing up for himself and claiming his truth, his vibration. What, then, was my truth? When it comes to food, I would rather be healthy than happy. So here we had the Yin and the Yang coming together to teach one another enjoyment and moderation.

Okay. I’m learning to let go, and he’s learning to read the labels. But, ultimately, this is not my responsibility. My husband is responsible for his choices, as am I. My millet, quinoa loving choices. Let’s get back to the compromise, shall we?

The week days are the time when I prepare our meals based on what I feel is healthy and recognizing what he likes to eat. The weekends, holidays, and vacations are his time to make his favorite food choices, with no stinky faces from me, or sour comments. So, how is it going? A little bumpy to be sure. Especially since there is a container of dip in our refrigerator with one of the ingredients reading monosodium glutamate (MSG). But hey, now I just comment on the lovely packaging and say, “May I bring this to your attention?” rather than toss it into the kitchen trash.