Aidan returned home from school ten days ago, and our grocery bill tripled. “But I just WENT shopping”, I wail, peering into the recesses of the refrigerator. “I know”, says Aidan, doing squats, “but we’re out of everything”.
He’s huge. As in muscle big. Six foot two, 190 pounds. He works out all the time. He joined a local gym, and not a shiny housewife gym. It’s the sweatshop down the street where you might expect Burgess Meredith to pop out and call Rocky a tomato. He goes every day. Then he comes home and replenishes his calories.
“We’re out of yogourt”, he announces, cracking a dozen eggs into the pan. “Next time, get the Greek stuff. Large containers. Six or seven. Also, more eggs. Please. And fish.” “But you don’t like fish”, I say. “No, but it’s good for you”, he replies, bench pressing me.
He’s always been athletic. Hockey, soccer, basketball. Athlete of the Year when he graduated high school. But this is something else. He’s lifting weights, bulking up, popping vitamins, and eating supplements.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing a massive container full of protein .“Whey”, he replied, tearing into a live chicken. “Whey? No way”, I say. “Got any curds?” “Funny” he replies, doing one arm push-ups.
I am both bemused and impressed. We’ve always valued health and fitness as a family, but no one has ever stepped it up to this level. It’s not as if he’s planning a bodybuilding career, or looking to play a superhero in a movie, or fighting with the 300. He’s in business school, but in a suit he looks more like Clark Kent than Gordon Gekko.
“You’re not going to get TOO big, are you?” I ask anxiously, “I don’t know” he replies, lifting the piano. “What’s too big?” “When you have to have your clothes custom made. Or you need two bath towels to dry off. Or your vehicle looks like a clown car.” “Nah. But we need more food. I’m starving. Do we have any buffalo?”
We’re going to need a bigger fridge