The other night, my dear husband Tony Baggins and I were sitting watching TV in contented silence when I looked down at our legs stretched out next to each other on the sofa and BURST into tears.
“What’s happened?!” he cried out in shock.
“My…my…your” I sobbed, gasping for breath.
“My…LEGS….my legs are…TWICE the width of youuuuurs”.
This led on to about 30 minutes of solid, dedicated crying while Baggins veered helplessly between “You’re beautiful exactly as you are!” and “You could try running more?”.
I’m married to a man with 0% body fat. That’s not based on any science or fact, you just have to look at the guy.
Back in 2013, a year into our 0% body fat/20% body fat relationship, ol’ Baggins signed up to do a Tough Mudder with some buddies.
You’ve probably heard of Tough Mudder but – if you haven’t – here’s how they describe it:
Tough Mudder is a 10-12 mile mud and obstacle course designed to drag you out of your comfort zone by testing your physical strength, stamina, and mental grit. toughmudder.co.uk
He tried to persuade me to take part too, but I’m not really a get-dragged-out-of-my-comfort-zone kinda girl. I’m more of a stay-in-wifi-zone-with-a-G&T-and-nice-extra-layer type. I offered to be camerawoman instead.
Here’s one of me masterpieces, a true action shot:
There he is on the left, smiling and running simultaneously like a crazy person
Baggins blitzed it in his own Baggins way and ended the absolutely insane course muddy (obvs), exhausted and completely freezing. It was a COLD, cold rainy day.
And the absolute freak had been doing stuff like this – the ‘Iceberg Enema’ *GAG*
Given the event was up in Yorkshire, we’d booked a nice hotel for the Saturday night so we could make a weekend of the trip.
For Baggins, we were going to Yorkshire so he could do the Tough Mudder, and it was just a logistical necessity that we book somewhere to sleep.
For me, we were going on a weekend away that just happened to have a weird race on the Saturday. A small blip in an otherwise lovely Romantic Mini Break.
‘Cos as Bridget taught me, a Romantic Mini Break means true love
Arriving back at our hotel, yours truly was looking forward to a few drinks in the bar and a hearty slap-up meal (being camerawoman had been hungry work). Baggins, though, had started to take a turn for the worse, weak from the day’s toughness and muddiness. He could barely talk for shivering.
Before long all my hopes of a Romantic Mini Break were long gone, as dear Baggins was violently throwing up.
“I must have swallowed a lot of cow shit from the water in that Iceberg Enema challenge…” he was able to mutter weakly from his foetal position on the hotel bathroom floor.
A cowpat-induced sickness. Deeeeelightful.
I ran him a nice, hot bath and left him to it. After a little while it had gone very, very quiet so I went to check on him. The sight broke my heart.
There he was, completely still and pale in the tub, tears running silently down his face. He really wasn’t well. And I really wasn’t sure what to do.
I helped him climb weakly into bed, and suggested – not completely selflessly, my stomach rumbing – that we should order some room service to build his strength back up. He conceded. Soon enough I had polished off a chicken burger and chips. Baggins barely touched his pasta.
I remembered we had a bag of sweets we’d brought in from the car – a fave of ours, the trusty pinballs.
Green ones are the best if you’re wondering, and the orange are ming
“Think maybe you can manage just one little sweet so you don’t get too low on sugar?” I asked, doing my best Florence-Nightingale-peddling-Haribo impression.
“No thanks. I really can’t face anything right now…” he whispered, his face a deathly shade of Farrow & Ball Lamp Room Gray. You know – like the colour of the lamp room at your country home?
Someone’s CV includes “Coming up with paint shade ‘Elephant’s Breath'”
He slept through the evening and into the night while I sat faithfully by his side watching rubbish on TV. And eating his pasta – I hate seeing food go to waste.
Around 2am he woke up and whispered weakly:
“I think maybe I could manage one pinball now?”
I knew exactly what I would find when I stuck my hand in the packet. I’d eaten every single sweet. Even the orange ones.
I had to break it to him.
“Oh okay…Then maybe just a tiny mouthful of my pasta?”
In my defence, it was quite hungry work just sitting still and waiting patiently for someone to magically feel better.
He had a few more rough hours of sickness, although I haven’t a clue what was left in his stomach because we all know it wasn’t pinballs or pasta. Finally, as the sun was coming up, Florence Haribo over here decided enough was enough and that we needed to get to A&E.
I called a cab and helped him – wobbly step by wobbly step – down to reception.
Arriving at the hospital poor Tony B was laid on a bed as the doctor produced a needle and said that he was going to be “put on a drip with two bags of re-hydration fluid”.
At which point I helpfully – and majestically – fainted clean away.
So there we lay – side-by-side – in two hospital beds. But only one of us had low blood sugar levels to blame.