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"In an effort to keep my spirits high and my weight low, I joined a gym. I&amp;#039;ve gone almost every day for two months. I&amp;#039;d love to say it&amp;#039;s because I feel incredible and vibrant... that I wake up in the morning with more energy than an American Idol contestant waving a yellow Hollywood pass. But the biggest reason I love it is because it&amp;#039;s clean. From the moment I walk in, a scent that can only be described as freshly washed hotel carpeting wafts through my nostrils. There are fresh flowers at the front desk. Music reminiscent of Enya wafts through cleverly disguised speakers in the sauna. Like my body, my reference to Enya is a bit outdated, but my soul feels alive. When I shrink to a size 8 I&amp;#039;ll consider downloading some new tunes.  Note to your sucker self: You are completely overpaying for some girly bells and whistles when you could walk around your neighborhood and stare at dog poo for free.  Note back to first note: I don&amp;#039;t care if I&amp;#039;m spending a little extra. For seven years I have wiped butt and cut coupons. As intoxicating as it is to score turkey breasts 2 for $5.00, a little treadmill action makes my own breasts look fluffier. (And no hormone injections!) Note to both notes: You are totally talking to yourself now. Sooo not healthy. Not that it would keep your husband from trying to cop a feel on his way to the TV room.   My real point? The more years I&amp;#039;ve been married, the more I need to do for myself. I don&amp;#039;t mean this in a snarky, complaining way. I simply mean that if Rex isn&amp;#039;t the type to plan my downtime, it doesn&amp;#039;t mean I can&amp;#039;t. Just like he drives a ridiculously yuppie car that smells showroom new while my almost decade-old SUV smells like the inside of Ronald McDonald&amp;#039;s lower intestine. Until my breasts illuminate like fog lights, I beep while reversing, or a TV shoots out my ass via remote control, he&amp;#039;s going to have to satisfy his guilty pleasure without me. Despite having clear boundaries in our marriage, there are some things only Rex can provide. One of them is a sense of adoration. Lest you think he&amp;#039;s nominated me for sainthood (all you Catholics will get that reference) I simply mean that I am secure in how much he loves me. A friend recently commented on the nickname he uses for me. &amp;quot;He calls you Love,&amp;quot; he pointed out. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s so sweet.&amp;quot; I never thought about it before. I suppose when the title is so often inserted into sentences like, &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t forget to empty the trash, Love&amp;quot; or &amp;quot;Did you remember to buy toilet paper, Love&amp;quot; its power got diffused. That&amp;#039;s not right, because it is a special name that not even a gym membership can equal. Though a perfume that smelled like freshly cleaned hotel carpeting? That would be a close contender. Kidding. Kind of. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/relationships/a3081/when-rex-calls-me-names/>