As seen on TV

I don't think I'm flattering myself when I assume it to be a combination of post-pregnancy malaise and the sense of self-body-loathing that I've fostered in her through the years (I can't remember when she last left the lights on when getting changing anything more than a sweater), but in the last several weeks--featuring innumerable multi-hour stints nursing on the couch in front of the TV--my wife has ordered both a contraption called 3-Minute-Legs, and a miracle midriff restoration gizmo called the Contour Electronic Muscle Stimulator, "created by Swiss medical professionals" to apparently chisel your abs to match those of the ladies in the infomercial, while you eat Twinkies on the couch.

Me: If I had anything to do with these purchases, return them. I've tried to get myself to the point that I don't care, and I'm pretty much there.

Her: Don't worry, I didn't buy these 'for you.' They're for me.

Me: Great. So my next question is, if these are 'for you,' why don't you use something we already have? Like the sidewalk -- go for a walk. Or the $400 jogging stroller we had to get -- have you ever jogged with it?

Her: Yes! I resent that question. You know that's a good stroller, we've used it a lot, and I have jogged with it.

Me: When?

Her: I don't remember, but I have.

Me: We got rid of the old stroller because you didn't like it. Its wheels weren't big enough for running and it squeaked. Fine. We could have replaced it with a perfectly decent stroller for half that much, but we had to get this one, because it's the only one you could jog with. If you've jogged with it twice, I'd be surprised. Or the bike...

Her: I use the bike.

Me: You've used the bike, what, a dozen times for a total of eight miles in the year and a half since we bought it? We've got over $2,000 into that thing now, which we bought since it was the only bike on the planet that you were comfortable riding. It's exactly what you wanted. I'd already bought you the Pashley, which is what you'd wanted except that I couldn't find a woman's frame, so I found the man's version and had it shipped from Maryland as a surprise for your birthday--remember?--but it absolutely would not work because you refused to ride a man's bike. Fine. So I sold it and we got this one. There's only one place on this continent that sells them, and we bought it at full retail, right off the showroom floor, and now I ride it with [our third child] much more than you do -- in fact, it's not even close. I put hundreds of miles on my own bike each month during the spring and summer, and it's worth a fraction of what yours cost, and yours is collecting dust and cobwebs.

Her: I've been pregnant...

Me: ...for half of the time since we bought it. What about the other half, before that?

Truth be told, the preceding dialogue is a composite of several exchanges we've had on the topic. But it's representative of the sentiment. We're so pathetic that we're not even tragic anymore. But the precious, incredible kids, those bright, curious and loving little souls, they are tragic. Or at least their fates are, stemming from ours as they do and will. They'll pay the price for our selfishness and our sins, most of which are mine, although it's not a strict monopoly.