So here’s a typical conversation at my house. This happens so often that I probably should have my responses on a tape recorder.

Colette: Part of me wants to go out to eat tonight.

Me: I could go for that.

Colette: But maybe we should save money and eat healthier at home.

Me: Yeah.

Colette: What do you think?

Me: I could go for either one.

Colette: I can’t decide.

Me: Either’s good with me. You pick.

Colette (getting a little overwhelmed): I don’t know.

And around we go like that. That conversation happens at least once a week. Sometimes twice. What’s interesting is that the words we use don’t really tell the full story about what’s really happening. Like most married couples, we’ve learned to speak in code. Here’s that same conversation, translated into what we really mean but aren’t saying.

Colette: I’m in the mood for high-fat foods that I don’t have to prepare.

Me: You’re talking to someone who enjoys dunking Pizza Rolls in cheese dip. Bring it on.

Colette: It’s not that simple. I’m trying to lose weight, and I know we’re on a budget, so I don’t want to be entirely responsible for the decision.

Me: I hate healthy food, and now that you’ve mentioned the notion of eating out, eating at home sounds depressing and bleak and makes me want to shove my face through a window. However, since I know I also should be eating healthy, I don’t want to be entirely responsible for the decision either. I’ll let you catch that bullet.

Colette: But I want you to make the decision.

Me: But I want you to make the decision.

Colette: I’m not going to make the decision.

Me: Neither am I.

Colette: I'm this close to shoving your face through a window. Make the decision or suffer my wrath.

You get the idea. It always turns into a game of gastrointestinal chicken. We both want the same thing – to gorge on fried cheese and ranch dressing or a burrito filled with alfredo sauce or whatever – but neither of us wants the responsibility of pulling the trigger on this short-term-gain, long-term-atherosclerosis decision.

At the same time, we both genuinely want to get into a little better shape, and we know we’re never going to get there if we keep snarfing deep-fried nachos and chocolate-encrusted chicken wings. We know that we should stay home and have something a little lighter. But, see, if the other person says they really want some comfort food, well, that takes the responsibility for future bypass surgeries out of the other's hands, right?

After all, maybe the other person had a really bad day and needs a plate of cheesy crust dunkers to break out of a funk. Isn’t part of marriage making those kinds of sacrifices? What says "I love you" more deeply than shaving a few hours off the end of your life and joining your partner in a plate of desperately needed fried-chicken pizza, regardless of your own desire to stay home and eat plain grilled chicken on a bed of dried lettuce? As long as we know, deep down, that we would have eaten healthy if given the choice, it’s OK to indulge in an unhealthy meal for the sake of the one we love. Am I right? Of course I am.

The trick is to get the other person to make the decision to take a trip to Fatboy City. This is not always easy. It’s especially tricky when we both have had fairly nondescript days at work, don’t really have anything to celebrate, and/or have not been hired to be a secret diner at Cheezy McCrunchnugget's. That’s when it's necessary to break out the feinting and ducking, the jabbing and dancing, until one of us finally just buckles under the pressure. Or maybe we buckle under the weight of our desire for sour-cream-infused cheeseburger skins.

More often than not, I'm the one who buckles. A little of this is due to the fact that I'm terribly impatient. Mostly, though, it's because I absolutely live for the consumption of unhealthy food. My blood smells like gravy, and my bones are encrusted with crispy breading. And Colette knows this. All she has to do is throw the chum in the water; eventually the shark shows up and tries to eat the boat.

Of course, once I cave and we agree on going out to eat, then we get this whole thing:

Colette: So where do you want to go?

Me: Uh, I don’t know. Wherever.

Colette: What are you in the mood for?

Me: I could go for anything.

Colette: Mexican? Chinese? Pizza?

Me: Those all sound good.

Colette: Pick something. I don't feel like deciding. I have to decide stuff all day at work, and I'm tired.

Me: I’m really fine with whatever you want.

Colette (voice rising as she puts on the crazy eyes): Just pick something!

And this is why the type of restaurant we eventually choose is really not all that important. What's important is that we choose one that serves alcohol.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He’s putting the band back together. Look for his first novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and online at Amazon.com. And coming soon: a collection of his favorite Suburban Fringe columns. W00t!