These are the things we celebrate.

Two medals dangled from my bedside lamp shape this morning. One's mine, the other belongs to The Fiance. No, he didn't run the half marathon with me. His medal is the result of an entirely different physical feat.

"This," he declared, proudly, as he swaggered into the apartment at 10 p.m., "is a declaration of my love for you."

I stared at him, quizzically, as he continued.

"I love you," he said. "And the next time you question my love and devotion to you, look at this medal. I sacrificed my health, my well-being, and my body for you."

He's so dramatic.

"I love you that much," he carried on. "This medal is a symbol of that love. That love and devotion."

"So, what did you do?" I finally asked, deciding against reminding him that if he, in fact, loved me so much, he'd clean the litter box. Once. Maybe twice.

"I ate the beefeater."

You guys, he ate a 40-ounce steak. And a baked potato. And salad. And one piece of Texas toast. In 45 minutes. And the restaurant? They awarded him a medal (a medal!), good for one free dinner at a later date. A free dinner he intends to utilize on me. (P.S. I love steak with all of my being).

But, a 40-ounce steak? I'm positive he ate the entire hindquarters of a local cow. And that wouldn't be nearly as impressive if he were 6'4", 290 pounds. But, he's not. In fact, I have physical evidence that he, indeed, has a smaller waist than I. And if we wanted? We could share t-shirts. While, of course, he fills it out with man muscle, I fill it out with boobs, but still. He is not 6'4", 290 pounds. (Which, I'll add, is entirely OK with me).

So he ate this cow, and he did it for me, and now he has this protruding meat baby in his stomach, that I can literally see, and even more than he wants to roll naked on the fairway of Augusta National Golf Club, he wants some Rolaids. Perhaps the entire pack. Because in case he forgot, there's an entire bovine in his stomach, rumbling.

And I'm trying to sleep. But that's not really going to happen because the stomach of the man next to me is moo-ing, and he is as restless as an angry dog. And he's moaning. And I swear to God, if I wake up next to a man who died in his sleep due to meat poisoning, I'll be really pissed because I have a pretty wedding dress and I want to wear it!

"Kritta," he whined. Pleaded, really. "My belly. It's so full. I did this for you."

Oh boy.

"I love you," he whispered, near death, I assumed.

Before I knew it, he had rolled entirely on top of me, his meat-baby belly bulging into my own stomach. His face was hidden in my neck.

"Hold me, Kritta. Hold me!"

Suddenly, I was no longer half-asleep. Instead, I was consoling a meat-drunk fiance, who was, at least, seven pounds heavier than the last time I saw him. Before long, I gently rolled him back to his side of the bed, and thanked him for sacrificing his well-being so that I could enjoy a steak dinner in the future.

I gave him a kiss, told him I loved him, and warned that if I woke up in a bed full of the remnants of his digestive tract, I'd probably leave him.