So I finished Such a Pretty Fat last night. It’s been a long time since I’ve found humor in a subject like losing weight. Jen and I might possibly share a brain. I’ve been saying for years that I don’t and won’t go to something like Weight Watchers because I can’t stand the testimonials (for the same reason that I don’t take my kids to Baptist playgroup even though it’s totally fun for them and all our friends go…) and I really can’t stand the people with 5 pounds to lose, still paying their money week after week and looking miserable. So, no. I won’t be doing that.
I did once try Atkins. For about a day. Can’t do it. Love cereal. In all its forms. Hot, cold, crunchy, mushy, sweet, bland…love it all. I also love peanut butter M&Ms. A little too much. That could be the reason why I’m the shape I’m in. I got the WW at home kit a few years ago when Ella was a baby. I did it for exactly 8 days and actually lost 4 pounds. Pretty good. But obsessive.
The fact is, I like to eat. I like to eat what I want at the moment I want it. Stephen and I used to have all out wars when deciding where to go for supper (or what to make but generally the fights were about where to go). We’d barter down. He’d be hungry for Chinese. I’d be hungry for BBQ. We’d end up at Subway. Pissed. But just for a little while because food just isn’t worth the fight. The point is, I have definite ideas about what sounds good and I go with it. Thus the Nutty Bars.
I also think that I have been left without adult supervision. Nobody to say, “Hey didn’t you already have 2 cookies?” or “Can we afford Tivo right now?” (Sidenote: I totally can…I had no idea the service was so reasonable…I just about won a unit off ebay last night but I didn’t and that’s okay because I need to not be cruising ebay after midnight) I don’t have a soul on this earth to be accountable to. Not a one. And my kids don’t count because they are often the beneficiaries of my after midnight indiscretion. Okay, they are sometimes but they don’t really know it or care.
I’m not totally out of bounds here. I still pay the bills and all. We eat three squares and have been having a sit down supper every night for almost a week. Real food and all. (The littles’ table manners were getting terrible so I had to intervene.) But there’s nobody to help with the menu or the shopping or ideas for something new to try. And there’s really nobody to tell me that I let myself go.
I could use a cut and color. My toes are unpolished and legs mostly unshorn although I do take care of the legs thing when they offend me. I have gained back almost all that I lost during my time of, how you say in your country? crisis. Almost all of it. I’m at pre-baby/post-tour weight. So right where I was 7 years ago. I could use a personal trainer (or at least a gym membership) and some makeup advice. Oh and someone to give me a once over before we leave the house to go to Target. This weekend, I was in the van and realized that I was about to leave the house in sweat pants and Crocs. I don’t have anything against Crocs ( I own three pair myself and my kids each have a pair) but I try never to go further than the end of the driveway in sweat pants. And even then, I look up and down the street to make sure nobody is watching me get the mail.
Even though I carry quite a bit around the middle, I have no ass and no hips. So anything with an elastic waist pops off my belly (thanks to 3 littles) and lands where my hips would normally be. Which caused the pants to sag right at my ass and thighs and I step on the pants bottoms. Which causes me to trip on them. Which reminds me to pull them up so I don’t look like a punk ass and show everyone my Hanes. Repeat. Ad nauseam. Wait!! That’s all my pants. My bad. Not sure what to do about that.
So there will be no weight watchers in my future. I’m not that disciplined. I think I’d do okay at a gym if it had childcare. You know, any chance to ditch the kiddos and have cling free time works for me. Even if it does cause me to sweat. Even if I do hate my trainer. I need to be accountable. I need to be scheduled. But don’t take my Cap’n Crunch from me.