It gets to this point in the day and I’m reminded of the classic line from the movie (not the crappy stage) version of Grease where Jan, the fat Pink Lady, says “Ugh, I have been dieting all day…my mom’s pie is better than this.” I? Have been dieting all day. All week in fact. 8 full days. I am happy to report that I am a mere two pounds lighter. And I’m sorry to all the losers on The Biggest Loser. I screamed at the TV that if you have nothing better to do than work out and eat right all week, the least you could do is lose more than five pounds.
The reality for me (get it, reality?) is that I really don’t have anything better to do. I had the freaking stomach flu and only lost two pounds. My friend who half-assed the whole week and gave up nothing except pop lost five. I have spent the week half crazed with dreams of cake and ice cream and apple pie, strudel and anything else that can be of the apple pastry variety. I should have done better. I know I have been cheating…little bites here and there. Not enough exercise. The Dr. Pepper addicition that may take a trip to the methadone clinic to kick.
I finally sat down last night and read through all the WW junk that they gave me that first meeting. I shoved it in my purse and, like a rhino charging through the jungle, I got out of that little strip mall meeting room. I will stand on your stupid scale but I will not listen to your corporate mumbo jumbo about getting the most bang for my buck out of nutrient dense foods. My thought is that I didn’t get this way because I ate too many artichokes. I’m aware of what I need to do. Anyway, reading through, on the last page is the legal disclaimer.
In most people, weight loss is temporary.
So why bother, right? I was thirty pounds down a mere three months ago. And thanks to my well-documented Nutty Bar addiction, it’s little wonder that here I sit. Humiliated.
Let’s add this to the list of things that make me crazy (see also: white jeans, financed tattoos, Lane Bryant):
People who talk about their weight loss/gain. And people who talk about how much weight so-and-so has gained/lost. Also included in this bunch are the buzzkills who complain about the restaurant choice or only eat a quarter of what is served because they don’t want to be fat, vegetarians who complain of being tired and people of my mother’s age (specifically my mother) talking about adding flax and fiber to every possible food.
I guess you could say that I’m calling this one in. My heart isn’t in it. I have paid for the month. I will do it for a month. Or at least another week. And I’ll try not to cheat. I’ll try to pretend that vegetables don’t taste like dirt. I’ll try not to break out in hives every time I step into that middle-aged oasis of walking shorts, dangly earrings (draws the eyes up, dontcha know) and pep talks. I don’t want to shop at Old Navy woman. I would like for my boobs to stay out of my armpits when I lay on my back.
But here’s why I went in the first place.
I would like to make eye contact with myself in the mirror so that I know what I look like. That’s really what it’s about. Yes, I do want that boob job. But I would like to recognize myself.