Well, I did it. I finished my first week of Weight Watchers Lite–in which I dig out all the materials from when I was enrolled two years ago and follow the plan on my own. It helps a lot that I went out and bought my very first scale. I have never since leaving home after college, actually lived with a scale before. This is a very fancy high-tech scale, and I probably would have been happy to get a plain-old weighs-you-only scale, but Husband is all into stats, so now he can weigh himself and check his body fat through his feet and find out his water percentages to his heart’s content. More on him later.
When I was going to the Monday night meeting at the hotel with all the cute professional women and I had a friend to go with me and a single cute baby to schlep, attending meetings was teh awesome. It really was. Talk about positive feedback! I was breastfeeding, so I got an extra ten points, which increased my food allotment by almost fifty percent, and Little Fella was smiling and cute and adorable, and it got me out of having to cook a meal that night. Hugs and air-kisses all around, right? Of course, I stalled about seven pounds from my goal that I had arbitrarily chosen from their weight ranges for my height, and I did get bored with the program. Plus I looked very, very good. I mean, those last few pounds were keeping me out of a size six jeans, but I was happily ensconced in a pair of eights. The incentive to keep going just wasn’t as strong, although the baby was as cute and the desire not to cook dinner was as relevant. And then, and then… I started losing weight again! Yay! I had come off the plateau without any change in behavior or attitude! This dream state lasted a month. Because, it turns out, I was pregnant.
Well, fuck me. That was absolutely unexpected, and it was my friend who figured it out. So much for the diet! Hello, however, designer maternity clothes on loan from said friend who I was finally small enough to borrow clothes from!
I gained all the weight back. And it turns out that trying to lose weight after your second baby is a bitch. Here’s the thing. I was kinda fat. Then I got pregnant, and became hugely fat. Then the baby was born, and I lost the baby weight, so I was back to kinda fat. While still breastfeeding, I started WW and became thin. Then I got pregnant, and baby weight brought me back up to kinda fat again. So it’s a net gain of zero, which means that I am still the kinda fat person Husband married but he can’t complain that I haven’t lost the baby weight, because I am right back where I started.
Less 3.8 pounds, that is.
So now I’ve got this kickass spreadsheet that I rigged up to track points and a fancy scale to stand on without having to pay $12 a month to buy the booklet and stand on their scale. I have friends I can boast and lie to each week, and if they do not give me gold stars and motivational magnets, well, I’m sure I can desktop publish and print them for myself. If I get really bored, I can always track my weight each day and enter the numbers as data points and make Excel create line graphs that dazzle me! But all that is busy work. The hard part is eating less. (Moving more? Never helps with my weight loss. Sorry, but if a four-mile run only gets me one dry bagel, I’m not going to do it just to eat extra food.) And you know what? The hard part of eating less really isn’t that hard. I’ve already gone through the program once and trained my body to cope with restricted meals, and it’s not like I eat really big meals all the time anyway. I am very good at maintaining a weight… I really don’t think keeping weight off is going to be a lifelong struggle for me. I just have to get there in the first place.
You know how I got here in the first place? I went from teaching, which is an on-your-feet-all-day sort of responsibility to a desk job, and then to another desk job with a forty-five mile commute one way and grateful vendors who sent gift baskets. And then Clinton and Stacy come on the air with all this malarkey about dressing well with the body you have (how dare you inspire me to look good without excuses!) and I found plenty of reasons to justify the weight gain. Kinda fat isn’t necessarily bad, you know–and my blood work and blood pressure is superb. We’re talking being dissatisfied with myself for purely cosmetic reasons. Vanity, thy name is woman.
I’ll concede how depressing it is that one cookie adds up to one-seventh of my available points for the day. I do love a cookie. I’ll also accuse Husband of starting his own stupid diet to compete with me, which is ridiculous and unfair. A nicer person would rephrase that sentence to say that he was inspired by my determination to make a lifestyle change and that imitation is the best compliment. Well, screw that. The bastard was already 18 pounds lighter than me with 19.8 percent body fat. Dude. How dare he? It is not to be borne.
It’s cold comfort that he is entirely dependent on me to keep his own kickass calorie-counting spreadsheet in working order, and that I’m the one that had to program the fancy new scale, but I’ll take comfort at whatever temperature I can get it. Besides, if I’m in a bad mood, I can always mess with his formulas and make him believe that most of his calories are coming from carbs. Tricksie I am.
Tricksie, indeed. And yeah–“fuck me” works two ways in context. I wrote that on purpose.