Monday, April 20, 2009


Tonight was my Weight Watchers meeting. Just exactly where I wanted to be sitting tonight from 5:30 until 6:30. I refused to weigh. You can take that pass one time while on Rehab, and they are supposed to just deal with it. After my plunge into the depths of a Reese's ocean and portion sizes more appropriate to the Jolly Green Giant over the recent Easter holiday and beyond, I felt that weighing would be more disheartening than anything. Not that I have a clue what I weigh. I don't. I don't let them tell me, and they just mark it on the card that I refuse to look at each week. I just don't think that I could stand knowing that I weigh more than I did when I was full-blown pregnant with a 95 pound weight gain (Jill...circa 1990), toxemia, and eerily resembling a deranged superhero...Water Girl. I am fairly sure that I weigh more than the majority of the University of Alabama football team, and this cannot be a good thing.

After listening to our leader discuss the merits of writing everything down...I finally raised my hand and just short of begged the class to ask to see my food diary next week. I suppose that just knowing that someone probably will is enough to keep me on track. I will have to do this every week...because I run in twelve week cycles. For three weeks...gung ho. Weeks 4 and 5...sketchy. Week 6...stopping at Chic-fil-A and eating the combo number 1 while justifying the "health benefits" of fried chicken and counting potatoes as a "vegetable" and thus free of points entirely. Weeks 7 and 8 are trying to get back on the wagon...week 9 and 10 involve mental flogging and week 11 is desperation week. I then snap back to week 1 behavior again. What I really need is to be sent to a place with a computer and no food.

Anyway, this "confession" spawned a ton of discussion including some lady who is bringing quarters for everyone who keeps their food diary next week, and another lady matching it. I mean people were fired up. It was almost like someone had just come up with a non-caloric cheesecake or something. Our leader (whose name I am never sure is Jennie or Jeannie since people just choose one or the other when they talk to her) was a little confused by this outburst of emotion (I asked for help since I was under the impression that Rehab is a support group). I did feel better leaving there, and much more resolved to do what I am supposed to be doing. If any of you see me, ask to see my diary. I should have it available for your viewing pleasure.

This whole experience reminded me that in life, sometimes we just need someone to speak up to say the words that are unconsciously on the tip of our tongues. As for me, I need someone to tell me that they are actually reading these. If not, it is no big deal...I'm just curious. Later!

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