A new Weight Watchers group is starting up here at work. I know it’s something I should do, and something I can do (at least for a few weeks). But is it something I want to do? No, no, I can’t ask myself that question. It is something I NEED do.
You see, we had our family pictures taken last week, and I had that whole Jabba the Hut thing going on. Untitledhusband and untitledson looked all dashing, and there was me, looking all gelatinous and such. As if I don’t provide myself with enough nourishment, my neck decided to swallow my head. And unfortunately, there is no Photoshop brush or filter that can make one lose, oh, 100 pounds.
I did do Weight Watchers once before, and lost about 17 pounds, which is pissing in the pudding for me. Of course, no one noticed the loss (untitledhusband said he did, but I think he was just playing along). All in all, I was surprised at how relatively easy it was.
So why did I quit? My weight had plateued, and quite honestly, I was growing tired of paying $12 a week to have someone weigh me and wax on about the redeeming qualities of zucchini. As it turns out, I obviously need to pay someone $12 a week to weigh me.
If for no other reason, I need to lose weight so I can tell Lane Bryant to go fuck themselves. All fat chicks have a love/hate relationship with LB. They are the only store that makes decent underwear in our size (even if they are $18 a pair), but they are also notorious for making things like crop tops, sequined thongs and skin-tight sweaters for people who have no business wearing such things. Right now, there is an entire village in China that is repurposing the specimens that didn’t sell into pop can coozies and aqua socks.
One nice thing about dropping a few pounds will be a reduction in my acne. Right now, I have a zit on my jowl that has got me wondering if it’s actually my undeveloped Siamese twin. I have taken to calling her Ziggy, just in case. My luck, she’ll continue to grow until her mouth becomes apparent, at which point my Weight Watchers leader will insist on charging me for a second membership.
Perhaps this is a sign that I should wait a few weeks before signing up for the program. And besides, I still have an unopened bag of Pepperidge Farm Raspberry Apricot Veronas at home. Weight Watchers or no Weight Watchers, I won’t leave a fellow soldier behind. If I was given one hour to live, you can be damn well sure I’d be holed up somewhere having one last cookie orgy.
So if in the next few weeks you read some crazy post about me covering my Weight Watchers Points abacus in chocolate syrup and eating it, or how I’ve left untitledhusband for Twinkie the Kid, well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.