The dance.

I joined Weight Watchers about four months ago, and lost a total of 13 pounds before¬ deciding my points journal made an awesome coaster for my afternoon pop. Those were 13 long hard pounds, and it was pissing in the¬ ocean when you consider that I have 100+ pounds to shed. I think this is one of the reasons it’s so hard for big people like me to lose weight — the mountain is so high, so unclimbable. It’s like cutting the grass on a football field¬ with a nail clippers.

The feeling I get before I binge is what I can only imagine is the same ravenous, consuming¬ desperation that a junkie feels before shooting up. It’s like the whole world melts away, and the only thing¬ I see in my crosshairs is food. Snickers. Ding Dongs. French fries. Before I can finish my timesheet, before I can¬ concept that print ad, I must¬ soothe the beast. It won’t¬ loosen its¬ unrepentant grip until it has been fed.

And so I eat. And eat. And eat some more, until the food expands, stretches and strains my gut.¬ I feel guilty, powerless, low. Yet I am calm. I’ll be damned if I don’t¬ feel¬ at peace.¬ I am fulfilled and complete. I lie in¬ the wake,¬ a bit dazed by the frenzy that has come to pass.¬

This is the torment that washes over my brain once, sometimes twice, a day. But¬ I must function,¬ I must put up the front. I must¬ bury¬ these thoughts in a hastily dug trench, along with¬ my awkwardness and my shame. For when you are fat, or obese as they say, you must be smarter, funnier and more pulled together than¬ everyone else in the room. You cannot risk appearing slovenly or gluttonous, because that is what they expect of you.¬

If I starch a crisp line into my khakis and maintain a perfect french manicure, will¬ you not notice how my thighs billow out from the steely borders of the conference room chairs?¬ How could you not. I see the¬ disgust in your eyes as they sweep up and down me. And so I dance, hoping my jazz hands will divert your attention from the dark storyline unfolding behind the curtain. The show must go on.¬

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Tipping the scales.

I just weighed in for Weight Watchers (this was my first week) and I lost four pounds, 12 ounces. Notice how I got the ounces in there. That’s a can of beer, people. I lost four pounds and a can of beer, and I am damn well going to report it. By simply leaning in on my toes, I have found that I can make the scale numbers fluctuate two or three pounds. Weight Watchers really needs to engineer that shit out.

It’s a good thing I lost weight this week. Otherwise the starvation would’ve been for nothing. I’m pretty much hungry all the time. And not just “I could eat” hungry. It’s more like Sally Struthers Feed the Children hungry. This probably has something to do with the fact that my pre-Weight Watchers eating habits had stretched my stomach out to the size of a Samsonite suitcase. So now, I am in the process of shrinking my stomach down to a coin purse – a little one, like the kind that you squeeze and the crack opens up like a shiny rubber vagina. I had one of those when I was little and I would play with it for hours. Coin purse that is. Well, OK, vagina too. But I digress.