After joining Weight Watchers, my first instinct was to roll around in a kiddie pool of lard to insulate myself from a potential lifetime of health and happiness. Then, after spending 37 days in what I christened “Opposites Month” — where Big Macs acted as multivitamins (a kind of inner insulation) — I blamed the Weight Watchers smartphone app for my continued weight gain. The problem wasn’t tator tots drenched in bacon and cheese with two pails of sour cream. It was that awful app with its confusing simplicity and easy navigation. Must this be so effortless? I asked myself.
With no way of documenting my new lifestyle choices, it felt like a wasted effort if only I knew about them. Without validation, my new lifestyle couldn’t soar so instead, my blood pressure did. I decided to wait until things ‘settled down’ — about three days into a restful four-day weekend — when I could focus on my burgeoning adipose tissue. Don’t worry, I told myself, you won’t have a stroke until you’re forty-something.
I’m pretty sure I had two food hangovers last week — where you eat so much crap you can feel your organs fighting for real estate — mostly from carb overloading and general stomach merriment. I remember saying, “I’m just trying to breathe around my food” to an amused and horrified friend. I reached up to reassure my friend and then I fucking died. “Strenuous exercise-induced heart failure,” the doctor said later.
I’m getting to an age where I feel it — I’m not crazy old, by any means, but I never really noticed my age. Now I do, and wonder if a machete made of carbs is lurking around the corner to do me in. I’m not in a wheelchair, but I’m also not doing much for my long-term health. So I start the adventure of getting back on track, and, knowing that nothing worth doing can be completed through weak half-measures, stop when that thought fully sinks into my bones. The truth is, sometimes all I am are weak half-measures. Especially when it comes to halving my ass.
With Weight Watchers, the name of the game is Points + Portions. I was on the Claim Jumper Portion Control Diet, but that gave me diabetes and a nervous tic. (There is nothing mothering about The Mother Lode.) So now I’m trying that whole ‘diet and exercise’ thing I’ve been avoiding since right around high school. Yoga, running, motherfucking kale chips. Yeah, that’s right. Kale is no longer just a hideous garnish found at lunch buffets — apparently, people actually EAT it. People like me.
Truthfully, I ate them for the first time 3 days ago after hanging out with my favorite Veganese friend, but I seriously loved them, and that gave me hope that something small within me had shifted. Though it was probably just the thinner girl who lives inside of me, suffocating to death on taco-flavored Doritos. I hope she knows they’re like a million points.