Suburban Snapshots

My Humps

Monday, March 07, 2011

Last week I cried on the scale at Weight Watchers. Oh yeah, I was that girl.

It took me six months to lose the twenty-five pounds that got me to maintenance. During those months I had exactly three incidents of gain: once during a week of out-of-town guests that included obscene amounts of lo mein, wine, and all the fried and ice-creamy goodness of New England in summer; once was after a weeklong work trip to a boutique hotel whose buffets were rivaled only by the cavernous rain shower and high-end product in my bathroom; and once I went up .2 pounds due to polter-bloat.

Over the past five weeks I've gained weight three times. Small increments, but still. After a gain I buckle down, try to figure out where I went off the rails the previous week, exercise more, track better. And when I've done all of that and I'm being really, truly honest with myself — when I know I've watched my bites and counted every last lick, when I stand in my underwear in front of my husband and tauntingly point out how great I look — I expect to get on that goddamned scale and have the woman behind the counter flash the quietly approving smile that says, "You're down." before her mouth ever opens.

So when I walk in full of optimism, pleased with myself for diligent journaling and general getting-up-off-my-ass, and instead of the good-news smile I get the "You're gonna be displeased" furrow, well, it's kind of a bag of dicks.

Last Friday when I got that look I broke down. The hip little older woman who weighs me in each week touched my elbow and asked what I thought might be going on. I told her I didn't know, I wiped my running nose and cleared the steam of hot tears out of my sunglasses, "I almost hope I'm pregnant."

So this week is more exercise, tracking every morsel, eating more vegetables, and if I weigh in at another gain I'll be peeing on a stick in desperation.

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