I went back to Weight Watchers on Monday and back to the gym on Wednesday. Sigh. I figure it's very trendy and Oprah-esque to announce each weight loss attempt and then publicly shame myself by how much weight I've gained back. I just need a magazine cover on which I can proudly display my fat jeans a year from now.
Seriously, if Oprah can't keep her weight off, how do regular people expect to do it? She has enough money to hire an entire Gold's Gym staff to live in her house. She has famous personal chefs cooking her every meal. She could hire people to spoon feed her every single bite. She could lay in bed and have people exercise her limbs for her. Honestly, if all the money of the richest woman in the world can't buy motivation and willpower, how do I think $9 a week at Weight Watchers is going to do it?
Well. Maybe she's got bigger problems than all that. All I know is, I'm finally feeling like I can do this, which is a huge sign of my emotional well-being. I'm thrilled that I finally feel normal enough to diet again. Yay! Bring on the self-sacrifice!
On the other hand, I've got a huge sign of my physical non-well-being, in the shape of my butt. And thighs and chins and various other oversized body parts. I've been hanging onto pregnancy weight from Darcey and have added several pounds of my own to the mix. I've weighed more than I've wanted to for a couple of years now but it didn't really bother me too much until I started seeing true "fat person" markers on my own body. Take me in a particular pair of jeans, for example. Used to be they'd fit just fine. Now I look at myself in the mirror and notice that a significant portion of my waist is bulging over the waistband. I've only seen that on the girls at the mall who are wearing pants that are too tight and shirts that don't cover enough. It's like the surface tension that had been holding my waist-fat back has finally broke, and now it's all spilling over my jeans. (You'd never know this because I, unlike those hoochie girls at the mall, wear shirts that hide things like overflowing fat. You're welcome.)
The other thing that signalled the end of fun times for me, and this might be straying into the TMI gray zone, is that my underwear started to not fit anymore. This is a problem for me mentally - if a piece of clothing made entirely of elastic can no longer stretch to encompass my girth, that's a sign. For some reason, this is a bigger deal to me mentally than having to supersize my other clothes. I don't know why: underwear is cheap and virtually disposable. Jeans, on the other hand, cost real dollars and I can wear them for a couple of years. And yet, when my jeans are too tight I buy new ones. Maybe it's the whole "they shrunk in the wash" conceit that allows me to buy new, larger jeans but not new, larger underwear. But I think I'm mostly offended that stretchiness has a limit, and my body has exceeded it.
Okay, that's enough underwear talk. It's making me uncomfortable, which means it's probably making you uncomfortable. Let's just forget I even mentioned it, yes? So yeah, weight loss. Diet and exercise, the two most over-prescribed medications for every ailment. I'm hoping my lack of grand pronouncements (over live television, for example) will help me actually stick to my goals. But I'd be happy to take Oprah's personal chef, if she's done with him.