I am now THAT woman.
I'm the girl that puts on twenty pounds between the last time you saw her at the high school reunion and last week, when she was caught breathing deeply and tucking her spandy pants under her dress at your best friend's wedding. Yes, I'm the woman who touts her Weight Watchers how-to bible around the office, flirting dangerously with excessive exercise for months on end, fitting finally into a size six for exactly two weeks only to blossom once more in the fall into a rather full size 12. I'm the 100 Calorie Light and Fit one day, the upgrading my free movie popcorn the next. I'm that woman.
I cannot stop eating. The cat is lucky that he moves as quickly as he does. On any given night, I indulge in both Tivo'd American Idol and excessive cheap wine. I have a gym membership that costs me $80 a month. That means that each of my trips to the gym in the past six months has cost me exactly 80 dollars.
Why taking care of myself is not a priority right now is beyond me. I watch Dateline, folks. I know about how dramatic weight loss and gain can wreak havoc on your system, how heart disease is the number one killer of women in America, how when they don't know they're on hidden camera, Safeway butchers rub your unsuspecting chicken on their floors and privates . . . I know what I'm up against.
Yet somehow that doesn't faze me. The fact that I can't fit into my skinny clothes (that is, the first size of four that I keep on hand in my closet), has only started to set in as of late. I'll admit, the fact that I will avoid going in for my yearly ob/gyn visit in March because I just know what her papers say my fighting weight was last year is, admittedly, disturbing.
So I'm changing things. Just slightly. I'm watching my food intake. I've even crafted a food diary so I can watch how many bags of Olean products I'm eating. I have a good feeling about this. I'm pretty sure that I'll lose roughly two pounds per week, and be down twenty in just a few months. I'll feel great for the summer and for big travel plans in the fall. On New Year's my dress will be one of the ones in the back of the closet that still has the tags on it. The price is double digits, the size isn't.
I'll feel great and coy and skinny and super and then one day, after a fry here, some work stress there, and finally a late-night Taco Bell run, I'll do it all over again.
I'm the girl that puts on twenty pounds between the last time you saw her at the high school reunion and last week, when she was caught breathing deeply and tucking her spandy pants under her dress at your best friend's wedding. Yes, I'm the woman who touts her Weight Watchers how-to bible around the office, flirting dangerously with excessive exercise for months on end, fitting finally into a size six for exactly two weeks only to blossom once more in the fall into a rather full size 12. I'm the 100 Calorie Light and Fit one day, the upgrading my free movie popcorn the next. I'm that woman.
I cannot stop eating. The cat is lucky that he moves as quickly as he does. On any given night, I indulge in both Tivo'd American Idol and excessive cheap wine. I have a gym membership that costs me $80 a month. That means that each of my trips to the gym in the past six months has cost me exactly 80 dollars.
Why taking care of myself is not a priority right now is beyond me. I watch Dateline, folks. I know about how dramatic weight loss and gain can wreak havoc on your system, how heart disease is the number one killer of women in America, how when they don't know they're on hidden camera, Safeway butchers rub your unsuspecting chicken on their floors and privates . . . I know what I'm up against.
Yet somehow that doesn't faze me. The fact that I can't fit into my skinny clothes (that is, the first size of four that I keep on hand in my closet), has only started to set in as of late. I'll admit, the fact that I will avoid going in for my yearly ob/gyn visit in March because I just know what her papers say my fighting weight was last year is, admittedly, disturbing.
So I'm changing things. Just slightly. I'm watching my food intake. I've even crafted a food diary so I can watch how many bags of Olean products I'm eating. I have a good feeling about this. I'm pretty sure that I'll lose roughly two pounds per week, and be down twenty in just a few months. I'll feel great for the summer and for big travel plans in the fall. On New Year's my dress will be one of the ones in the back of the closet that still has the tags on it. The price is double digits, the size isn't.
I'll feel great and coy and skinny and super and then one day, after a fry here, some work stress there, and finally a late-night Taco Bell run, I'll do it all over again.
Labels: Now weight one minute . . .
1 Comments:
i'll show you deleted by administrator.
are we twins, or something like that?
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