Last night Susie Sunshine and I were on the phone talking about our need to get in shape.
And because I was already fed up with the way my jeans were biting me, and because I badly needed to prove the point I made earlier in our conversation (when I assured her that I am easy-going and not a bossy control-freak) I agreed to go back on Weight Watchers.
Well, of course. Susie Sunshine could talk you into doing anything. It's her way.
And so, here I go again. I'm back on the wagon, ready to count points and just say no to the snacks I supposedly buy for my children's lunch boxes.
And let me just say that I am glad I got this far in life before letting the crunchy, peanut-buttery, creaminess that is a Nutter Butter Peanut Butter cooky* into my mouth. If I had, I'd be much fatter. Because I would have wolfed down a few packages of those cute little peanut-shaped cookies. Damn skippy I would.**
OK. It begins with weighing myself. Now, my lying-sack-of-shit bathroom scale assures me that I haven't gained all that much weight. But if I haven't (and I have) it's because my jeans bit it off.
Still, this weigh-in gives me a ... a ... (damn this menopausal word retrieval problem!) baseline, like your first mammogram. Which is a very apt metaphor, because it's almost as scary.
And it said 178. It could be worse. In fact, it will be, when I get on a scale that isn't too intimidated by me to tell me the truth.
But I'm not going to any god-damned Weight Watchers meetings. My leader is annoying. You know how everyone thinks Weight Watchers meetings are nothing but a bunch of women whining and complaining?
Well, not my group. You can't get in a word edgewise around this woman. And for some reason, I don't enjoy listening to someone else dominate the conversation. So it's on line for me. And now, excuse me, I need to log on to the Weight Watchers website and log my weight. And then go do the treadmill for an hour.
* Note archaic spelling.
** (Pun intended.)