Facing the fat

Today was the day that I decided to face the fat. I hadn't been to Weight Watchers since May 19. Of course I kept paying for the membership, thinking that I was going to go "this week," "next Tuesday," "after work." I knew that my weight was up. That was easy to tell by the way my clothes were fitting and by the few times I was brave enough to step, ever so briefly, on my bathroom scale.

But I need the accountability of weighing in to someone else. Standing on my own bathroom scale, I can rationalize that my weight must be affected by the time of day, the amount of clothes I'm wearing, the imprecise nature of the Target-bought scale. The official Weight Watchers scale, though, I never argue with. It is what it is and I take it seriously. So I knew to get myself back on track, I had to go submit to the scale.

If you've ever been on a weight loss program where you have to go in and weigh in front of someone else, you know that it's not a simple as getting in the car and getting on the scale. First there is the pre-grooming.

I took a shower and made sure to shave my legs, you know, because all that hairy stubble might weigh a quarter of an ounce or so. When I got out of the shower, I took extra time to dry my hair, lest any water left in my tresses should add weight to the scale. Wearing glasses and jewelry, is of course, totally out of the question. Do you know how heavy a pair of earrings can be? (I do make an exception for my wedding ring. But if I had a 3 carat rock, it would totally be left behind before the weigh-in.)

Once all the grooming is done, then it's time to get dressed. Generally, my rule of thumb is "as little and as light" as possible. But today, I had to think about that. If I wore something a bit heavier, maybe jean shorts, then I could more likely post an impressive loss next week by wearing cotton shorts and a t-shirt. That could be pretty motivating. However, if I did that, I would rationalize whatever gain I might show today, blaming it all on the clothes. So I opted for a pair of knit shorts and a cotton t-shirt.

No need for breakfast because every person whose ever been on a diet...excuse me, a "lifestyle change," knows one of the cardinal rules of weigh-ins is that you don't eat or drink anything before you step on the scale. One last trip to the bathroom (weigh-ins call for the emptiest bladder possible), and I was out the door.

On the drive over to the meeting, I mulled over all of the excuses I might offer for what I anticipated to be a 9 or 10-pound gain. We were on vacation (so what if it was just 24 hours in Southern Indiana). The kids are home and there's more food in the house. My routine is broken so there is no time to get to the gym (never mind the fact that Denzel is collecting cobwebs in my basement).

The nice lady behind the desk didn't ask for any excuses and I saved her from having to tell me I gained by forewarning her that I was anticipating a sharp increase. She smiled and handed me my weigh-in booklet. I didn't let myself look at it until I was sitting in the classroom, waiting for the meeting to start.

Up 6.6 pounds. Now all you skinny-never-had-a-weight-problem people out there are probably gasping. But those of you who've been where I am likely understand when I say I was actually pleased that I only gained 6.6 pounds. Not that I want to keep up the trend of gaining 1.1 pounds a week (the exact opposite would be great), but I was expecting worse.

I faced the fat and survived. I can move ahead with renewed determination...right after I get something to eat. I didn't eat breakfast and I'm starving.

Confession

Bless me, Father, for I have strayed. It's been over two weeks since I've been to the gym.

The craziness of the last week of school, coupled with too many late nights sucked in by the allure of Facebook, and I found myself content to fall into the delusion of "I need my sleep; I'll go tomorrow."

But that's not all. I indulged in the empty, but delicious, calories of white wine last weekend, in a manner that can only be described as gluttonous. I ate hummus and tabouli on garlic bagel chips with reckless abandon. I've cozied up to bowls of Frosted Mini Wheats in bed at night.

I knew I was in trouble when I found myself in the Hardee's drive-thru ordering a sausage and egg biscuit yesterday. Oh, I knew when I was doing it that it was wrong. But it felt so right!

As all transgressions do, mine are leaving their mark on me -- in the form of oily skin, puffy fingers, and low levels of energy.

I am heartily sorry. I will choose to do good, and eat food in its natural, healthy state. I will say "get behind me, chips and salsa!" and "no" to the siren song of Free Donut Day tomorrow.

For my penance, I will sell all of my fat clothes in the garage sale on Saturday, so I will have no choice to slip back into them. And I will humbly submit myself to the rigors of Denzel.

Amen.

Denzel

Denzel is tall and dark.

Denzel is the strong and mostly silent type.

Denzel gets me all hot and bothered.

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