This is not shocking news to me. Or to anyone. The last time I was actually in shape was probably somewhere between learning Letter People in Kindergarten and dreading physical education in first grade.
I could blame this on my physical education teacher, whose niceness was on par with Oprah Winfrey’s when it comes to managing her staff.
I could blame this on Skippy, our elementary school cafeteria manager who always found a way to sneak government cheese slices (which, by the way, taste way better than any processed cheese slices found at your local grocer) on the “Bobcat” Burgers–often served with a well-balanced tray full of French fries or tater tots. Deep fried.
I could blame this on DNA. I just have the obesity chromosome. I think that’s what it’s called. My specialty has always been in double dips of ice cream, not a double helix.
I blame this on myself. I am lazy. I don’t like to sweat. And I love food. I have always argued that being thin could never, ever feel as good as food tastes.
This addiction–if you will–to food has really become rehab-worthy since relocating. Any why wouldn’t it? Before, my landscape was accented with the usual suspects. McDonald’s. Wendy’s. Burger King. You name it, I ate it. And often. But now, anything that could please your palate is within my reach. And often times, delivered. A lazy person’s dream come true! My own mom is the one that really brought the addiction to my attention. She was quick to point out that nearly every post on this blog was centered around eating out, cooking, or just an obsession with food in general.
So, tipping the scale in numbers that would frighten sumo wrestlers at weigh-in, I drug myself back to the only place that has ever cultivated success in my ongoing weight struggle. That’s right, I am once again a card-carrying member of Weight Watchers. Or as I affectionately refer to it, “W2.” Last Thursday was my first meeting, and I have to say that it’s a very, um, different environment than any of the W2 Meetings in Cincinnati.
For one, I was the only Caucasian person in the room. Myself, and ten-to-twelve, middle-aged African American women have embarked on a journey to shed a pound or two. But not without a few “Oh, girl!” conversations about fried chicken and its outlandish points value.
So, wish me luck. And I hope that you’ll be seeing less and less of me. Get it? (I know, it’s lame, but that’s what Gladys wrote on my Welcome card).
same problems, all of it, right here.
uuuugh.
Left by keli on August 17th, 2007