You see, I've been busy. As I said last time, I decided to get a jump start on my new year's self improvement plans by beginning before Christmas and pledging to stick through it at least past March. These include but are not limited to: installing and finally using Rosetta Stone Spanish, looking into and actually enrolling in graduate marketing certificate courses (start Tuesday the 25th), setting up my new soda maker and making my own seltzer and infused flavors, actually reading the links I bookmarked... and joining Weight Watchers so I can finally lose that, gulp, FORTY (!) POUNDS I've gained since 2004. That's like half the body weight I took off in a fell swoop between my senior year of high school and end of my freshman year of college. The weight I swore would never creep back up again and turn me into one of Those Middle-Aged, All-Black-Wearing, Chunky Jewelry, Clothes-Tugging Ladies.
You've all been so kind. "Surely you don't need to drop that much." "You'll be a stick!" "Shut up and have another cocktail." Yes, I do. No, I won't. That's exactly the behavior that's made things worse. And stop calling me "Shirley." I've been in denial about this the past couple of years. Blaming it on my lady bits surgery, hormones and of course, the legacy of the Bush administration. Deluding myself that due to vanity sizing I'm totally getting smaller by working out, balanced by eating more guacamole and drinking more margaritas. But photos don't lie. To paraphrase Judd Nelson's John Bender in the Breakfast Club, I've been pushing maximum density here.
A couple of friends who are like me, who like to... imbibe and have a personal welcome message on Open Table have had some success with it now that the company has changed its weight loss strategy to realistically fit into the lives of people who, face it, have better places to expand than the Ground Round. If these particular friends can do it, so can I. And so I am.
I'm on Weight Watchers. Man, I hate saying that. I'd almost rather tell people I liked Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. Which, because I have eyes and ears, I don't.
Things have changed quite a lot since this meant eating nothing but cottage cheese (quite possibly the most revolting thing ever), grapefruit and things you could mostly see through.
link to see more of these with added commentary. I laughed so hard I think I earned 15 "activity points," don't ask, just by viewing these. Note: not recommended after applying a fresh coat of mascara.)
I am not here to promote this. I am no spokesperson. I don't eat to forget. You see, I've spent a lot of time the past couple of years eating to remember. And I have a lot of great friends and family who like to, uh, share those memories with me. So this has been kinda tough. It often means I have to stay at home all night with just Bruce Lee Cat after inhaling my daily points allocation (kill me), now usually sans that requisite few glasses of vino to match my culinary achievements, so I can indulge at other planned times during the week. It means a lot of extra walking in the never-melting-snow and slush. It means I'm often benched from fun cocktail gatherings knowing I won't stick to seltzer with 10-points-a-sip temptation smack in front of me. And most painfully, avoiding most of the whisky and wine I've staked my profession on out of love.
It means for the next few months my life feels a bit like I'm listening to it on a pair of lonely, crappy headphones. And that I've become a really cheap date.
But it's working! As of press time, seven weeks in, I'm twelve pounds down! Even with the now more occasional sanity-restoring food and drink outing. Like yesterday, at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis, if I couldn't have this Perfect Manhattan now and again when the moment's right, well, I might as well have my taste buds shaved.
I turn the big four-oh in June. That's how much needs to jump ship (actually, it's more like a boat) before then. Forty by forty.