No, the Dry Cleaners Do Not Use Special Clothes Shrinking Soap.

I realize I have been not posting as regularly this week. However, I have some news. After considerable thought, observation, and reflection, I have come to terms with some issues I have been wrestling with. I decided last weekend it was time to get back into a relationship that has been somewhat on again, off again for the past six years. Sometimes we’ve made it a regular thing, sometimes it’s been long distance, sometimes even over the internet. I had been thinking about making this big step for a while, but I truly think it is the best thing for me right now, and honestly, after we got back together, I wondered, “How have I gone so long without you?”

So do you want the details?

Ladies and Gentleman, I went back to Weight Watchers.

Yes, me and the WW are back together again. (It is practically my AA.) When I told my friend Laura that I had rejoined, she looked at me, shook her head, and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Those women must have hated you.”

Hated me? Moi? But why?

“You’re not fat.”

Ok, so this is true. However, as I have said before, I used to be fat (not phat). I feel like I am a comrade in arms with these men and women. I know what it’s like to not have your pants fit. I was the slow kid in gym class. I was the fat girl in high school who had to have her prom dress made because nothing fit in the stores (oh, and it was baaaaad – I looked like was channeling 1876 chic – thank you Jessica McClintock). I cry watching The Biggest Loser. I feel their pain. I share their battle scars.

“Yes, but they don’t know that.”

She just might have a point. I don’t look like a fat person anymore, and to be honest, it still feels strange to say these words -I am not fat. I have a perfectly healthy BMI, and I am still much slimmer than I have been in recent years. However, I had quite a summer. I don’t know about other cities, but DC is quite social in the summer months, and frankly, I treated happy hour as if it was my second job. I drank, I ate, I came to work and put my head on my desk in hungover agony. I lived it up in a classic single girl style, and I loved it. I also managed to let a lovely seven pounds creep back on. Although I have to say, I had a ball gaining the weight. This was not a situation of emotional eating because I was depressed or eating too much while I sat at home by myself. Oh no, this seven pounds consists of beer, vodka, beer, baked goods in the office, beer, happy hour nibbles, beer, and a late night July 4th weekend incident at Ben’s Chili Bowl where I managed to consume a chili half smoke, chili cheese fries (okay split), and a good portion of my friend’s cheese fries. Oh, and a milkshake. It was glorious, however, I woke up the next morning saying to my friends, “I don’t regret anything I did last night, or how much I drank. I only regret what I ate.”

Now I realize you might be thinking, “You know, you don’t have to join Weight Watchers to lose seven pounds.” Yes, I understand this, however, I know myself. I need to get on a scale in public. Heck, I’d go on a weight loss show if I could. I need to feel the scorn, the cold, harsh judgement of strangers. I need that lady from behind the desk wearing her “I lost ___ pounds with Weight Watchers” name badge to look at me and say, “What happened?” when I’m a “little up” on the scale. I also need that experience of trying to come up with some excuse besides, “Um, I got drunk three nights this week instead of going to the gym, and one morning I was so hungover that I went and got an egg and cheese biscuit from the deli place down the street instead of munching on a bowl of Fiber One (1 Point!) and skim milk (2 points!).” Yes, if left to my own devices, I will just keep changing my “weigh in day” until, say, 2012.

You might think I’m being a bit drastic. (Me? Over dramatic? Drastic? No!) Yes, I know seven pounds is not all that much. I can still fit in most of my clothes (except my black Milly cigarette pants which are going to be a must have this holiday season), but you have to understand, I’m a weight loss expert. I’m a pro. They should put me on Oprah (I have actually thought of taking pictures of myself wearing really big, ugly clothing and sending it to Oprah saying I just lost 70 pounds but don’t have the self esteem to go buy new clothes at, cough, Saks. Can she help me and give me a makeover and a free wardrobe? I’m willing to lie if you are.) I know that while it may start at a mere seven pounds, next thing you know, it’s 70, and I’m showing up at the bar wearing drawstring pants. I just can’t let this happen. I have the power to control my own destiny. My weight loss destiny is in my hands.

Also, I have to say, I get into it. I realize a lot of people my age find the meetings to be a little much. Strangers…annoying themes like “What kind of Weight Loss Dance Are You?” “What is Your Weight Loss Destiny?” …hearing people’s problems. Instead, I eat this eat up. I love drama and a good sob story. My guilty pleasure is to listen to Delilah on long road trips. Give me a good Lifetime movie any day. Weight Watchers meetings are so up my alley.

My preferred leader at the downtown DC office is an African-American man named Melvin. I used to be a little weirded out about going to a male Weight Watchers leader (kind of like going to a male OB-GYN), however, when I go to a Weight Watchers meeting with Melvin, I feel like I have gone to church. I thought I was the only person who felt this way until last week when he said to the group, “You know, I have really noticed that I need to watch my sodium intake, it really does affect your weight loss.” This elderly woman in the back starts going, “Mmmmmhmmmm.” “Oh yes.” “It suuuure does.” “Mmmmhmmm.”

Tell it sister.

So I may only be back at WW for a “tune up”, as Melvin told me, but I am very much in it to win it. (I was quite frank with him during the “new member orientation” maybe my seventh I’ve ever been to. “Look, I used to be 70 pounds heavier, but I’ve gained seven pounds, and I just want to lose that before it becomes a problem.” “Oh, I hear ya, girl.” Of course you do, Reverend. Operation Fit Back in My Skinny Jeans and Black Ciggarette Pants has begun.