So we had our first official Weight Watchers meeting at work yesterday. I had a harrowing--HARROWING!!--week at work, so all I was able to do was weigh in and leave. And lemme tell you, that was enough. The sumo wrestlers called. Said once I drop a few pounds they'd like me on their league.
Do sumo wrestlers have a "league," per se?
I got all the WW literature, and I'll have to look at it all at some point today, I suppose, so I can track my points and so on. I'm looking at it right now and it reads Weight Watchers 360, which is about what I weigh.
I called Ned afterward to tell him about my weigh-in. "I'm just calling to THANK you for ever having sex with me. How do you do it?"
"...I mean, do you want me to draw you a diagram? How much do you, weigh, anyway?"
Ned is forever wondering what size I am and how much I weigh, and I see no reason to ever divulge this information. It'll just make him depressed.
The good news is that I guess Ned must be a chubby chaser or something, and for that I am eternally grateful. The thing is, I've been doing Tracy Anderson like a demon this past month, because ever since I sprained my ankle I was able to do nothing and I could tell I was turning into a marsupial. "Maybe your weight was high because you've gained muscle," said one of the Alexes at work, who is more than likely a size 2T. That's a toddler size. I just had to Google "toddler sizes." Because of course I can't even correctly identify a toddler ("Your toddler is adorable." "She's on her way to prom.") much less size one. But what I'm saying is Alex #2828338 at work is more Jack Sprat than his wife. She looks magnificent, if you want to know the truth, and is always eating a chicken breast for lunch, and by "chicken breast" I don't mean one from Chik-Fil-A.
God, doesn't Chik-Fil-A sound delicious.
My point is, she may be right. Because last night I was getting ready to see Ned and I pulled down the first pair of jeans I saw and holy shit, they were tight. Who was I, Tom Jones, with those jeans? So this pussycat took 'em off (whoaa whoaa whoaaa) and I noted they were the jeans I don't even know why I keep, because I haven't buttoned them since Monika Lewinsky. But please note the part where I DID button them yesterday. So yes, I outweigh Mama Cass at the moment, but some of that may be muscle and not all ham sandwich.
Oh, and my coworker and friend in real life TinaDoris came into the kitchen while I was having this not-at-all-self-involved powow with Alex #2828338, and I told her I needed some kind of incentive, something to put the fear of God into me if I don't lose this weight. TinaDoris said, "If you don't reach your goal weight by August 21, you have to go four months without dyeing your hair."
Perfect! So that's my challenge. "Can I call and thank TinaDoris for this?" asked Ned, who is supposed to love me even with five feet of white roots.
So that's where I am currently. I have to work today, and maybe I did not emphasize enough how harrowing my week was. I realized once I got started on this work that I need Post-It notes to make suggestions but not write on the pages I'm proofreading, and all I have are Post-Its that relatives and friends have sent me. So each page of my work for work will have Post-Its that read "Princess of Everything" or "Drama Queen" and how's that down-to-earth reputation going, June?
Anyway, professional. Is my point.
I'll alert you if I wake up thin tomorrow. Or if I wake up thinking of nothing but food, kind of like Tallulah. Hullo, blog peeple. You gots treet? Maybe that will be me tomorrow.
June, out. Of a healthy BMI.
