Fat Fighters
Though I’m ashamed to admit it now, I once convinced myself that I was in love with a guy who only noticed me when I threw myself under his tires. I showered him with meatballs and pies but still was unable to win his affections. I decided to try a new approach – one that focused on my appearance instead of dangerous stunts and domestic talents. So, I joined Weight Watchers. Of course you can probably guess the end of the story: I lost 23 pounds and he still didn’t love me.
“What do guys want, anyway?” I shouted into my empty carton of Ben and Jerry’s, “Do they want you to be skinny and bake pies at the same time? Mathematical impossibility!” Ben, Jerry and I dated steadily for three years after that. I also had several torrid affairs with chocolate covered almonds, cheeseburgers, and New York style pizza.
Two months ago I rejoined Weight Watchers after I discovered that my pants were cutting off my circulation and I had accidentally eaten my down comforter. I paid $42.00 for the starter-kit which included a portfolio, “points calculator” (which is actually two pieces of cardboard) and several booklets with pictures of active skinny people on the covers. These people have never been to Weight Watchers in their lives. Their sole purpose is to sit there on the cover of the Eating Out Guide, hugging each other, clearly breaking into peals of laughter when they see how fat you are.
After I had paid my dues Francis, the Weight Watchers leader, led me into a secret passageway behind a bookcase and then through a darkened tunnel with water dripping from the ceiling. After crossing a rope bridge blindfolded, I finally arrived at Francis’s private lair. “We like weigh-ins to be very private here,” she whispered as I stepped on the scale. “And if you ever have a difficult week, you can use this ‘no weigh-in’ pass so that you will not be mocked by the silent stones that surround this cave of truth.”
We returned to the meeting room via freight elevator, and I walked in to find several women in their forties excitedly discussing a ground turkey and low-fat yogurt recipe. Francis called the meeting to order and the first ten minutes were spent celebrating. Anyone who achieved a goal of any kind (whether it was slapping a brownie to the ground at a picnic or running frantically past the cheese aisle at Safeway) was rewarded with a sticker and hearty applause. Those who crossed major milestones (such as losing 10% of their body weight) were given key chains. Francis instructed us all to rub the key chains for good luck. “If these people believed it and achieved it, then you can believe it and achieve it too!” The room erupted in applause, “Believe and achieve!” they chanted.
At that particular moment I was certain I had accidentally joined a cult. In a few short hours my parents would have to rescue me from an all-white room where Francis was showing Dairy Queen commercials and administering electric shocks. Now I realize that Weight Watchers is more like Alcoholics Anonymous than it is like a cult, but with a few key differences. For example, there is a slightly different theme in their catch phrases. At AA they take it “one day at a time.” At WW if you “fail to plan, you plan to fail.” Instead of a 12 step program, I have 10 “tools for success” on an easy-to-review bookmark that I can pull out any time I need the strength walk past a donut shop. In AA, the reward key chain is a coin designating the number of months someone has remained sober. At WW, the key chain is a tiny little belt with charms for all the foods you have conquered.
Both organizations have continuous meetings throughout the week, but at Weight Watchers there is no coffee, nor are there any free snacks – just several low-points, WW-brand food items that you can buy for the bargain price of $19.95 or less. People wear name tags at both meetings, but at AA you must stand up and admit you are an alcoholic. At WW you simply have to turn to the person next to you, place your chubby hand in theirs and say, “I will assert myself by choosing high-fiber veggies and whole grains over foods that I actually enjoy.”
But I jest.
Weight Watchers isn’t that bad. I poke fun sometimes just to entertain myself, but it really does work and – despite her frown after my recent vacation setback – Francis believes in me. I’m steadily losing weight and I’m learning to turn to books, not brownies or heroin, to solve my night-sweats and shakes.
I truly believe that somewhere, at a Weight Watchers meeting in the not-too-distant future, Francis will don her feathered headdress, toss a cheesecake into the wind, and present me with my very own key chain. Even in my darkest hour I can hear the echo of the applause.
“What do guys want, anyway?” I shouted into my empty carton of Ben and Jerry’s, “Do they want you to be skinny and bake pies at the same time? Mathematical impossibility!” Ben, Jerry and I dated steadily for three years after that. I also had several torrid affairs with chocolate covered almonds, cheeseburgers, and New York style pizza.
Two months ago I rejoined Weight Watchers after I discovered that my pants were cutting off my circulation and I had accidentally eaten my down comforter. I paid $42.00 for the starter-kit which included a portfolio, “points calculator” (which is actually two pieces of cardboard) and several booklets with pictures of active skinny people on the covers. These people have never been to Weight Watchers in their lives. Their sole purpose is to sit there on the cover of the Eating Out Guide, hugging each other, clearly breaking into peals of laughter when they see how fat you are.
After I had paid my dues Francis, the Weight Watchers leader, led me into a secret passageway behind a bookcase and then through a darkened tunnel with water dripping from the ceiling. After crossing a rope bridge blindfolded, I finally arrived at Francis’s private lair. “We like weigh-ins to be very private here,” she whispered as I stepped on the scale. “And if you ever have a difficult week, you can use this ‘no weigh-in’ pass so that you will not be mocked by the silent stones that surround this cave of truth.”
We returned to the meeting room via freight elevator, and I walked in to find several women in their forties excitedly discussing a ground turkey and low-fat yogurt recipe. Francis called the meeting to order and the first ten minutes were spent celebrating. Anyone who achieved a goal of any kind (whether it was slapping a brownie to the ground at a picnic or running frantically past the cheese aisle at Safeway) was rewarded with a sticker and hearty applause. Those who crossed major milestones (such as losing 10% of their body weight) were given key chains. Francis instructed us all to rub the key chains for good luck. “If these people believed it and achieved it, then you can believe it and achieve it too!” The room erupted in applause, “Believe and achieve!” they chanted.
At that particular moment I was certain I had accidentally joined a cult. In a few short hours my parents would have to rescue me from an all-white room where Francis was showing Dairy Queen commercials and administering electric shocks. Now I realize that Weight Watchers is more like Alcoholics Anonymous than it is like a cult, but with a few key differences. For example, there is a slightly different theme in their catch phrases. At AA they take it “one day at a time.” At WW if you “fail to plan, you plan to fail.” Instead of a 12 step program, I have 10 “tools for success” on an easy-to-review bookmark that I can pull out any time I need the strength walk past a donut shop. In AA, the reward key chain is a coin designating the number of months someone has remained sober. At WW, the key chain is a tiny little belt with charms for all the foods you have conquered.
Both organizations have continuous meetings throughout the week, but at Weight Watchers there is no coffee, nor are there any free snacks – just several low-points, WW-brand food items that you can buy for the bargain price of $19.95 or less. People wear name tags at both meetings, but at AA you must stand up and admit you are an alcoholic. At WW you simply have to turn to the person next to you, place your chubby hand in theirs and say, “I will assert myself by choosing high-fiber veggies and whole grains over foods that I actually enjoy.”
But I jest.
Weight Watchers isn’t that bad. I poke fun sometimes just to entertain myself, but it really does work and – despite her frown after my recent vacation setback – Francis believes in me. I’m steadily losing weight and I’m learning to turn to books, not brownies or heroin, to solve my night-sweats and shakes.
I truly believe that somewhere, at a Weight Watchers meeting in the not-too-distant future, Francis will don her feathered headdress, toss a cheesecake into the wind, and present me with my very own key chain. Even in my darkest hour I can hear the echo of the applause.
posted by Alice | 3:08 PM
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