Getting a head start on swimsuit season. By popular demand… another song….. Click on the audio (underlined) here ->

Backside – Ivy Eisenberg

Put on these jeans I finally found
The front looked awesome, then I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the three way mirror
Well my backside looked too round

Oh, mirror on the wall
What is fat
Can the woman within my heart rise above that
Can I sail through the changes of midlife lumps
Can I handle the reasons for my spreading rump
Uh oh

Well I’ve been afraid of leggings but I hear they’re back in style
But time makes you chunky
It’s hard to look funky
I’ll be round for awhile

[instrumental]

Well I’ve been afraid of thong-style panties
Dimpled as I am
I’m built like a sumo
My ass fills the room, o
Like two Virginia hams

So, I’ll buy some sweats in slimming brown
I’ll jog 10 miles to lose a pound
And if I see my reflection in the three way mirror
Will my backside still look round

And  now I see my reflection in the three way mirror
Yes my backside still looks round
Yes my backside still looks round

My 2012 weight loss got a great kick-start, thanks to a head cold that appeared on January 2 and conveniently attacked my intestines for a couple of days.   I couldn’t have planned it better.  I did have a fever for two days and some distressing belly cramps – just enough to kill my appetite for a good 5 days and send me sashaying into the Weight Watcher’s meeting a number of pounds lighter. After those 5 days, I was starting to believe that a) I will always have a dull headache – bleccch…BUT that b) I will forever have a diminished appetite – hooray!

It was a joy to feed the kids – I couldn’t smell the french fries. It was a joy to go to work—I didn’t start popping up like a gopher and begin rooting around for lunch at 11:20 in the morning. I was too sick to do housework or paperwork, so I was ordered by my family to go to bed and watch the wedding shows on TLC.  By the 7^th day, this past Monday, I really thought that I could live like this forever. My fever was gone and, although it felt like there was a chipmunk running around in my midsection, I was otherwise feeling okay.  I started dreaming about how quickly I would melt down a few sizes and need to buy smaller and smaller clothes.  I rehearsed my victory speech: “Oh, yes, I’ve been working at it. I kicked it up a notch this January. No, I didn’t do a lick of exercise. The weight just fell off….”  I would be the miracle story (results not typical) on the front cover of Weight Watcher’s magazine, with a new haircut and makeup, and a maroon wrap dress to show off my whittled waist. I valiantly survived Tuesday’s all-day offsite work meeting, with its non-stop sumptuous buffet of conference center culinary wonders.

Then on Tuesday evening—damnit—I began to feel like myself again. My intestinal cramps were gone, my appetite came back, and my nostrils started flaring in delight at the Chinese food we brought in for dinner.  I stopped dreaming about weight melting off and instead began contemplating that I might need to double up on my intake to make up for lost time. I’m fully recovered and back to the battlefield, hungry as a horse, lazy as a cat, and wily as a coyote.

Write more         Eat less

Laugh more        Worry less

Walk more          Blob less

Sleep more         Whine less

Hug more            Sneer less

Love more          Hate less

What about you?

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,300 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 22 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Christian household may be adorned with luscious green wreaths and holiday icicle lights.  At Chanukah time, the Jewish household has a curl of oniony smoke emanating from the chimney.

The holiday celebrates that a band of fighters called the Maccabees, sturdy men—all of whom were doubtless too short for their weight—defeated a large Syrian army to reclaim the Jewish Temple. In the temple, they found a jug of oil, with enough fuel to light the ritual lamp for one day. But miracle of miracles, the oil lasted eight days, and this without Calphalon non-stick pans.  For this reason, Chanukah is also called the Festival of Lights.  Note that it is not, under any circumstances, to be considered the Festival of “Lite.”

To celebrate the miracle of survival, we eat everything fried in oil.  The most common food we eat is called “latkes,” which is Yiddish for “28-point-globs-of-fried, grated-potatoes-and-onions-that-make-your-hair-smell-like-Church’s-Fried-Chicken.” Ha, ha, ha, it’s not a joke. Eight latkes are 28 points. That’s a lot of pilates.

There are ways to make the latkes “lite.”   You could bake them on a searing, oil-coated baking sheet or in individual muffin tins. (“That doesn’t count!” my kids screamed, when I said I wanted to try it this year.) You could replace some of the potatoes with zucchini and carrots, which makes them very flavorful and adds vitamins, not to mention some nice Christmas color.  My sister made low-fat apple “latkes,” which were basically like baked apples, held together with a touch of flour.  They were a delicious dessert, but certainly no substitute for the genuine latke.   Or you can just go ahead and celebrate the real, greasy, onion-y, luscious thing, like I did, and resolve to walk 280 minutes at a moderate pace before the next weigh-in.

If you’re in the neighborhood, you’ll see me out there in my track suit, no doubt with a pack of animals trailing the wonderful latke scent that has seeped into my skin, hair, and clothing.

Psst. Here’s my favorite recipe:

 Potato Latkes

4 large potatoes
1 large onion
2 tablespoons matzo meal
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
Cooking oil

Wash and peel potatoes and onions. Cut into large chunks and grate by hand or with a food processor.

Drain the grated potato-onion mixture over a pot or bowl, reserving the potato starch/water. The key to crispy latkes is to make sure all the water is drained.

Press down on the mixture every five minutes to hasten the draining process, repeating until the mixture no longer squishes.

Place the potato-onion mixture in a mixing bowl, and blend in the matzo meal, egg, salt and pepper.

Carefully, pour the liquid out of the bowl/pot with the potato water, reserving the thick, starchy paste (potato starch). Scrape this paste out of the bowl and add to the potato-onion-egg mixture, blending well.

Heat 1/2 inch depth of oil in a skillet. Use about 2 rounded tablespoons of potato mixture for each pancake. Drop into skillet and flatten with spatula. Fry pancakes about ten minutes total, turning once. The pancakes should be golden brown.

I commute an hour each way back and forth to work, which gives me time to enjoy my favorite passion – in-car dining. The two center cup holders, plus the cup holder on the driver’s side are always filled with water, tea, coffee, or an apple. The landing spot between the driver’s side and the passenger’s side has something spread out with the main course, and the passenger side seat is sometimes sporting another side dish.  The system works beautifully, especially when I remember to brush the crumbs off my chest before entering my office building. If I had my way, the car would be equipped with a little snack tray that pulls out from the steering wheel. The radio knob would be a coffee spigot. And the floor mats would do automatic composting.

On a good day, I’ll pack a nice breakfast to go – a fruit, a peanut butter sandwich on Weight Watcher bread, some fat-free cheese sticks and crackers, or a baggie of high-fiber cereal, with half a cup of almond milk on the side (have not mastered the cereal-with-milk-in-a-bowl maneuver on the parkway).

Sometimes I’m caught short and have to stop at one of the Merritt Parkway Mobil Marts.  The hidden cameras have, I’m sure, captured thousands of hours of footage of me wandering through the mart, scrutinizing every last “nutrition” bar, nut package and Danish-y dessert. I keep hoping for the impossibly high fat/carb/calorie numbers to change. Everything seems to be truck-driver sized and yet,  no trucks are allowed on the parkway.  It was at the Mobil Mart that I discovered a 90-calorie Fiber One Brownie, sitting there on the bottom shelf like a chocolate diamond in the rough.  I’ve since seen the 90-calorie Fiber One Brownie carton empty each time—other people have caught on. I’ve considered “pulling a Loehmann’s” and hiding the brownies behind the pork rinds.  The Mobil Mart will often have part-skim cheese sticks – not a bad alternative, though a few times, the packages were a little dusty.  Then there are times when I’ll buy almonds, count out 10 of them, twist the bag closed, and hide it in the trunk with the spare tire, so I won’t be tempted to overindulge.

If I have to travel between office buildings, I’ll often grab lunch to go, and occasionally, I have an after-work meeting and will grab dinner for the car ride home.  I know where the fruits, veggies, and low-point sandwiches are at every exit.  I can eat a salad while driving  and keeping my eyes on the road the entire time.  Yes, I know this is an unhealthy, unsafe, and icky habit. I am supposed to relax and sit down to a mindful meal with people I care about three times a day.  But hey, at least I’m not picking my nose. What about you?

Economists generally agree that high rates of inflation are caused by an excessive growth of supply, and in my case the supply included cake, cookies, heavy cream, butter, cheese, crackers, chips, candy, pizza, and a 3-ounce glass of white wine.  (And I wasn’t going to drink, darn it.)

Weight Watchers reminds us that Thanksgiving is just ONE meal, but for this point-counter, that ONE meal was surrounded by a week that began with a diner pancake feast and continued with a half-week of festive “work celebrations” (“work celebration” is code word for layer cake), compounded by the mid-week rally of the leftover Halloween candy. It was a week where the only thing that was exercised was my patience.  It was a week where my kitchen was turned into a cooking and baking machine, fueled by enough bites, licks, and tastes to feed Somalia. One of my jobs was to make the sugar-free desserts – and the two made-from-scratch pies had sensible-yet-tasty fillings.  But oh, the butter crusts…can you say double-digit points for a mere twelfth of a pie?  My Weight Watcher eTools points tracker looked like the National Debt Clock, rolling relentlessly forward with no easing in sight.

Thanksgiving was a mere kickoff to a three-day extravaganza of food, family dysfunction, and pizza. Saturday night was capped with a piled-obscenely-high trifle of syrup-soaked pound cake, raspberry sauce, and whipped heavy cream – and I brought the cream. Yes, there were raspberries on top, and thus, it counted as a fruit.  This hearty party weekend decadence concluded a mere 10 hours before the Sunday weigh-in.

I woke up this morning contemplating economies of scale, and donned my barely there underthings, summer tank shirt, and the lightest weigh-in pants I could find that would not get me arrested for public indecency.  I took off my glasses, stepped on the scale, exhaled as deeply as I could without fainting and hoped for the best. Up 1.2 pounds. Could have been worse. I’m praying for a significant downturn next week.

The Evil of the Candy

Click on the audio file –> The Evil of the Candy

I have finally gotten around to writing this, but only because it is lunch hour at work and I am supposed to be launching my training regimen for the 5K marathon I am planning to enter next May. I’m tired. I think my sneaker lace may be torn. If I sweat too much, I’ll have to wash my armpits in the ladies room here at work.

In the great procrastinator’s triumvirate of writing, bill-paying, and exercise, writing is today’s least-to-avoid activity.  I did take the first step toward more exercise. Eight weeks ago I joined a gym. It’s a great gym. They let you join online, from your computer, without taking so much as a step.  They have Pizza Mondays, they call themselves the “Judgment Free Zone,” and… AND… they greet you the door with a bucket of mini Tootsie Rolls. I am not kidding. (See? I’ve actually gone there.)  I used to belong to the posh, more expensive gym in the area, with a roster of classes, a bevy of buff bodies strolling the floor, and a row of not-so-buff, but presumably well-heeled middle aged men on treadmills in the wee hours of the weekday morns – not that I’m looking.

I decided that, instead of spending $79 per month on a membership that I wouldn’t use, it was more sane to spend $10 per month. My orientation was with two young men who, together, did not equal my age. They showed me the quick circuit and the machines, and they designed a plan for me that included cardio and strength training.  Cardio involved me spending 30 minutes on the treadmill, facing the free weight section and a collection of young, well-toned black men bulking up even more.  The view was so nice that the first day I spent 53 minutes on the treadmill in a stupor until what I thought was indoor rain but then realized was my body sweat pouring out onto the treadmill forced me to stop and dry off.

The strength training circuit had a series of biceps, triceps, back and pectoral muscle exercises all in a row.  Having developed what my sister calls “Hadassah arms” in my 50s, I was happy for all the upper-body work. But where were the adductor and abductor machines, the ones that are supposed to sculpt and tone my jiggly thighs?  (and why do they call them abductor – isn’t that a little scary?) With this new regimen, I would soon develop the physique of a young black man.

I went to the gym twice that first week. I earned 8 activity points and only ate 4 food points worth of tootsie rolls.  At this rate, the cost of the gym would come out to $1.25 a visit – quite the bargain. The next week, I felt I was coming down with something. Plus, I had to pick my daughter up from the train, and there was a lot of work to be done. And something else came up. And I missed my gym visit.  A week later, I got there on the weekend.  Okay, at this rate, it would be $3.33 a visit.  Still not bad. It took me two weeks to get back there and, again, I went on a weekend. Okay, 4 visits in 2 months is still ONLY $5 per visit. I decided I needed motivation.  I needed a goal.  My sister and I decided we’d run (or walk/run) a 5K down in New Jersey. Last weekend I spent so much time
surfing the web for the perfect training plan I ran out of time to hit the gym.

My new plan is to walk three times a week during lunch at work, get to the gym once or twice in the morning before work as well as on the weekend. So, tomorrow morning, I’ll get right to it. Right after I pay my bills. True dat.

So as not to look at the Milky Way Bars and Cool Ranch Doritos when checking out at the supermarket, I’ve been occupying my time by perusing that special brand of Woman’s magazines that are only $1.79!  They’re the ones that have taken out stock in exclamation points!  In just one week, I can beat fatigue! Prevent cancer! Never feel hungry again!   Make a year’s worth of dinners!  Reduce stress! End clutter! And save $100 on my grocery bill!  And I can do all this while having the same hair color and cut as my favorite TV stars, erasing my wrinkles, and baking cute spider-web cupcakes for my child’s classroom! (Oh wait, my child is in college).

The problem is that there is a tad too much schizophrenia sprinkled on top of those turkey-sausage-chili-cheese-mid-week-supper rags.  The same magazine that has me losing more than 100 pounds is telling me to make a jumbo brownie sundae. On one page, I am learning about the miracle superfruit that will give me an all-natural weight loss!  And then there are four pages of ads
for dietary supplements. What gives? The hope and promise of those all-caps, overexclaimed cover headlines tend to fade by page 62, and not even t he inspirational stories or pictures of precious Indiana babies in the autumn leaf piles can lift my spirits.

The magazine should have articles like “Gain all the weight back in 3 days with the miracle  chocolate, peanut butter, whipped cream cake!”  or “Fight fatigue! Stop the damn walking regimen and take a nap already!” “Forget Julia Roberts! Love your ratty, wayward hair!” “Reduce handbag clutter! Throw out those coupons! You never use them anyway!” And the cover story should read “Eat Appropriate Portions of Healthy Food and Do 100 Minutes of Exercise! Maybe You’ll Lose a Pound this Week …..or Maybe Next Week!” Now there’s a miracle I can believe in.

This momentous  event was part of the great “ 2011 Summer Pants Challenge,” launched at my Sunday Weight Watchers meeting.  My goal was to fit into the skinny jeans (which should bear the moniker “skinny jeans for fat people ” ) by the end of the summer. The jeans were designed to fit like a glove (albeit a very, very, very large glove), and they gave me the shape of a Fantasia dancing hippo,  tapered as they were from ankle to waist.  No matter. I’d always felt young, hip, and sexy wearing them.

It was very brave of me to use my skinny jeans for the Summer Pants Challenge.  I bought them five years ago during my “I have to lose weight before I turn 50” phase, and they were in the bottom of bin “D” in my closet.   I have five bins of pants, corresponding to the five sizes I’ve been over the last 20 years, labeled  A through E.  My husband, who doesn’t even know about bin “A” hidden in the attic, thinks I am hanging on to way too many clothes. “I’m going to make a denim quilt with them,” I’ve explained.

I began Weight Watchers wearing the pants in the “E” bin. E” as in “excuse me for living.” The “D” bin holds the pants of “denial.”  I’ve cut all the tags out of the “D” bin pants so I have no idea what size they are.  The “C” bin? “Can’t believe I’m here again.” “B” holds the “Bulging Muffin-top” pants. From the waist down, I’ve looked amazing in the “B” pants. Just don’t lift the Nehru shirt. And up there in the attic sits the holy grail, the “A” bin – “As If…”  My “As If” pants even include a pair of Levi’s with the pants size emblazoned on the outside.

My “E” bin pants are like the pants of someone who’s won “America’s Biggest Gainer.” All that material, the huge circumference of those waistbands – and I filled them out.  As this summer wore on, I noticed that the E bin pants were finally getting very roomy and, dare I say, some were even too droopy to wear anymore.  Even with the slow-cooker method that is the Weight Watchers system (you people who get weighed in tenths of a pound know what I am talking about), I was actually losing weight.

I waited until the Friday before Labor Day to dig out the skinny jeans from the “D” bin. I held them up. What was I thinking? I braced myself and tried the things on.  They slid easily over my knees of course (I’m of average size in the knee department, thank goodness).  They slid up and over my butt. Then the test – the waistband. Would it count if I did my mom’s waistband trick? (The waistband trick:  fasten a rubber band through the button hole then hook the other end of the rubber band to the button. You get a good two inches of post-menopausal breathing room without having to bring your pants to the tailor). I sucked in and fastened the button on the waist and…zipped up the pants.  They zipped up!  They felt okay.  I looked in the “skinny” mirror in my bedroom.  They looked okay.  There was a measure of extra flesh hanging above the pants, but nothing a big peasant shirt wouldn’t cover.   I stepped gingerly over to the bed to try sitting.  I sat. The pants stayed closed.  I did it! I met the summer pants challenge!  I wore the pants that Sunday to the Weight Watchers meeting, and I believe I continued to breathe the whole day.

My next challenge:  climbing Mount Everest.

I have a freezer full of Weight Watcher’s ice cream. What if we lose power? Between the “we-must-eat-all-the-ice-cream-before-it-melts” catastrophe and the fact that the height of the hurricane will pass through at the very moment I am supposed to be stepping on the scale at the Weight Watchers meeting, this promises to be a perfect storm of epic proportions.

I hope I have enough to eat in the house. Let’s see…I have cans of olives and bags of almonds from when I was doing the Mediterranean diet. There’s the 20 pound sack of rice from when I was doing the Rice Diet. I have cayenne pepper – what was that one? Baby food  (pretended it was for the nephews, but in truth – it seemed so sane to use baby food for snacks). Then of course, there are some Zone Bars and Atkins Bars – putrid, putrid, putrid. I have dried fruits aplenty from the raw food diet. Yep, they’re still dried. A package of instant Crème Brulee? What’s that doing there? Ah yes – “French Women Don’t Get Fat.” Three Slim-Fast shake cans from the 1990s.

Hmmm, something is there—in the back of the cabinet—behind the acai berry supplements and chocolate-raspberry stevia extract. It’s a bittersweet chocolate bar. What the heck? I was never on the chocolate diet!  The ingredients are rich and pure – and NORMAL—no sorbitol, sucralose, or aspartame.   Oh wait… the wrapper says  “In Case of Emergency—Break Here.”   Whew. All Set. Time to hunker down.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a crappy day at work. So, at 3:30 in the afternoon, I decided that I “needed” a bag of M&Ms from the vending machine.  I went through all the rationalizations – I deserved a treat, I had extra points to spend, I would be so satisfied after I ate them I would forget about dinner, I would eat them one at a time, daintily biting the outer shell off, then slowly sucking on the inner chocolate to make each one last.

The week before I had gotten a bag, spread all the M&Ms on my work desk, counted them and separated them into two piles. Then I put one pile back into the bag, twisted the bag shut and hid it in the back of my bookcase.   I ate the loose M&Ms.  Ten minutes later, I fished the other half from the back of my bookcase and finished those.  To my chocolate-hazed delight, I discovered that the entire bag is only 6 points.

So it was that this day, I wasn’t even going to pretend that I was going to eat half a bag.  I needed all of those little buggers, and I might even chew on the empty bag when I was through. That was the sort of day I was having. I had the six points to spend. I would have celery soup for dinner.  I grabbed 4 quarters and took the long walk of shame down the hall, then down the stairs to the vending area. I could sense the vending machine snicker as I walked toward it. “Aha!” it seemed to say. “Look who’s waddled over for a visit. I knew you’d come back. You’re late today. It’s already 3:30.”

As if by rote, I scanned the entire array, visualizing the nutritional information that was, of course, hidden in the back of each package.  How many times have I stared at
these selections, wondering whether there was a virtuous choice to be made?  If I was playing the low-carb card, I’d get nuts.  On acid-reflux days, I’d get licorice.  Low-fat days, animal crackers.  But today, those little M&M men were smiling at me with devilish delight. They knew what I wanted.

There were three rows of M&Ms. I scrutinized the coils of each row to make sure that, whichever row I selected, the bag would not get stuck.  E5 looked like the safest
bet.   I placed the coins in, pushed E5, watched the coil turn, and….wouldn’t you know the bag of M&Ms got stuck. Grrrrrrr.  I pushed the machine gently. I pushed a little less gently.  I looked down at the flap, wondering whether my arm could fit safely under it and reach way up to the package of M&Ms.  Insane though I was, I was not up for the mortification of having my arm stuck in the machine. I bodyslammed the machine one last time.  Nothing. I had half-expected that an alarm would go off, like the “tilt” alarm on a pinball machine. Thank goodness it wasn’t a pinball machine. (Snack roulette, yes. Pinball, no.)  What to do….What to do….I had debated going all the way back to my desk to get a second set of change, then coming back to retrieve my “just desserts.” I’d done that many times before.

Then I realized that it was “bashert.” I wasn’t meant to eat those M&Ms. Back at my desk, I discovered that I had brought carrots, celery, and apple to the office to snack on. They were no M&Ms, I can tell you that. But they did get me through the day.

I first began drinking coffee at 14 because it was a calorie-free beverage. When I started smoking at 15, I discovered that coffee went extremely well with cigarettes. In 1971, my mom taught me how to make “Coffee Carvel” which consisted of various artificial powders whipped up with gelatin and ice cubes. If the stars were correctly aligned, the result would be a fluffy, smooth coffee pudding. More often than not, it would be coffee gelatin, topped with desert sand. But in either case, it was the equivalent of “a skim milk” on the diet we were on. It fed a lot of our addictions – coffee, artificial sweetener, dessert, getting a calorie-bargain (two quarts-worth of the stuff is about the same calories as small piece of chocolate). All we had to do was sprinkle it with nicotine and we could have survived on the stuff for life. “Coffee Carvel” had me flatulating through my entire sophomore year in high school, but I didn’t mind. I managed to lose 43 pounds that year.

I ate it so much that I know the recipe by heart. Here it is:

“Coffee Carvel”

1 packet non-flavored gelatin
½ cup hot water
1 teaspoon coffee powder
5 teaspoons skim milk powder
1 packet of artificial sweetener
6 ice cubes

Dissolve the gelatin completely in the hot water
Mix in coffee powder, skim milk powder, and artificial sweetener
In a blender, one by one, blend in ice cubes
Pour into 4 pudding cups and chill until set.

Indignant, I marched back to my desk and went right online to tally up the points from that skinny beeotch’s lunch tray.  Five ounce pork chop and gravy – 5 points.  Two-thirds a cup of rice (I wanted to make it a cup, but to be fair to her, it was realistically a 2/3 cup serving) – 3 points. There was probably a light sauce on the rice, but I couldn’t be sure. I was, after all, scrutinizing the tray from my peripheral vision. I gave it an extra 2 points. Then, there was a twelve-ounce cup of cola for 4 points.  Fourteen points!  I wondered what she had had for breakfast.  I’m going to say it was a glazed donut and tea with sugar.  I totaled it up. It was a 9-point breakfast. Would she forget to eat dinner or ride her bike for two   hours after work? I wouldn’t put it past her.

I deleted her food from my online tracker, hoping there were no people “behind the curtain” watching my online activity, and I added my lunch. Can I tell you that with all the little spoonfuls of this and that, the walnuts, and the dollop of whipped cream on top of the sugar-free jello, it came out to 12 points, just 2 points shy of pork chop lady’s? My breakfast was, similarly, just 2 points less than the fictitious junk fare I had projected onto her. I was a mere 20 baked chips away from being her points equal – and 15 of those chips were sitting in my bag for later.

I needed to take a break from all this tracking and eating—and tracking of eating—to get some work done. I got to work…then got to thinking again. Nothing is off limits on Weight Watchers, so if I wanted to, I could be like that. I could be a Skinny Pork Chop Lady too. Except, of course, I don’t eat pork.

Earlier this year, I got beyond beyond, and my belly rose so far up to meet my boobs that I developed a bad case of acid reflux.  I went on Nexium and cut out everything with acid, fat, spice, and caffeine.  My doctor suggested I meet with the nutritionist who shared his office, let’s call her Pixie.  (She has an equally cutesy name, which I shall keep confidential.)   Of course, I felt that I knew nutrition as well as anyone on the planet, having pored over every diet book and article ever written  and, more recently, having scoured the internet for every possible suggestion for acid reflux. I made an appointment anyway, and I assumed that I would wow Poor Pixie with my vast knowledge. As I had imagined, Pixie was a diminutive wisp of a young woman in a skin-tight wrap dress that let the world know that she was most definitely in control of her tiny, cute waistline. Why do I subject myself to this?

Pixie, in her tiny, ant-like voice, gave me a list of foods that she had found would relieve hunger cravings. Does a woman like Pixie get food cravings?  She had suggested such things as having only one piece of fruit (like that was going to happen).  And she gave a list of low sugar-type, designer snacks which I figured would be incredibly effective for weight loss, as one would run out of one’s life savings after a week of purchasing such products.

I have to say that Pixie surprised me. Everything on her list was a great and satisfying find.  Among the suggestions, she shared with me her favorite breakfast recipe: Spray a 9 x 13 pan with cooking spray, fill with egg whites (about 24) and whatever veggies you have on hand and bake for 30 minutes in a 350-degree oven.  Then, remove and cut into 4.  Each day, have one of those
with a Laughing Cow Light cheese and whatever else you want.  It will keep you satisfied all day.

I bought a quart-sized carton of egg whites a week ago and they sat there in my refrigerator, mocking me whenever I opened the door (which I have to confess is very, very often). All week, I was yelling at the kids – don’t drink that – it’s egg whites, not milk.  Who was I trying to kid? Am I a sensible make-ahead-breakfast person? I finally got around to trying the egg-white concoction this morning. I shook the carton, poured the whites into a sprayed casserole dish, sprinkled some onion powder on them (not wanting to ruin good vegetables in case this was a bust), and baked the runny, gross-looking mess for 30 minutes. The top was white and the insides mushy, so I baked it for 10 minutes more.  I took it out – the top was a golden yellow, the sides were a bit crisp, and the thing cut neatly into 4.

I ate one for breakfast this morning, with a Laughing Cow Light Swiss Triangle melted over it. I must say, it was yummy and satisfying. Gotta hand it to Pixie!

Then, three weeks in, the meeting leader said “you can’t just eat all the fruit you want. After about three or so, you have to start counting the points.”  What was that all about? There was no three-fruit caveat when I paid my monthly fee. What a ripoff. This was pointless – or more accurately point-full.

I track points online – and when I recorded fruit, it always came up as zero.  There is what we call in the software business an “undocumented feature.”  If you use “recipe builder” and pretend you are using a large banana in a recipe, the total recipe points will increase by 3. Therefore, you need to add 3 points if you are having that extra banana. A small apple is a relative bargain at 1 point.

The topic came up again at this week’s meeting. The newcomers, similarly duped, asked why fruit isn’t a “free food.” The leader told us “You have a choice. Are you in it to game the system? Or do you want to lose weight?”  I have to admit, she had a point.  Or 3.

“Is something wrong?” David asked.  He knows I’m not one of those fussy, picky eaters who have to examine each morsel.

“Shh, I am counting walnuts,” I said. “There are 10 walnut halves in this salad. I think I can have some Popcorners.”

Though we had spent hours walking the boardwalk in 100-degree weather, the fact remained that 10 walnut halves were “4 points” (I knew this because I use the Weight Watchers® mobile site on my Blackberry and spent the day looking things up) and a bag of Popcorners (which I had never heard of, but apparently Weight Watchers® did) was also “4 points.” I ate the walnuts and only half a bag of the Popcorners.  In the still of the night, after traveling an hour to pick up my son and while making the long drive home, the rest of the Popcorners, one by one, found their way out of the bag and into my mouth.

If I were playing by my old rules, things eaten in pitch blackness would not count. But I had committed to tracking every morsel that went in my mouth. So, I pulled out my Blackberry to record the covert snack indulgence ….. and my Blackberry was out of power.  What to do? What to do?   The next day, I logged into my computer…..oh, that happy feeling of a new day….filled with promise and all new POINTS….how I love those POINTS.   Not only was it a new day—it was a NEW WEEK.  I knew if I didn’t up the Popcorner quantity from the previous day I would be obsessing about it.  So I scrolled back in time and owned up to my indulgence.

“What’s going on?” asked David.

“I’m looking for my weigh-in pants.”

“Your what?”

Yes, I have a weigh-in ritual. I need to wear the exact same pants and top each time I weigh in, and I use the same scale every week.  The scales are in tenths of a pound after all. I do not wear earrings and I take my glasses off to weigh in. I don’t wash my hair because wet hair (especially all of mine) is bound to add some weight. I don’t eat anything that will bulk me up on Saturday evening, and I pray to the  bowel movement gods that things will “move” before the weigh-in. BM’s are the new post-menopausal equivalent of periods in terms of weigh-in day.

Sure enough, I never found my lucky pants. Instead, I wore the lightest weight pair of shorts in my closet, though they were rumpled and not the least bit flattering, and figured what the hell, I might as well wear a tee-shirt and not my typical weigh-in shirt. I went, with my dirty-but-dry hair, my ugly shorts, and my earring-less earlobes (and I’ll spare you the BM status), sure this would be a weigh-in disaster.  I lost a teeny amount. So next week, I am hoping for a big loss – especially since I am getting my hair cut on Wednesday!

Several weeks ago I walked back into Weight Watchers® (again), with my bag of membership booklets, and – they took me back! They had my whole history in that computer (oh the shame), they gave me a gold lifetime membership booklet, and they crossed out all the depressing numbers with a thick black marker so as not to de-motivate me. The program has gone through many changes, but some things have remained the same:  paying a fee to have another human being
weigh you for ten seconds once a week works; tracking every odd bite of food you put in your mouth works; and I am a raving lunatic when I am on Weight Watchers®.

In the past, I’ve told no one of my journey. Now I’ve decided to tell everyone.

Notes:

1. This blog is not in any way affiliated with, or an endorsement of, Weight Watchers. WEIGHT
   WATCHERS is the registered trademark of Weight Watchers International, Inc. You can check out their website for more information.
2. You will not find any full-body “before” and “after” pictures of me.  At some point, I will potentially include a shot that goes below my shoulders. And thereafter, I may provide a top-half shot. Eventually you may see me from head-to-knees. My knee-to-toe profile is
   not exciting at all.  Except for a sea of veins that looks like the world map, that region of my body has stayed the same.
3. I am not publishing my weight so don’t ask, nosy.