I dare not turn this into a diet blog. Not only will it bore anyone reading, it will depress the holy bejeebus out of me. Who needs a record of my miserable lack of willpower and my unending need for doritos lathered with hommous and Red Bull Cola. Oh God, I’m drooling already.
Anyways… I joined the dreaded WW on Monday. As in Weight Watchers. Sigh. New year, new start, blah blah blah. It’s on near work at lunchtime which is rather handy but means that my stomach growled handsomely the entire way through the meeting. This in turn set off the stomachs of anyone within five feet of me, giving me a contagious fit of the giggles and making me miss the whole POINT of the meeting entirely.
The really horrible part of the class is, of course, the weigh in. I hadn’t weighed myself in a good three months, instead preferring to go by clothes sizes – the logic being: if they’re not bet on to me, I must be doing ok. Unfortunately this mightn’t have been the best idea as I got a rather unpleasant shock on the scales. Kate Moss I am not but… that weight? Really? Sheeeeeeet. The perky instructer didn’t seem too put out though as she gleefully wrote down my weight on a card and sent me on my merry way, bottom lip wobbling precariously.
Next week we have to attend the meeting wearing the same clothes to keep an accurate measure of our weight. I wish I’d known that before I went last week, wearing 10 layers (they’re fashionable, ya know) and winter boots. I won’t make the same mistake next time though – I’m going nekkid. She’ll never notice, right?
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