About three years ago, my friend Leslie and I went to a Weight Watcher’s meeting in downtown Seattle. This was a poor decision because it was right before Thanksgiving and the bulk of the meeting focused on what we weren’t going to eat. The room was packed with women slipping off their shoes and stepping on the scale and then congratulating each other on that week’s total. It looked like the entire Oprah audience decided to leave the studio and fill a Weight Watcher’s meeting.
A woman with tightly drawn red lips passed around paper plates, instructing us to list what we were going to eat. I went to town in my circle, writing mostly ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, ham and some more ham. Then Miss Lips said that we were going to count up how many points we had based on our food. I stopped listening after someone asked how many points were given for gravy and she said, “Gravy? Don’t even think about it.”
I flipped the plate over and drew a weepy frown where real food should have been.
That was the first and only time I have ever attended a Weight Watcher’s meeting. Now, three years later, I still get stalkerish mail from WW like brightly colored postcards with a sweaty woman smiling as she holds an eight-pound dumbbell in one hand and her unattainable idea of beauty in the other. (Because unrealistic notions of what a woman’s body should look like have no points whatsoever.)
These mailings have always printed the same phrase: “Dear Mona, we haven’t forgotten about you!” Lately, they’ve taken a darker bent, moving from, “Come on Mona, give us a call,” to “Still fat, Mona? We’re not! How do those pre-pregnancy pants fit? They don’t? That’s too bad. We’ve enclosed a tissue to wipe those tears. Remember, tears are five points!”
Yesterday as I was driving, I realized that I had been sitting on my phone. When I got home, I looked at the screen and it said, “NOT IN SERVICE.” My phone couldn’t pick up a signal from under my ass. I’ve been able to make calls in tunnels and parking garages, but not from the dark depths of my junk in the trunk. There are few things in life more embarrassing than contemplating, “How big is my ass that a call from under it would include roaming charges?”
Seriously, how much area is there? What does this information do to my measurements? What am I now? 36-24-48-contiguous-states?
And writing all this has made me hungry.