One month. Five pounds. End of story.
Okay… I suppose I can't be THAT brief, now can I?
I have joined Weight Watchers at three distinct points in my life (no pun intended there, uh, with the points reference. Man, I am just FULL of them today! Puns, that is, not points. Believe me… I'm so NOT full. And apparently, I'm going to be on a roll with the parenthetical statements, as well).
Three times. First, after Cole was born and I wanted to lose weight. And let me tell you this: thanks to OCD and smoking, it was a cake walk to lose the weight (not literally… you know, I actually AVOIDED cake, right?)
The second time was after I'd quit smoking and decided enough was enough, Willie Ames! I'm going to get in shape for the Crowded House Concert. And it was so.
Which brings us to today.
Now each time I've done WW, one thing as been fairly consistent, at least for the first three months each time: i've lost weight with each weekly weigh in. Every single time. Except for this past Saturday.
Now, here's how we do it: we don't weigh ourselves every day. We know all about fluctuations, water retention, demonic weight-bestowing overlords that live in the base of my spine, etc. Saturday is my only day, the day I step on my temperamental Homedics scale and sow the seeds or fruits (low points!) of my labor.
And this Saturday? Up one pound from last Saturday.
I know what you're thinking: shouldn't have eaten ALL THOSE EXTRA POINTS, CATH!
But the thing is, I didn't. I stayed the course, 1,000 points of light. (Well, actually, only 22 daily points, but you know what I mean.)
My point? One month, and five net pounds.
Has it been easy? No. Have I felt hungry? Not really. Have I been exercising? Every single day since Jan. 3.
It's going to be trickier at 42-7/8.
And there, gentle blog readers, is installment one of True Life Tales from the Scale.