For some absolutely, positively, ridiculous reason, I allowed myself to be coerced to attend the first of 17 weekly weigh-in diet, fitness rehab meetings in my neighborhood. And, yes, we all had to step on a scale, write our names on cute little tags which hung from mini mason jars and talk about the goals we will each set for ourselves for the SEVENTEEN WEEKS. The mason jars would be kept there, and for every meeting we attend, we will be awarded a plastic gem stone. There are even gemstones given for reporting pounds lost and reaching personal fitness goals. I may just have to accidently
smash drop my cute little jar which is decorated (of course) with a simple strand of twine looped through a brown bag colored tag. We got to keep the weigh-in number secret–see, now there’s something I can jot down in my invisible gratitude journal today.
Joking around–which I think I do best when I am nervous–I said to a friend across from me, “oh, crap, I feel like we are entering rehab, so I guess I better open my purse and take out the M&M’s, pizza and root beer.” Of course, she laughed out loud, and then I received what was a gentle, yet sweet, smille and nudge from a lovely neighbor who quietly pointed out that it was not my turn to “take the floor.” I don’t want to be here. Clearly, I am mortified that I had to be shushed, and now telling myself that this is not a good time to start any sort of fitness program, as I had not yet eaten a HUGE plateful of Fettucine Alfredo (the official food to eat before you surrender).
Okay, so I brought some fruit salad that I had quickly washed, cut up and thrown in a bowl before I left the house. Our hostess was clearly not prepared to serve anything–which only embarrassed me more because I had blatantly assumed we’d be having mimosas or at least coffee while planning our fitness goals for the next SEVENTEEN WEEKS. She did, however, pass out little Ziploc baggies full of popcorn, and as she passed one over to me, I heard her tell me with a smile that it was a 200 calorie serving. All I really wanted to do, was ask her if she had a few more, because no little Ziploc baggie of popcorn has EVER been a satisfying snack for me. So, really why did I even take it? All the other ladies, thanked the hostess for their treat bag and put it away in their purse or next to their coat. Me? Oh, no, I ripped the mutter focker opened and was nervously shoving popcorn in my mouth. At this point, I am an expert in self-humiliation. I should get at least one gem stone for that little success. Truly.
We had to sign in too, and list our names, cell phone numbers and email addresses, and indicate whether or not we have Facebook. One of the diet/fitness idea gurus of the group is going to create a closed Facebook group so she can send us daily inspirational messages while we are on the SEVENTEEN WEEK highway to hell journey. Before leaving, I was rehearsing scenarios in my head. Wondering how the hell to get out of this mutter focken group. How can I do this, without them throwing tomatoes at my house? I was even considering divulging about my secret disease and hoping there was a way to tell the group that I could not eat lower than a 4,000 calorie per day diet because of it. I chickened out on that idea. Put my coat on to cover up my fat ass and I was out of there. Yes, I got in my car and drove home, and waved to the other ladies walking along on the sidewalk who were not lazy enough to drive there.
Ever since I got back home, I seem to have developed this weird twitch-like tremor in my left index finger (why is it called ‘index finger’ anyway). I’m wondering if the meeting made me so nervous that I’ve acquired a tic. There, if that is in fact the reason for it, then I will have to get a doctors’ note to excuse myself from the SEVENTEEN WEEK diet group. Oh, a 17 week plan was chosen because: a.) that’s when our hostess’s husband returns from deployment; b.) it ends the last full week before everyone starts PCS’ing out of here; and c.) the pool opens at the end of the SEVENTEENTH week, silly.