As I mentioned at the end of my last post, The Princess has sprouted her first tooth. It appeared to my complete surprise. I hadn’t connected the drooling, the munching on toys, munching on my shoulder or anything she coud find to munch on, to teething. I thought she was way too young. But on Wednesday, sure enough, we saw a tiny white thing pushing through her lower gums. And then this morning, lo and behold, a sister tooth appeared right next door! She sure is in a hurry, this little one. Ironically, as Mother Nature prepares The Princess for her introduction to solid food, her Mommy is, for trillionth time, re-analysing her relationship with food. Not because she wants to but because a clinically diagnosable addition to shortcake Tumbles has pushed her weight into the SUPER SCARY zone.
This is a zone I could only abide being in whilst carrying another being in my uterus. For my non-pregnant self, it’s simply an unacceptable place to be. And so I took myself off to Weight Watchers on Tuesday – the Australian-born answer to global weight loss. I was not the only one feeling fat and wanting to do something about it. Women were queueing out the door of this Weight Watchers meeting – fat, seemingly thin, clinically obese, average – women of all shapes and sizes were there. As I neared the front of the queue, I began de-robing. I didn’t want even 100 extra grams to show up on that scale – I removed my fleece (yes, I very occasionally go out in public in the clothing equivalent of a pair of Crocs and yes I do know that fleeces are one of the biggest fashion faux pas ever to hit the streets but they are just so warm, snuggly and comfy and when you’re having a fat day…Sigh. Having said that, there is never an excuse to don a pair of Crocs. Not for comfort, not for anything!). Anyway, so I removed this embarrassing article of clothing lest it add 50g to my weight. I removed my watch. I removed my jewellery. I removed my hair-clip. Sh*t, I would’ve stripped naked if I could – and I removed my shoes. When I got to the front of the queue I took the deepest breath I could muster and climbed on the scale in my socks.
“We weigh with SHOES ON!” screeched the Group Leader in what sounded like horror??, when she looked down and saw me standing on the scale in my socks.
From her reaction, you’d think I’d really just stripped naked instead of simply taking off my very large, very heavy seeming, takkies. (I was already wearing a fleece so I decided the outfit couldn’t get any worse and I threw on a pair of running shoes that morning).
Seriously, weighing oneself with shoes on? Who ever heard of something so ridiculous? Shoes must weigh at least half a kilogram.
And they do! I know this because Ms Group Leader made me put them back on and get on the scale again. A whole 400g of shoes! Who wants to weigh 0.4kg extra? I don’t care if you can mentally deduct the 0.4kg in your head, don’t they understand that the number that pops up on the scale can by psychologically damaging to a girl? What’s more, half the chicks were wearing long boots and those puppies must weigh a ton. I swear, next week I’m taking a pair of those little R20 flip flops you get when you have your nails done and I’m stepping on the scale in those.
“We weigh with shoes on for hygienic reasons,” said Ms Group Leader. And then it dawned on me. Some Australian probably sued Weight Watchers way back when bare feet were allowed on the scale. She probably picked up some gross toe fungus and needed someone to blame.
Anyway, with or without shoes my scary number needs to come way down. Of course I spent Tuesday eating all the yummies things I could find, thinking “Diet starts tomorrow!!” and on Wednesday the fun began – writing down everything you eat, tallying up your points, adding your bonus points for exercise. The whole thing actually appeals to my analytical side.
As of tonight I am four days in and so far so good. I haven’t had a shortcake Tumble in… yes, it’s also only four days. But four days of dieting always feels like four years of normal life…And tomorrow we have lunch at the neighbours and they’re half Italian so things could get messy… Wish me luck. Only like 10 odd kilos still to go. Oh God.