Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to buy those 2 for $4 potato chips.
I say this with some authority because I just had a couple of them kick my butt. They tag-teamed me and knocked me flat to the mat. Stomped me a couple of times for good measure.
Not my fault. I was totally out-muscled.
Dang.
I’ve been such a happy little Weight Watcher for several months now. Slow but sure. Pokey poking my way down almost 20 pounds.
I’ve even managed to keep losing in spite of The Foot Surgery (and loooooong convalescence) AND The Lowden House Project (not to be confused with The Blair Witch Project)…the kind of challenges which generally set me up for an almost religious belief that I deserve all things high fat and high calorie in copious quantities.
Every so often, though, there’s this leetle neurotransmitter twitch that plays me a happy song…something about tomorrow always being better than today when it comes to healthy eating and exercise. It actually sounds a little (a LOT) like a drug addict who says he wants to quit tomorrow.
That “This is the LAST time I’ll do this” gymnastic hop over the truth. As if overeating today will make me stronger to not overeat tomorrow. The mythology of that one last, perfect binge that will end all temptation.
The Last Meal Syndrome.
Have anything you want right now because tomorrow you’re going to wake up a completely different person and never, ever, ever do that again.
In my own defense, Mom (who is also doing WW) made me promise (against my will) to watch Biggest Loser. Turns out, nothing makes me hungrier for a potato chip or two than watching a bunch of really fat people sweat gallons and show their off their gynormous bellybuttons and manboobs.
Sigh.
Ok. But here’s what’s different this time. I’m going to my WW meeting tonight. Knowing that I’ve gained weight. Hat in hand. Admitting the Truth that I need help as much, if not more, than the first day I walked in.
Even though I’m not the Biggest Loser. That today I might even be the Biggest Gainer.
Old Cherie wouldn’t do this, you understand. Old Cherie would say…I screwed up TOO bad…it’s too much…I can’t handle it…and I’m not going back this week. I just can’t face that scale. Then I’d add another bad week to this bad week. Then another. And the next thing you know, I’d be OUTTY.
And then, next thing you know after that, it would be somewhere around March, 2010, and I’d have gained all my weight back and then some.
New Cherie says…Ok. I suck at this. Maybe I can do better.
New Cherie is going to hit the gym, go to my meeting and stay away from the potato chip aisle.
Take THAT you stinkin’ little Twofer…