As I’m sure you recall, it’s been about a year since I hit my Weight Watchers goal. A weight I was able to maintain for about a minute and a half, or (not coincidentally) the same amount of time it took me to drive straight to Taco Bell and reward myself with a Doritos Locos Taco. Three Doritos Locos Tacos.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m still far from where I started. But over the past year I’ve put on about eight of the pounds I worked so hard to take off.
Actually, it was a lot quicker than over the past year. I wish I could say it crept up slowly, the result of a slice of pumpkin pie here and an entire gallon of French Silk ice cream there. But no, sadly, after sixteen weeks of starving myself half to death out of fear of the weekly weigh in, I pretty much went hog freaking wild the first week after I hit my goal and eight pounds rushed straight to my mid-section in about five days.
And don’t you dare tell me that you lost a whole mess of weight on Weight Watchers and never felt hungry. I learned the hard way that’s one of those lies people tell you when they want to feel superior. Like “labor doesn’t hurt that bad – it feels a lot like menstrual cramps”, or “of course my STD tests came back negative.” Let me tell ya, this girl is smarter than she looks and I’m not falling for it anymore. I even got the WW “breastfeeding special” – 14 more points a day to compensate for feeding another person with my boobs and I was STILL ravenous.
So anyhoo, there I was, a week after my weigh in, standing on my scale at home, telling myself that I would slowly, but surely, take off that extra eight pounds over the course of a few weeks.
A year later and they still wish me a good morning every day I put on my jeans.
I get it – it’s simple math. Burn more calories than you take in and you’re going to lose weight. It worked for me, it works for everyone.
The problem is… I just don’t want to.
Maybe this is the lazy loser in me rearing its ugly head (as it does the majority of the time), but I think I’m okay with that. I don’t feel guilty about eating an extra piece of cake at birthday parties, and every once in a while I make a Starbucks run without having to first calculate how many bonus points I’ve accumulated this week by using lemon juice instead of salad dressing on my spinach and fresh air salad.
I mean, I’m not going to allow myself to get to a point where people ask me when I’m due or feel it’s necessary to buy the entire row when I fly. I work out three or four times a week, one of those usually being a run of 3-5 miles. I’m just saying that for now I see myself in the mirror and think, “meh… could be worse”, shrug my shoulders, and keep on walkin’.
Besides, my stomach is jacked up something fierce and I’ve been working some blogging side jobs to save up for plastic surgery anyway.
Nip and tuck, baby. Nip and tuck.