Weight Watchers, take five.

I guess it’s time to eat (hahaha!  pun intended) a little crow.  Last year I said I didn’t want to go back on Weight Watchers.  I talked about how in the past in hadn’t worked for me, at least not long term.  And yet here I am, back on Weight Watchers.

It’s familiar but different.  As before, I need to find a good leader.  I like the Saturday morning person, but I will usually have Bean and that is hard to manage even though Bean tries to be good.  There is a meeting at 6:30 a.m.  I have yet to make it to that one.  The Sunday person seems nice but doesn’t seem to have quite the sense of humor that the Saturday woman does.  And, if anything, this process is going to require a sense of humor.   There are more points and more flexibility.  And yet a number of foodstuffs have more points than they use to so I think it all comes out in the wash.

“Yes, but what changed with you?” you ask. Ugh.  So many things.  And, in the end, what didn’t change is what drove me back.  The weight is still there, figuratively and literally.  My daughter is four years old, and I am still a version of me I never wanted her to see.  I never wanted her to see me struggle with my weight.  I never wanted to infect her with this…this…what do you call it?  A disease?  A compulsion?  A mental illness?  A habit?

No child should ever know, at seven, what “Slim Fast” is.  What ten year old should be on the American Heart Association Diet?  My parents always told me I was pretty with their mouths, but watching them struggle with their health bled into my own fledgling identity. How could it not when being on and off and on these diets was the norm for my family?  So ingrained was this that even in the depths of Alzheimer’s my grandmother was concerned with her weight, refusing to eat anything but chicken breasts and grapefruit.

I do not want to model a life, for my daughter, of being consumed by what I consume.

I KNOW what do to.  I KNOW how to do it.  But doing it?  Actually doing it…the canyon between those things is so wide that I can only trust that others are right when they tell me there is another side.  It is so deep that I can only hope there is a bottom to stop me when I fall.

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5am. Just me and the chickens.

I sincerely hope that you were not also up this early in the morning.  I am, mostly, a morning person, but even 5am is a little early.  I appreciate what people say about getting up before everyone else and getting things done around the house.  Getting a jump on things!  But I have two problems with this idea.   The first is that these folks must live in a house with much better sound proofing than mine.  The second is that I just cannot seem to break through the mental wall that defines everything this side of 6am as just too damn early.  I’m sure it has something to do with having to get up at 4am during my “formative” years to get in the car and get my stepfather to work on time.   But I still don’t have a way around the wall yet.  I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

“So why is she up so early,” you may be asking yourself.

Well, truthfully. I had a dream about my grandparents.  I am unsure whether to classify it as a “dream” or a “nightmare.”  I have dreams like this pretty frequently, but this one was particularly difficult.  In my dream they were both alive.  Their house had been sold, like in real life, and they wanted to go back and have a look.  Though my grandmother was no longer living when the house sold in real life.  It was as if they just hadn’t been around when it sold and so a lot of things were left behind that they never intended to leave behind.  And then the inevitable happens.  One minute I’m holding my grandmother’s hand and arm to help her down some stairs and the next minute I’m awake in my bed and she is gone.  Again.

This part never gets any easier, does it?

Nightmare.