Me and My Friend, Jenny

I just left my Jenny Craig appointment. Yes, I admit it -- I called Jenny. I am happy to announce that after six weeks, I have dropped 9.8 pounds. I am only one pound away from my half-way mark. So, touch me! No, on second thought, you’d better wait another six weeks before you do that.

The fun thing about going into a weight-loss center is you get to stand before someone else who is holding you accountable for every pound you lose or gain. (Surely you knew that when I said “fun” I was being sarcastic, right?) And we all know how tricky scales can be. Plus, they don’t make allowances for your clothes, which I feel is wrong. When you’re dealing with percentages of pounds, even the added weight of your bra’s underwire could tip the scale against your favor. And they won’t let us weigh in the nude -- I asked.

So, I go in there every week, first thing in the morning, wearing no jewelry and as little clothing as I can get away with (and yes, that means no underwire) to tell Evette how my week has been. I know that many people think accountability is one of the keys to weight loss. If you down a bag of Chex Mix while hiding in the pantry and then have to turn around and confess that to someone the next day, you may be less likely to partake of the secret Chex Mix binge. Or if you promise your counselor that you will work out every day of the week, and yet you only get in three days worth of activity (because you know that lifting the remote with one hand while shoveling Pringles in your mouth with the other does not constitute exercise), then you have to look her in the eye and fess up to your failure.

I, however, am a very good liar. So, I don’t really get anything out of that part of the program.

What works for me is the knowledge that every time I go in there, the lobby will be full of other woman who are “on the program.”And everyone is surreptitiously sizing each other up (ha-ha, pun intended). I try and stand up real tall and suck in as much of my excess as I can in the hopes that all who see me will whisper amongst themselves, “What is that stunningly thin woman doing here? Oh, surely she must be the next Jenny Craig celebrity spokesperson!”

Because we all fear that the other women are actually thinking, “Oh, yeah, it’s a damn good thing she called Jenny. Look at the Pringles crumbs still clinging to her chins! Bless her congealed artery-clogged heart...”

So, I am feeling a bit better about myself theses day. However, I have discovered something disturbing about my weight-loss journey this time around. No matter how much weight I lose, or how often I work out, there is an unsettling amount of squishy skin lingering around my tummy. For this, I blame my children. If they hadn’t ballooned to nine pounds while in utero, my poor stomach would not have been forced to stretch itself 30 ways to Sunday to accommodate their Amazon baby bodies. Obviously, I should have continued smoking during my pregnancy to reduce their birth weight. Then I wouldn’t be having this problem.

Oh, relax...I’m kidding. I would never condone pregnancy smoking. Pregnancy drinking, however...

Okay, now you’ve got me all off track.

At various times, both L and Z have commented on how squishy my belly is. I know they are not intending to be mean (though at the ages of two and five, they are certainly capable of such), but it is hard to ignore the blatant honesty of a child. JAO knows a hell of a lot better than to ever make such a comment. Especially since L once told him that he looked like he had a baby in his tummy. Hee, hee...he’s going to hate that I shared that.

So, I’m afraid the only hope for my pathetically non-taunt abdomen is the tummy tuck. Though I am in serious doubt that will ever happen. It is not the fear of pain that would deter me. I love narcotics, as I believe I have mentioned before. It is the fear that I will discover there is simply too much of the squishy stuff to successfully tuck. I don’t want to end up with my belly button in the center of my chest and my boobs up around my neck.

Though, I suppose if they were up that far, they would cover up my chins. So, maybe that would be such a bad thing after all.


Side Note: I was informed by my mother last night that I am no longer to refer to her grandson as the “Spawn of Satan.” I asked her if I could at least call him the “Stepson of Satan.” Apparently, that is not acceptable either. So Z will heretofore be known simply as Z. But you will all secretly know his true evil alter-ego. Just don’t tell my mom.