How in the crap have I been doing WTFWs for eight weeks already?! It feels like just yesterday that I chose to make my bitching a weekly, written thing (I had to distinguish written from spoken, because I vocalize my rants hourly).
Time flies when you’re being a bitch.
Today, my post is going to contain a lot of choice words. Brace yourself. Delicate flowers, you might want to go watch a cat video.
Today is about the “Realization”. You know, when you finally realize you really can have too many cupcakes.
Sometimes, it takes a lot. Sometimes, it takes getting into your car, in a pair of work pants that you haven’t worn in eons, and, as you squeeze into your seat, the button barely holding your pants closed, pops off and pings and ricochets off of every hard surface in your car, before it hits you in the eye, and finally, comes to rest in your fat crotch.
Yes, this actually happened. Except, not to me (my Realization came in the form of a student being concerned about me falling on my belly, because, naturally, it’s got a baby growing in it. That’s why it looks the way it does. FML). It happened to my naturally thin, kick-boxing-obsessed boyfriend after we both gained our happy-to-not-be-in-the-dating-scene-anymore-weight.
After he almost lost an eye to a Dockers Relaxed Comfort button, he thought about losing some weight. And, I shit you not, that’s all it took for him to go back to his Glory Days weight (watch for this to be a WTF Wednesdays rant. Men, the fuckers).
Since I’m not a man, and my body hasn’t magically become a specimen of superhuman genetics, all of my cupcake eating has resulted in some added cushion.
I’ve resorted to, again, getting on the Weight Watchers bandwagon.
Years ago, I was super successful with WW, and lost damn near 50 pounds. I kept it off for close to four years doing the program off and on, and being somewhat resonable with food.
Lately, all semblance of reason has gone out the window. Like, thrown out the window with my good arm.
Thus, why I found myself on Saturday night, paying for three months of WW, while crying into a large Dairy Queen Reese’s Extreme Blizzard (just typing that, I’m fucking salivating and in heat).
This first week I’m treating as a weaning period. Also, I just need some practice not eating everything in sight and I need fair warning for how much I’m going to be starving and dreaming of cake.
The reason I loved Weight Watchers before was that I never felt truly deprived. Yes, my better-part-of-a-half-gallon-of-ice-cream-binges had to stop, but I still got to enjoy the occasional thimble-full of my favorite frozen treat.
I’ve heard that “the fatties are in an uproar” over the new Weight Watchers points system, because it’s very restrictive.
It’s only Tuesday, and I can confidently say, this Fatty is not happy. I’ll be positively starving on the new SmartPoints plan. It’s as restrictive as my no-longer-elastic bra strap.
Here’s what sucks so far:
1. 12 tortilla chips are now five points, instead of three. Salsa and chips are now dead to me.
2. TWO FUCKING TABLESPOONS of my favorite coconut cream creamer are three points. Now, I definitely can’t put my usual half cup into my English Breakfast. My mornings are ruined.
3. This is SEVEN SHITTY POINTS:
These taste like fruit strudel. And, there’s frosting on top. But, these are no good to me anymore. I won’t be wasting seven whole points on a tiny fruit bar that I can down in two bites. R.I.P.
4. The cream cheese chicken chili we are planning for dinner tomorrow will probably be 567 points, without the tortilla chips (I’m too scared to calculate it, so that’s just a rough estimate).
5. And, this:
I.can’t.even. That’s practically half of the points I’m allowed in an entire day.
I might as well just each dirt, or kale, they both taste the fucking same.