February 6, 2012

Notes from the Boobal Region

Today I hit the two week mark on my new diet, lifestyle, imprisonment, mere existence. I have lost eight and a half pounds, which I celebrate because last week I lived in an assisted living facility with my parents. The facility had a fixed menu, and my mother’s failing health added a twist of stress.
The best aspect about this particular plan is that I am not hungry. It is similar to a diabetic diet, and the plan stresses eating six times a day, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and three healthy snacks. As someone who works at home, grazing is a concept I totally get. (Except I wasn’t grazing on celery sticks and yogurt dip, I was grazing on frosted sugar cookies and Coca-Cola.) If I eat what I’m supposed to eat, I’m not ravenously hungry. That’s improvement.
It took me a long time to gain the weight so I know it will take a long time to go off. I also have the metabolism of a miniature snail; I’m planning to walk with a friend several times a week when it gets warmer. I continue taking water aerobics classes three times a week.
As far as my body goes, I’ve noticed a slight change in the boobal regions.
My cuppeths no longer overfloweth.
While I compare my sturdy rack with that of the Green Lady in New York harbor, I do admit the girls weigh me down. How can Lady Liberty hold up her giant bazongas as well as that huge torch? My shoulders and upper back would really hurt.
I will know I have achieved success when I can buy a bra instead of a “brassiere.” If you don’t know the difference, think back to your childhood and remember Great Aunt Mabel who enveloped you in bosoms at every family reunion.
That’s what I’m talkin’ bout, Willis.

Getting weighed at the center is the worst aspect of the new lifestyle. Today I went in for my weigh-in, carefully planning to wear my summer Reeboks instead of heavy leather shoes. One cannot game the system too much.

I hate going in there. Immediately, its high school and I’m the fat, nerdy girl from the newspaper staff who is interviewing the head cheerleader. (I really did that once, God help me, and I have the clip called “Do Stereotypes Exploit Cheerleaders.” Yeah, we were still using Up Style in headlines, and gluing stories on paper with wax. Raise your X-acto knives in solidarity if you know what I’m talking about here.)
The women in the lobby, waiting to be weighed, would be anorexic of they just took off scarves and jewelry. All of them seem to know each other, and none of them know me. They hang around and jingle jangle jingle and pontificate on how much weight they have to lose. It is always seven pounds. All of them just need to lose “seven pounds.”
Just for effect, next time I’m going to take my pica pole (yeah, I still have it) and whack a couple of them on the head to shake some sense into them.
If I could just lose seven pounds, Muffy, then I can wear those white pants on the cruise to Antigua.
Muffy and Buffy and Cindy and Googie eventually all got weighed, and ran in circles screaming in delight over their mutual successes, and got into their white Lexus SUVs and drove away.
My little toe weighs seven pounds. I waited my turn, all the time observing behaviors for my best-selling future book, “My Ass Used to Weigh a Ton.”