Viewpoint

Weight Watchers and Me

By PEPPER EDMISTON Palisadian-Post Contributor I’ve been in Weight Watchers all my life. My first word was “chocwat” and my first sentence was “more chocwat.” FOOD always has been my best friend, good times and bad. Give birth: celebrate with a basket of Mrs. Beasley’s muffins no one else can touch because I JUST HAD A BABY. Failed marriage: mourn with a two-pound box of See’s candy, mine alone, because I JUST GOT A DIVORCE. But I’m forever breaking up with FOOD, and had to, yet again. Why? Nothing deep. You didn’t expect that, did you? I gave up FOOD this time because I didn’t want to go to my high school reunion in a tent. The very moment I reached that epiphany I was strolling past Mort’s when this sign came into view: “Weight Watchers Meeting-Mondays at Noon.” Karma, emanating from a deli! It was January 2003, and I was raring to go. It was probably the twentieth January in the last 40 years that I signed on to Weight Watchers, but I was like a virgin, yet again. And I wasn’t alone. The beginning of the year for Weight Watchers compares with the week before Christmas for the retail business: standing room only. The Oak Room was packed with the standard range of members, from teeny, tiny, neat women needing to shed those three holiday pounds to large ladies grateful for the proliferation of Big Gal Boutiques. By the way, I love Lane Bryant, where a girl wears a single-digit 1, 2 or 3, not a 16, 18 or 20. Lane Bryant is all heart. So, there we were, 75 hopeful women and two miserable men, stuffed into Mort’s back room. We were every color and age. We were every religion and political persuasion. We were single, married, nursing and menopausal. We were housekeepers, gymnasts and agents. But the common thread uniting us dwarfed our differences: we were all too fat. Did we think we were in the slightly fading banquet room of a local eatery? No way! We were in a house of worship, listening to a high priestess reveal the secrets of the Holy Grail. Whether our guru had passed the 6th grade or not was irrelevant. Nothing mattered but this: she had lost 60 pounds! Miracle of miracles. If Elvis himself walked into the back room, heads would not have turned. After all, he couldn’t keep his weight off, either. But our leader would show us the way. “Use mustard instead of salad dressing.” “Oooooooh.” “Put your fork down between bites.” “Ahhhhhhh.” “A tomato is counted as a fruit.” “Reeeeeeally.” I attended Weight Watchers religiously for six months. During that time I heard a few interesting revelations, along the order of “My friends are jealous of me because I’m getting thinner.” Nothing in the league of Barbara Walters’ confessionals because the interior life was unimportant. There was only one thing that counted in the Oak Room at Mort’s on Monday. It was stepping on the little spring scale, watching the numbers on the screen jump around like images in a slot machine and see them land on a lower number than last week’s roll. Preparing for weighing-in took lots of concentration. One must remember to pluck one’s eyebrows, shave everywhere and not wear makeup. One can’t use deodorant, lotions or cream hair rinse. One must floss well. Finally, one must wear the lightest clothing possible, and, before stepping on the scale, remove all jewelry, socks, shoes and teeth. I once asked if I could weigh-in wearing undies while someone held up a towel, but was refused. Following the program might also contribute to weight loss. Well, it worked. I went down 25 pounds and did not humiliate myself at my reunion. Figure-wise, I looked like I was in the top 75 percent of my class, just like my scholastic ranking. That was in June. Then came summer, my birthday, a vacation, Thanksgiving. You know how it goes. I fell off the old food cart. But, hey, it’s January again. A new year, a new start, a new goal. So, if you need to get in touch, wander on over to Mort’s Oak Room any Monday at noon, and there I’ll be, dressed in a nylon jumpsuit.