I'm working my program at Weight Watchers, as you may know. I say "working my program" because that's the way they say it at Alcoholics Anonymous and other addiction programs. I've never been to AA, but I know enough from pop culture to see the similarities. We show up for our meetings every week (more often if you're really struggling), tell our personal tales, get stickers and trinkets for passing milestones. I'm ok with the analogy.
So I'm working my program, tracking everything, using the motivational tools. But I have a dirty little secret. My secret is the junk I eat on the way home from work when I'm stressed or upset.
You can find the evidence of my secret in my car. The garbage in my car at the end of the week tells the complete story of how bad my mood has been. This week you would find a KING SIZE Reese's wrapper and a bag from Sonic (with clearly visible tater tot residue).
When I stopped at the grocery store Tuesday, the thought of an illicit REGULAR-SIZED Reese's was just not enough. I had to have the double shot, please, and I ate it before I was even out of the parking lot. The tots-urge hit me today. I actually have oven tots at home, but my mood wouldn't tolerate the delay.
According to my program I should take this time to examine what is behind the transgressions and implement new coping mechanisms. The truth is I don't understand the connection between a monumentally shitty day (year) at work and craving junk food. I just wanted to start by making my confession and exposing my hiding place. If you're ever in my car, please insist on examining my garbage.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Image via WikipediaI went to the doctor today. I haven't been in months because I kept canceling appointments. Pretty much from June-December I pretended I didn't have diabetes. Now I guess I'm reaping that foolishness. I told the doc, "I'm going to Weight Watchers, I'm back on track, I still believe I can do this on my own."
My doctor, always supportive but frank, said, "What is your goal?" I told him my goal is to lose 50 lbs by this fall.
"That is a good goal, but only you can hold you accountable for it," he said. "You have to have a goal and a plan, but when a plan doesn't work out, you have a Plan B. Plan A is preferable, but if you don't reach your goal with Plan A, you move on to the backup plan. This is not a threat, but it is your second-best option. You have a progressive disease and you have been here since 2008 without much improvement."
My doctor is not gruff or callous. But he is frank. Maybe you can't guess what Plan B is, but I bet most of you can. We'll talk about that another time. For now, the focus is on giving Plan A one last shot, with every form of support in my arsenal: Weight Watchers, nutritionist, therapist, running for a treadmill, weight lifting, medication. Like I told Nick earlier, this is every technique short of moving to the Biggest Loser Ranch. If Plan A doesn't work for me under these circumstances, it doesn't have a chance.
So here we are, answering the phone for the wake-up call. 239 days to lose 54.6 lbs. or else we move ahead with Plan B to save my pancreas, my heart, my nerves, my arteries, my old age.