I was standing in the queue for the scales today (Thursday is my Day of Ritual Humiliation aka Weigh In) alongside about a dozen other gloomy looking women when I found myself thinking petulantly, “They’re none of them fat! What are they even doing here? That woman’s waist has a smaller circumference than my HEAD!*”
It’s grossly unfair of me. I don’t know any of these women nor their weight histories. Perhaps they have successfully slain their weight loss demons – and hey, look at that, they actually manage to maintain their weight loss by continuing to attend meetings. They haven’t regarded this as a finite process.
Or perhaps they have recently noticed that their jeans are a little tight – they’ve gained, say, half a stone and they want to deal with it now before the half a stone becomes twenty stone and they can’t see their feet anymore.*
Either way, Me gave Me a good dressing down for being small minded.
Then, after a gain (unsurprising given a weekend of debauchery in London – this is one particular gain I am quite happy to own because I enjoyed every single unpointed mouthful) I made the spectacularly daft decision to substitute my planned lunch (Prêt Italian chicken salad = 9 pro points) for a pint of cider with D (= 7 pro points - gah). Although WW advocates eating everything in moderation, I hardly think this is what is known as a sensible meal plan. I now feel more than a little sleepy. And I’ve promised to go to the gym this evening.
In other, slightly more cheerful news, the red cups are back in Starbucks – and people, you know that this means that the countdown to Christmas has officially begun. I’ve yet to have my first (skinny) gingerbread latte of the season but it’s surely imminent…
*Possible exaggeration brought on by scale induced hysteria.