I started with a big number. Really big. A whopping 268.
Then I started Weight Watchers and going to the fitness center. And all I did was track numbers. Numbers of time I ate each day; the value assigned to each bite of food; the total glasses of water, servings of veggies, healthy oils, servings of dairy.
I weighed all my food to track the precise number of ounces.
I read every label scouring it for the pertinent digits: calories, fat grams, fiber. All that goes into an algorithm — and I don’t even know what the hell that is — and it spits out another number that lets me know whether I can eat it or not. Anything that added flavor or texture changed the numbers, and usually not for the better.
I logged in the amount of time spent on each activity and on each machine.
All of this tracking takes vigilance and planning. It requires tracking of every bite chewed and every sip swallowed. It’s relentless and it’s exhausting and after a while it became a habit.
At the end of each day, my hubby and I would compare numbers: How many points do you have left for dinner? Do you have enough for a glass of wine? Anything left for a low-fat, fake ice cream?
The joy of eating was gone and it was replaced with journals and algebra homework. But all this tracking shit really did a number on me: The number plummeted to 218 in a little over 6 months.
For the last four months, however, I have not been playing the numbers game. I have been eating, and drinking, like a normal person. I overstretched my hamstring in my left leg in a yoga class a few weeks ago and haven’t been to the gym since.
And my clothes, all my new clothes in smaller sizes than I have worn in years, are getting snug.
Today I planned to step on the scale and see how much damage I have done to the numbers. But I haven’t done it yet. Too afraid of the number. But I am about to head into see my good friend, the bathroom scale.
Any fat girl knows the tricks: take off all your clothes, empty your bladder, breathe out, step on, look down.
OK, I just looked. Damn, I’m fat. And Jesus Christ I need a pedicure. Those toes be fugly.
Nine pounds back on.
Not so bad. But I am sick as a dog this week and trying desperately to get back to health before we leave for a long-awaited vacation this Saturday. I’m not thinking about counting any number besides the minutes until we board that plane for a cross-country flight, and how can I jam the most milligrams of Vitamin C into that time span.
Adding rum to the juice does not diminish the Vitamin C, correct? Please tell me that’s correct.
For the next two weeks, I plan to be bad. But not as bad as I used to be. But definitely not playing by the numbers.
