Here poochie, poochie...

I fear I am in serious danger of having a belly so big it will be entering rooms before the rest of me. That's totally acceptable when you are pregnant. I am not and have not been for almost two years. I blame my small breasts, I blame my twin skin (the lovely side effect of the pregnancy), I blame my inability to control my mindless eating fests, I blame my painfully slow metabolism (thanks, mom & dad!), I blame my frickin chronic achilles tendonitis which keeps me from running or even walking small distances. In the end, though, it all points to me and what I've done to my poor body.

So, tail tucked between my legs I head back to Weight Watchers. That is, in fact, someone else's fault. My friend Kristine, who appreciates the absurdity of it all as much as I do, informed me she was going. Having a partner in crime is the only thing that will get me through those doors. I think I resent the meetings because 1.) I already know most of what they're talking about, so meetings feel like a waste of time (it's the follow through I have trouble with), 2.) I had one really spectacular leader and the rest have been minorly irritating, 3.) I'm not really down with the whole rah, rah mentality the meetings seem to embrace, 4.) The people who bring you weight watchers are clearly insane (I rest my case).

I'll post the shockingly horrifying details of my current weight and stats later.

By the way, on Tuesday the stones made it into my car where they sat the entire day. Yesterday they actually made it into the office where they sat virually unnoticed by me the entire day. Apparently they aren't magic pebbles after all. And that whole writing down every little bite? There's some room for improvement there.

Until later.
-m