OK, so apparently the WW Cheerleader was right. Not that I expected my fat cells to flee like teenagers from household chores. My fat cells and I are life partners. I can't divorce them. My only hope is to kill them off one by one and hope their children don't come back to avenge their parent's death.
But I was good last week. I'm practically living on raw vegetables and food that comes in Weight Watchers boxes. And I'm working out.
So what happened when I stepped on the weekly weigh-in scale today? Up I went. Zero point two pounds.
The intern (I love her and one day I will learn her name) was quick to tell me that it was nothing and that my work outs probably are to blame.
God love her. I've fallen for that old, "muscle weighs more than fat" routine. It's a crutch that led me to stay in double digit sized jeans. My calves alone could feed a small country should I be left there and the only protein in sight. I can't really change that. But I'm not ready to give up.
But get this: in two days, I go on a four-day work trip to Miami-Ft. Lauderdale where booze and dessert and fat-filled entrees will be dangled before me 24-7. I'm determined to work out, but I don't know if I can stay on the straight and narrow. If I know me, I'll at least spend a moment or two on the curved and pudgy. I might even visit the crooked and bloated.
But I'll try.
Wish me luck. They have raw vegetables in South Florida, don't they?