I just bought a scale. I have never owned one. Who the hell buys a scale and starts writing a blog about weight loss in December? December?!?
‘Tis the season of my mom’s kick-ass stuffing, the corn soufflé that I dream about, and latkes frying in a pan that make my house stink for at least three weeks. A time for Starbucks’ Salted Caramel Mochas (which I make myself feel better about by asking for them non-fat), my daughter’s birthday cake, and, oh, so much more. ‘Tis also the season when I opened my pajama drawer and had to reach for the extra large T-shirt because everything else felt just a bit too snug to wear to bed.
This is a problem.
Hi. My name is Robin and I’m overweight. I wouldn’t say that I’m fat, necessarily, but I’ve been lugging an extra 15 (+/-) pounds around for the better part of seven years. To look at my five-foot frame from the ass down, you wouldn’t think I had to lose weight because these are not my problem areas. We’re talking about stomach to forehead, people, and it ain’t pretty.
After my daughter (we’ll call her “O”) was born in 2006, I dove into Weight Watchers and was able to slim down to my high school weight. The feeling of trying on a pair of jeans that were the same size as my seventh grade Z. Cavariccis was nothing short of euphoria. I looked good, felt amazing, and was actually able to wear every single item of clothing in my closet, which is certainly not the case these days.
Once I had hit my goal weight, though, I got lazy and stopped weighing in with my friends at WW. It also happened to be summer and I was down the shore, eating Superstar Banana Fudge Bars on the Ventnor beach like it was my job. Slowly, slowly, the weight crept back on and then—bang—I’m pregnant again.
I viewed pregnancy as my license to be a completely gross pig at all times. Chef Boy-R-Dee? Absolutely. Pints of Ben and Jerry’s? Why not? Gallons of orange juice? Bring it on. An unexplainable hankering for chocolate pudding? There are worse things. And, my absolute low point: the Wendy’s Double Baconator (check out the nutrition info on this bad boy). Whatever! It’s cool; I was pregnant and the baby obviously wanted—nay, needed—all of these things to survive in there. My son (we’ll call him “E”) was born in September 2009 at a whopping eight pounds, seven ounces (you’re welcome for all the nutritious food, big guy) and that was that.
I’ve yo-yo’ed a bit since then but haven’t been able to stick to anything for long enough to make a real dent in my weight. I’ve tried going back to WW but haven’t been able to commit. I joined an obscenely expensive gym for a year and spent the majority of that time expanding my mind by reading Us Weekly while phoning it in on the treadmill. Well worth the money, me thinks.
So … Here I am, sharing my stories and my weight with the world because I am sick of having to reach for the XL pajama shirt. I’m sick of having to wear the same clothes over and over because three-quarters of my closet doesn’t fit and I refuse to buy a new wardrobe to clothe this undesirable body. I’m pretty much just sick of feeling shitty about myself and it’s time to do something about it. “Something” being the following:
• Attend a Weight Watchers meeting every Thursday morning.
• Work out. I’m going to check out a local class each week in an attempt to finally find exercise that I enjoy doing. I’ll be posting pictures, too, which are sure to be attractive.
• Write this weekly blog post so that I can be accountable to all of you instead of just myself because, frankly, I don’t trust me.
Join me here each week to check out my progress via the pretty little Weight Tracker the nice folks here at Philly Mag designed just for me. Our goal, ladies and gentlemen, is 113 lbs—high school fighting weight. I would love to hear some of your stories about struggles with weight loss and how you’ve overcome them. Share recipes with me. Tell me about your favorite exercise classes in the area and maybe I’ll try them out.
A big thank you, in advance, for holding me accountable during this insane little experiment. And when, in a few months, you see a skinny chick strolling down Walnut Street rocking a pair of black Cavariccis, you’ll know it’s me and that it’s okay. Because pleated pants from the 80′s are completely acceptable when they are a size 26.
Robin Raskin blogs about her weight loss journey every Thursday on Be Well Philly. Follow her on Twitter at @RobinRaskin.