Okay, I’ll admit I was one of those who cringed just a little at Oprah’s Weight Watchers ad this week, where she bared her soul.
“Inside every overweight woman is a woman she knows she can be.”
Yeesh. Painting weight loss as a panacea for self image issues rubs me the wrong way. I’ve been a member of Weight Watchers for a while. I’ve gone to the weekly meetings. I know both weight loss and self-esteem are more complex issues than a one minute spot can capture.
But it’s not Oprah’s vulnerability that is getting some people getting riled up.
Why do I care? I’m kind of a Weight Watcher’s groupie. Over the course of my first year with the program, I lost seventeen pounds, reached my goal weight, and became a devotee.
I got off the scale the other morning and let everyone know I’m carrying around an extra six pounds.
“That’s like a whole baby,” I said.
“Not one of our babies,” Mike said. “Maybe a good sized house cat.”
If a shoe had been handy, I’d have thrown it at him. I’m not into cats.
I’ve rarely had any kind of problem with my weight, other than that time during my teens where I wished my thighs wouldn’t brush together and bunch up my gym shorts when I ran laps in PE.
Still, around here, I’m the designated person in charge of everybody’s diet and exercise regimen. The boys need regular prodding and reminders to eat properly in order to keep from turning into puddles of goo. Mike’s a total grouch if he doesn’t take care of himself. This ends up being my problem by virtue of my bossiness and the preference I have for not living with crabby slugs.