"Cuhhcakesss..." Ricardo said, in that gay Cubanish drawl that will remind me of Hank Azaria in The Birdcage
for all time even though I saw that movie once and didn't even like it. "Cuhhcakesss are all abow feelinksss."
It is my fate to sit in the back of whatever classroom I find myself in and never speak. This does not prevent teachers, professors, priests, magicians, and Weight Watchers group meeting leaders from looking me in the eyes and speaking directly to me as though they are ghosts and I am the only medium able to channel their desperate unfinished business to the corporeal world.
"No, I'm sssseriousss. Cuhcakesss are nah abow nutrishio! Cuhcakesss are all abow pleaashurrr! Now I gonna tell you how I make frensh toess for two poinsss."
I joined Weight Watchers a little over a week ago because the results of my very rigorous 25 year experiment in social perception finally came in from the lab and, as it turns out, controlling for all other factors in a highly scientific manner, boys don't like you for your brains. I tried to keep Weight Watchers a secret, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to turn down drinks and takeout without an explanation that isn't "I don't have any points left for today. Want to see the four books I have to carry around to figure out the value of every piece of food I put in my face?"
NB: I will slit your throat (with glee..with so much
glee) if you talk to me about this in person, because your reaction is going to be stupid no matter what it is. Either you're going to go all Up with People and say I don't need to join and I'm fine the way I am, in which case fuck you, you've probably made out with someone in the last five years and therefore have no right to talk, or you're going to be all supportive and proud of me, in which case fuck you, you've been pitying me for as long as I've known you and you can kiss my entire ass.
The other reason I think it's necessary to come clean is because I think one of my bosses may suspect I'm in AA, although the idea of discussing weight loss at work is so cringe-inducing I think maybe I'd rather she thought I was a lush. I was really evasive about having a weekly meeting I had to go to after work and I'm concerned she's going to start checking my desk for single-serving bottles of Wild Turkey.
But it's too good. Ricardo is too good not to write about (seriously, I love him), and the same goes for the clique of chatty Cathies whose incessant group participation was about as melodic and informative as a troupe of yodeling walruses.
It was equally difficult to decide what to call this, and rejected titles included:
Waiting to Inhale
Diary of a Mad Fat Hipster
Fuck You, You Fucking Skinny Bitches
Let Them Eat Rice Cake
The Fat Album
The Pounds and the Fury
lolfats / I Cant Has Cheezburger
Aside from deciding on the succinct "Waisted," I'm working on this theory that every q&a session ever held--particularly meetings of a support nature--had at least one mouth-breathing, quip-rehearsing, Second-Life-playing, cheese-scented former Play-doh eater who will talk and talk and talk until they are basically performing the keynote speech Asshole U graduation. I don't want to hear your recipes, I don't care about your personal triumphs, your story isn't going anywhere, and I wouldn't go around bragging that your boyfriend buys you a present every time you lose ten pounds.
If my theoretical boyfriend tried to reward me into losing weight, the Make a Wish Foundation would be theoretically taking him to Disneyworld and wheeling him to the front of the line for Space Mountain.
Anyway, I did lose weight this week and it wasn't too painful, and soon I'll be so skinny I'll be getting dates left and right but secretly resenting every boy because they wouldn't have looked at me when I was fat. Can't wait!