Day 94: Shooting Up with Self-Sabotage.

You can hide, but you can't run.

No, even if you've managed to pretend they were gone, your self-destructive tendencies are always right there, waiting, anxious for an opportunity to reemerge. Unfortunately, that opportunity goes hand in hand with feeling lonely (tough to avoid) and being happy ("potentially happy" will do in a pinch).

I've always considered myself to be a master of self-sabotage, a true aficionado who elevates the practice to an art form. It's not just that I've found so many different avenues to take, it's the way I make the whole process appear so effortless.

How have I managed to self-sabotage over the years? Well, let's see ... there's the whole weight thing (which is obviously still an issue), the daily pot smoking (on hiatus), being needy and controlling as a way to push people away (still struggle with that one), slutty behavior (has been largely dormant, but wants to make a comeback), alcohol (in the past, it paved the way for "slutty"), internet distractions (from online euchre to having a social life online), cocaine phases (also dormant, but like riding a bicycle), relationships that were wrong for me (where did those six years go?), television (which really cuts into the whole idea of reading a book), and spending beyond my means (an oldie but a goodie).

It's easy to see why I'm so ripe for self-sabotage these days. First of all, I've been trying to make two major (gasp, positive) changes in my life - quitting pot and losing weight - and that alone makes me my favorite target. Second, I've met Maggie, and even though our relationship has the one little catch (Day 21), it definitely brings out the best in me. She motivates me in all the right directions, and I like who I am when I'm with her or talking to her on the phone (anything that leads to the words "I like who I am" is just asking to be sabotaged). Third, I've just finished a rough draft of a book, and anything is possible (i.e., failure is possible). And finally, I feel bored and/or lonely sometimes, and for whatever reason, I tend to go with self-destructive as a first response.

You'd think that recognizing these triggers would help me avoid the reflexive instinct to be a sabateur, but I guess that would just be too easy. For instance, I was supposed to have the official first draft of the book ready by Sunday night, but I drank too much last night and therefore rendered today a washout. I felt shitty about myself, spent the day disliking me, and then canceled plans I was supposed to have tonight.

When I spoke to Maggie this morning, and told her I was afraid I was going to slip back into old, self-destructive patterns, she said, "Well, that's the nature of addiction, right?" It's funny - I'd never thought of self-sabotage as something "addictive," but I guess it is. Being your own worst enemy is most defininitely an addiction.

I just need to figure out how to kick the habit before it drags me back down.

Day 93: Friday, Day of Rest.

"Oh, What a Not-Tangled Web She Weaves" (backyard wildlife)

For some reason, I seem to have chosen Friday as a day of rest.

Be back tomorrow with something all-new and (hopefully) interesting ...

Day 92: Kids ... They Have Their Moments.

Cullinary Artist: Tammy, age 6

As usual, I wasn't in the mood to go tutor today. And, as usual, my kids cracked me up and made me happy once I did.

Today's moment of joy came when I saw "The Cocoa Puff Piece." How could a person look at that and not laugh? (Side Note: She created the piece on her own, at home, to celebrate her 100th day as a First Grader ...)

The ticket (see photo below) was issued in the aftermath of assuredly extreme "torture" I recently inflicted on Henry and Tommy (my original two - the first boys I ever tutored). Seriously - Abu Gharib has nothing on me. After not finishing their homework two weeks in a row, I warned them that if they didn't get in done a third time, there would be repercussions. There were. I took away 20 of their team points (I believe their team name that week was "The Hamburger Barf Boys"), and that meant it would take longer for them to accumulate enough points to visit The Treasure Chest (a literal treasure chest - it's huge - in the back of my car that's kept filled with little toys and weird prizes).

And then there's the short story that was dictated by Eleanor (age 3-1/2). She's not even one of my official students - I work with her older sisters. But she's outside waiting for me every time I come, and wants desperately to read and write. For now, she dictates. This is her most recent story:

Martin Luther King was a pig. The girl was named Alex and she dreamed that her family was gone. She dreamed her family was killed. Then she woke up and had new cereal. For dinner she had sausages and oranges. The pig went out to get his mom and dad in the woods. Then Alex ate the pig. But there was a whole family of pigs, and Martin Luther King popped out of Alex's mouth. The end.

I really can't complain about the way I make a living. I just can't.


Issuing Officers: Henry and Tommy, both age 8

Day 87: Finishing The Falling Joys.

On January 3rd, I started turning a script of mine that I've always liked into a young adult novel.

I've never written a novel before - for readers of any age - so I can't say as I knew what I was doing. I just followed the script, expanding on various scenes when it felt right, and turned it into something that felt like a book.

Now that it's finished (well, a rough draft, anyway), I feel very strange. My first reaction was to cry, which really makes no sense unless you consider the whole "risk and rejection" thing.

I used to be fearless when it came to my writing. I used to think there was nothing I couldn't accomplish, nothing I couldn't do. When I wanted to be a music critic, I made it happen. Ditto with being a columnist. When I wanted to go to film school, I went. When I wanted to sell a script, I did. When I wanted to write for television, I did.

I'm not saying there wasn't insecurity along the way - of course there was. But beneath the surface (and generally on the surface), I believed in myself. I might have beat myself up for being overweight, or not being beautiful enough, but nobody and nothing could shake my belief in my writing.

Then, after several years of success, came the rejections. One after another, brutal and relentless. What had changed? All kinds of things. I'd gotten older, my work hadn't always been good enough, I'd turned down several things to try and make my own movie, I'd been arrogantly telling people what I really thought instead of playing the game, I'd gained weight (yes, in Hollywood, that matters, even for a writer), I'd decided to write with George and my (our) agent wasn't entirely suportive, there was the onslaught of reality television, some bad luck, and, finally, a return to my solo roots that went nowhere ...

Finally (as I've said here before), I just walked away. I couldn't bear to be one of those laughable Hollywood types who clings, reeking of desperation, so I walked.

Now that I've finished the rough draft, I guess I'm scared. Writing it has been this amazing, pure process, and I guess, in addition to worrying about its future, I'm sad it's over.

I wrote the book in 1,700-word chapters (26 of them), and I emailed Maggie every chapter after I finished it. She didn't respond as an editor, really - more as a reading enthusiast (have I ever mentioned that Maggie might read more books than anyone else I know? And that list would include some pretty voracious readers). After every chapter, she wanted more - she truly enjoyed it. She always wanted to know what was going to happen next. She prodded, she pushed, and she wouldn't let me go back and obsessively rewrite.

It was incredibly cool, not to mention motivating (thus the completed rough draft in record time). I know it's silly, but I'm sad to see this thing we've shared come to an end.

So ... what's the book about? I don't want to give it away, but the picture is a clue - the script was initially inspired by an old movie that I love. My story resembles that film in almost no way whatsoever, but the film is what first got me thinking. Many years ago, a friend of mine named Zoe (okay, it was a more complicated relationship than the "friends" tag implies) encouraged me to watch this movie - knowing I would love it - but I resisted. Why? Because I'm a dumbass. Anyway, I finally watched it one afternoon (we're talking years later), and I loved it. More than anything, I was swept away by its unabashedly romanticized belief in true love.

What's next for The Falling Joys? Well, first I need to get it into First Draft shape, and then I'll give it to a few people to read.

After that, I guess I just need to believe in it ... and in me.

It's like riding a bicycle, right?

Day 86: Taking the Night Off.

Be back tomorrow with my regularly scheduled post.

(The photo has nothing to do with anything ... just took it a while back and liked it ...)

Day 84: Okay, So Weight Watchers Works (205.2).

What's weird is that I lost more weight last week, when I thought I was a nursing mother (Day 76).

Who knows? Maybe it was a water thing, maybe it was beginner's luck, maybe the Weight Gods just chose last week to smile down a little bit brighter. But, for whatever reason, this week's dieting efforts sliced one less pound less off of my frame. I'm not saying I'm upset over the 3.8 pounds I did lose, I just wish I understood the human body a little bit better.

This week was definitely harder than last week, partly because the sheen of newness has worn off just a little bit. It's still fun to keep track of everything I eat and calculate exactly how many points I'm using, but it's not quite as much fun as it was at first. I imagine it will become even less thrilling as the weeks continue.

What is thrilling is losing weight.

I'll need to keep that in mind as I become increasingly prone to what one woman at today's meeting called "Weight Watcher's Amnesia."

"I was at a party last night and suddenly I'd never even heard of Weight Watchers," she said with a laugh. "I ate everything in sight."

I can so see that happening to me. After all, I've been known to come down with other forms of the same malady, such as "Writing Amnesia," "Housecleaning Amnesia," and "Financial Budget Amnesia."

At least I don't have Exercise Amnesia. You need to actually do something before you can forget to do it, right?

At the end of the meeting, the leader looked down at her notes and said, "What's this? No one is getting any awards today? Oh, no! It must have been a tough week out there!"

I wanted to raise my hand and say, "No -it wasn't! I mean, it was, but I've lost more than five pounds in two weeks! I deserve my red bookmark thingie!" ... but I didn't. A new girl had been training at the station I weighed in at, and I'm guessing she neglected to turn in my stats.

Oh well. I hear there's a 10 pound bookmark thingie, too. Hopefully, I'm a shoo-in for that one next week ...

Unless, of course, I get a case of Weight Watcher's Amnesia.

Day 78: Sophie Was My First Choice.

It's weird to see the first man you ever loved (Day 43) and the first woman you ever loved within 35 days of each other ... especially when you haven't seen either one of them for a combined 16 years.

Sophie is in town interviewing for some hotshot academic job, so she came over for dinner last night. It was both completely normal and totally surreal. It's not everyday you have dinner with someone you used to wake up with every morning, someone you haven't seen in several years but were once in deeply love with.

I met Sophie back in the spring of 1991, almost 15 years ago. She'd come to this country from England to get her Master's Degree at a college in upstate New York, and was working as a personal trainer to make ends meet while she finished her degree.

Oh yeah - and she was in a serious, long-term relationship with another woman. (Which, for those of you keeping count, makes Maggie the second already-attached person I've ever fallen for.)

But I didn't know Sophie was attached when I met her at the tennis club. I didn't even know if she was a lesbian. I just knew that every time I saw her, I looked twice. I'd never dated a woman before, but there was something about Sophie that brought every long-standing desire I'd ever had for women to the surface. Finally, I broke down and booked her as my personal trainer as a way to get to know her.

I know. Lame. What can I say?

Within a few months, we were a couple. Within six months, we were living together. And within a year, I was applying to film school in Los Angeles.

Looking back on it, my relationship with Sophie definitely influenced my decision to head West. My job was high profile (music critic for the city's daily newspaper and weekly guest entertainment critic on a top-rated morning radio show), and I was finding it hard to come out of the public closet. I'd told my family and friends right away, but I lived in dread of someone calling in to the radio show and outing me to the world (well, my world, anyway). I was happy with Sophie, but I was also scared.

When I was accepted to graduate school in Los Angeles for screenwriting, there was never a question in my mind - I was going. Sohpie, who had finished her degree, was running out of ways to stay in the country, so she decided to move back to England until we could figure out a way for her to legally return. And so, after an unforgettable two-week road trip across the country, we separated.

Sophie's ticket back into the country was to go back to school for a new degree. She moved back to attend USC in the fall of 1993, when I was starting my second year of film school.

Two years later, we were finished. Sophie's life had grown to revolve around her school - and all the work she had - and mine revolved around trying to get my career going as a screenwriter. There was also the small detail that I'd fallen for someone else, but that's another story for another day. It was a tough breakup, but we came out the other end still caring for one another.

Sophie's life has done nothing but blossom since we ended. She's now a tenured professor at a New York college, she's been with Christina for almost ten years, and together, they have a baby daughter.

I kept a detailed journal over the months that I was falling in love with Sophie, and last night, I pulled it out and read through it. While it's embarrassing to see what a goober I was (yes, I actually wrote a song for her), it's also very sweet. I feel very fortunate that the first woman I ever chose to be in a relationship with was someone I had such deep feelings for, not to mention someone I still get to count among my friends. I've made a lot of dumb decisions in my life, but Sophie sure wasn't one of them.

Day 77: Ounces From Glory (209).

So close ... and yet so very far.

Five pounds would have gotten me the elusive red bookmark, but thanks to my Nursing Mothers Mishap (Day 76), I only managed to lose 4.8 pounds. (So, does that mean I was only two ounces away? Or, since there are 16 ounces in a pound, was I eight ounces away? I just tried to call George - I go to him with all my math and measurement questions - but he didn't pick up. Oh well.)

Anyway, when I saw the 4.8 number show up on the scale, I was very tempted to start shedding clothes until I reached five pounds. After all, there was only one guy in the room, a 60something Weight Watcher's employee working one of the room's two weigh stations. I restrained myself, though ... Not only would stripping have shocked the blue hairs in the room, it would have been cheating, since I was wearing the same outfit I was weighed in last week.

Yet another illusion was smashed when the Weigh-In Woman told me to keep up the good work so I'd get a red bookmark next week. That's when I realized you get one for losing five pounds period, not for losing five pounds in a single week. When I told Jackie, she said that made sense - Weight Watchers would never encourage people to lose five pounds in a single week. I guess that's true, but getting one for losing five pounds in one week seems way cooler somehow.

The meeting itself was largely uneventful. The theme this week was "Be the Master of Your Fate," and that got people talking about their weight-loss goals. One woman looked up from her knitting (she was one of four - count 'em four - people knitting) long enough to throw in her 25 cents:

"I used to think that my goal was perfection," she said. "Achieving my ideal weight. But that's not it. It's an ongoing thing. It's a very existential philosophy."

The room twittered with good-natured laughter, at which point the woman added, to no one in particular, "I'm sorry honey - I've got a lot of degrees" ... and promptly went back to her knitting.

Another woman spoke of how she'd been sick that week, and instead of planning her meals, she'd relied on the Trader Joe's pizzas in her freezer. She'd felt guilty all week, and didn't want to come to the meeting. Imagine her suprise, then, to discover that she'd managed to lose a pound anyway.

This set the entire room buzzing. One of the women behind me (another knitter, this one a little hard of hearing) leaned over to her friend.

"Did she say she lost weight during the pizza?"
Her friend nodded. "Yep."
Knitter #2 shook her head in disbelief. "Wow - she lost weight during the pizza."
Her friend again nodded. "I know. During the pizza."

And so it went. When one woman said she had a big birthday event coming up, and wanted to lose 10 pounds before it happened, the room erupted in a chorus of "You can do it!" sentiments. When another woman said how her granddaughter had hugged her and said she loved her the way she was, there was a similarly loud chorus of "Awwwww." Pretty queer, to be sure, but everyone's heart was certainly in the right place.

Surprisingly, I haven't said a word yet. I'm not sure why - maybe it's because I'm not quite ready to have all those eyes looking at me. I'm not ready to hear a chorus of anything just yet.

Maybe next week.

Day 76: Unfortunately, I'm Not Lactating.

Two days ago, I made a startling discovery.

I realized I'd been mistakenly restricting my Weight Watchers daily food points total to 26, when in fact, I was allowed 36. I'd been flipping through the handbook when suddenly, it jumped out at me like a neon sign: "Daily Points Target ... 200 to 224 pounds ... 36." I saw nothing else. I read nothing else. I absorbed this singular piece of information and ran with it. Phone calls were made. Blog entries were written. Food and drink were consumed.

Cut to this morning, when Jackie came home after a few days over at George's. I told her of my 36-point discovery (she hadn't read the blog in a few days), and she was skeptical. I kept right on babbling, talking about how I couldn't believe I'd been dumb enough to think it was 26 points, and how 36 points was so much more reasonable. All the while, Jackie looked dubious. I just kept on talking. I was going to get my red bookmark thingie. I hadn't even broken into my 35 bonus points yet. This wasn't so hard after all.

Finally, she couldn't take it any more. She wanted to see the chart. I immediately went and got the handbook, anxious to prove my point. She looked at it for maybe 5 seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Karen - this chart is for nursing mothers!"

My stomach sank. My mouth ran dry. A chill swept through my body. I grabbed the book ... Sure enough, there it was in plain English. Not only did it say "for nursing mothers" over on the left page, it told you (right under the chart) what to do when your baby started relying more on formula or solids.

I had to sit down. I couldn't believe it. I really was retarded.

Jackie took the book back and found the real points chart. "Daily Points Target ... 200 to 224 pounds ... 26."

As soon as I could stand up again - and Jackie's cackles from the other side of the house had subsided - I went to my Quick Trak points book and assessed the damage. I carefully (very, very carefully) did the math: 7 days at 26 points per day, plus 35 bonus points, equaled 217 weekly points. Luckily, I hadn't gone nuts after thinking I had 36 dailies, so I was still on reasonable ground with 202 points consumed so far. If I could make it through today on 15 points, I could still go to my Wednesday morning weigh-in on track. (Side note: Thank you, Jackie - thank you, thank you, thank you. If not for our conversation, I'd be truly screwed. Who knows how long my 36-point delusion might have continued?)

So - 15 points. That's all I had left. The only problem was that I was having lunch with Maggie, and there was no way I was going to cancel. I'd already told her in an earlier phone call about my points travesty, and while she agreed that I might truly be mentally challenged, she was also very supportive. She even relayed a story about her own tendency to rush through things and miss key information (Okay, so she was 16 years old in her story - at least she tried)

At lunch, I managed to get by on 5 points (lettuce with very plain chunks of grilled chicken), and afterwards, Maggie and I took a brief drive to be alone and have a more serious conversation. (Okay, to make out.)

Since we took longer than we should have, I offered to be dropped off a block or so from my car so she'd be pointed towards work. She'd been gone maybe a minute when I realized I'd left my keys in her car. I quickly called her, and was surprised at how well she took it. She came back ... but instead of just handing the keys over, she looked up and told me to get in the car. There was an urgency to her voice - and so, even though I was confused, I listened. I got in.

And then she started driving ... in the opposite direction of my car. The blocks flew past, and my eyes widened (she later told me I gripped the sides of my seat in sheer panic at the thought of such a long walk). I knew what she was doing - she was having fun ... and she was teaching me a lesson. A lesson in mindfulness. Had I left my keys in her car on purpose? I would say no, I had not. No way.

Then again, I'm also the person who managed to miss the words "nursing mothers" in fairly large, dark blue print. I've clearly demonstrated my tendency to see only what I want to see - to focus on that which benefits me (or pains me) to the exclusion of all else.

Maybe eight blocks from my car, Maggie finally pulled over and dropped me in front of a parking garage, where several of society's less fortunate were loitering. She was still laughing as she drove away (and, to be honest, so was I).

As I hiked back to my car (Maggie's primary interest, she told me later, was in jump-starting my exercise regimen), I thought about how my habit of not paying attention might be one of the core issues I should be examining. My mother's been calling me "oblivious" since I was a kid. George has been complaining about how I don't listen for years. I can't even begin to tell you how many things I've lost, forgotten, missed and willfully ignored over the years.

When Maggie called a few minutes later to check on me, I was still smiling. My mood, which had been good all day (despite the whole points thing), had gotten even better.

Just because something is embarrassing (okay, humiliating), that doesn't mean it can't be funny and thought-provoking.

Today, well ... today was most definitely all three.

Day 74: I'm Just So Retarded Sometimes.

Okay, repeat after me: "Karen is a dumbass."

(Jackie and George are not allowed to participate in this little exercise, as they will enjoy it far too much.)

So now you might be wondering, "Why is Karen offering up this self-deprecating little mantra?" Well, I'll tell you why.

At the inaugural Weight Watchers meeting last week, I felt I was too cool to actually attend the new members after-meeting. The regular meeting was, as you may have ascertained, surreal enough - "the cats love to nibble my bun" story was just one of many I could have relayed.

And so, instead of sitting with the other newbies to hear the Day One Weight Watchers spiel, I got in line to purchase a QuikTrak book (where one records daily intakes) and followed the Day One meeting from across the room.

The oh-so-perky meeting leader was using a huge, 3'-high flip-chart to run through the basics, and the page I remember paying close attention to was the one that listed how many food points one was alloted, per day, according to his or her weight. There was a list, and I remember squinting ... it said that anyone weighing 200-225 pounds was allowed 26 points per day.

For the next four days, I labored - as my blog entries attest - under the 26 points per day rule. I fought the temptation to ditch the 26-point range and used very few of my 35 "weekly bonus points." I was ridiculously hungry - like, my stomach was making noises no human body part should make - but I persevered (I want a red bookmark thingie on Wednesday, remember?).

Fast forward to this morning. I'm sitting there staring at a block of reggiano-parmesan cheese, which weighs .68 pounds, and I'm trying to figure out how much I should cut off to equal one ounce. I think I've mentioned I'm retarded when it comes to math, weights and measures (geography too, while we're at it ... oh - and directions), so it shouldn't surprise you that I couldn't remember whether there were 16 or 32 ounces in a pound. I was pretty sure it was 16, but I wasn't positive, so I got the bright idea to check the Weight Watchers book they'd given me. Surely, I assumed, there would be a list of measurements in the back.

So I'm flipping through the book when I stumble across the page that details how many food points are allowed for the various weight classes. Next to 200-225 it says, quite clearly, 36.

That's THIRTY-SIX.

I'd been toiling under the misconception that I only had 26 points per day when in fact I had 36. For fuck's sake. What a goddamn retard.

And this brings us back to the aforementioned mantra that started this entry: "Karen is a dumbass."

I called a few people this morning to tell them of my latest humiliation, and Grace was among them. After laughing (for a bit too long, as far as I was concerned) her first comment was, "Well, don't go using this to eat too much today."

Thanks, friend :)

After that, she reminded me for the fiftieth fucking time that I won't lose weight unless I exercise.

Again, thank you, my love. And to think there was a time when I was infatuated with you.

Anyway, the point here is pretty obvious: Read the fucking instructions. Pay attention. Put "need to know" above "being cool." You know, advanced thinking. The stuff you don't get to figure out unless you visit the guy on the mountaintop.

The good news is, it was a "Bank Error in Your Favor" type of mistake. Unlike last week's gut-wrenching "you're way heavier than you thought" moment, this was a "you've been doing better than you needed to" moment.

Now, like Grace says (though I still don't care for her at all) I just need to remain focused and dedicated.

After all, it's not about losing weight or the blog or my health or looking better or even being a 'tard ... it's about that stupid red bookmark thingie.

Mark my words, I'll be getting one.

Day 70: If You Can't Beat It, Join Them. (213.8)

I knew there was something wrong with Jackie's scale. I just didn't know how wrong.

Turns out her scale is seven pounds wrong - seven pounds in the wrong direction. Seven pounds too light. I found this out today when I went to my first Weight Watcher's meeting. After seeing my digital weight readout of 213.8 (and fighting the urge to gut myself on the spot with the pen I was holding), I said "No way!" (far too loudly) and asked perhaps the stupidest question of my life:

"Is that scale right?"

No, Karen - the scale at the fucking Weight Watchers meeting is wrong. Like the 30 or so rabidly obsessed women in the room would ever allow for that.

However, instead of laughing in my face, the woman conducting the weigh-in merely smiled. "We're monitored by the county of Los Angeles," she told me. "We're required to be correct within two ounces."

The repercussions of this are massive. It's like messing with the fabric of time or something. Bottom line? My initial Day #1 weight was totally wrong. The 219 I thought I weighed 70 days ago was probably more like 225 (harey carey, anyone?), meaning I've been deluded right from the start. I suppose I could go back and change everything - adding seven pounds to every weight recording on the blog - but those would be the actions of a disturbed woman.

No, I just have to suck this new information up and let it ride. On paper, whether I like it or not, I've only lost 5.2 pounds since this experiment began. End of story.

Okay, can I please flay myself now?

The meeting itself - once I got past the fact that I could no longer breathe - was vaguely surreal. I was the youngest person in the room (60 seemed to be the median age), and a typical exchange went something like this:

Meeting Leader: "Okay, would anyone else like to share a menu tip?"
Woman in Front: "I've been making couscous a lot. It's fast."
Meeting Leader: Yes! I love couscous!"
Another Woman: "Fast matters sometimes. Has anyone else ever tried that chicken thing at Burger King?"
Woman in Back: "I have! But I like the McDonald's chicken sandwich better. I order it without anything on it, and I never eat the bun, or course. Well, sometimes I eat the bun, but only if my cats let me. They like to nibble at the bread."

No, I'm not making this up (how could I?). That's what I get for going at 9:30 a.m. ... next week I might have to hit the 6 p.m. meeting, which I assume will be attended by people who, while owning cats, still work for a living.

But perhaps I've neglected to cover a basic point here, such as ... Why was I at a Weight Watcher's meeting to begin with? I'm not a joiner. I hate joining. And yet I joined.

Well, I've been thinking about it for a while - something had to be done. There's nothing worse than embarking on a public experiment and then forcing readers to suffer when the experiment stalls. No one wants to read about someone who isn't succeeding at something, and I don't particularly want to write about it.

Okay, and there's also the fact that I actually kind of want to succeed. Call me crazy.

And so, I decided to try Weight Watchers for a month. Just to check it out and see how I like it ("Consumer Reports" recently rated it the only diet that works long-term, if that helps any). I didn't expect the seven-pound fist to the stomach on my first day, but, what the hell ... they're only numbers.

All I know is, those numbers better be a lot different by Day #100.