Walking into a Weight Watchers meeting is like coming home. In an utterly pathetic way. My grandmother was a Weight Watchers member. My mom has been a Weight Watchers member. My aunts. My cousins. It’s in my blood, it seems. Last week, when I walked into the door for the umpteenth time it felt like every other meeting I’d ever been to. No matter what the city, the year or the program, there is the exact same mix of women to be found at the local Weight Watchers meeting…
1. The nutty woman who, despite below freezing temperatures, shows up to weigh in every week wearing spandex running shorts a skimpy tank top and not a single accessory.
2. The bride-to-be who will rock that wedding gown, dammit. Only to re-gain every pound she loses.
3. The frazzled new mom bouncing a crying baby, reeking of spit-up and sporting milk stains on her shirt.
4. The enthusiastic new member who excitedly purchases the scale, the cookbooks and countless boxes of Two Point Bars, diving into three of them mid-meeting.
5. The obese woman who has never lost a pound, yet obnoxiously hijacks every meeting with her tips and tricks.
6. The hot young bitch who has five pounds to lose so she can wear her size 2 designer jeans.
7. The loud old lady crew who’ve been battling their mid-sections for 50 years and have imaginary plaques adorning their front row seats.
8. The annoying middle-aged woman who yells out every minor accomplishment she has to collect as many cheap little gold stars as possible.
9. The mother with the pre-teen daughter who is torn between gratitude and mortification.
10. The lone man who shuffles awkwardly and thinks that the only place he’d fit in less would be a Loehmann’s dressing room.
And, me. Again.