Another Hot 100

Maybe it’s because I’m getting up in the years, but I’ve recently taken to celebrating “hundreds” of things. And this week is my 100th week on Weight Watchers.

My “week” starts on a Saturday, so technically I’m already into my 100th week. If you’re wondering how specifically I celebrated on Saturday, it was by eating an entire week’s worth of points between 2 and 11 PM. I don’t think I’d ever actually done that in the entire 100 weeks I’ve been counting points, so it was its own kind of milestone.

One hundred weeks ago, I was in my dining room surrounded by my book group and I was wearing the only thing that fit me at the time: a Kelly green tie-dyed cotton shift that is absolutely the wrong color for me and should never have been bought in the first place.

I declared to that small audience that I was planning on starting Weight Watchers that week. I actually had no intention of doing any such thing and was just trying to add drama to my explanation for wearing such an unflattering outfit. But two of the women said that if I went, they would come with me. So four days later, the three of us found ourselves in a bright loft on a long line, trying to hold our skepticism in check.

That was 100 weeks ago. Fourteen thousand points ago. And God only knows how many vats of popcorn ago.

Not so long before that book group meeting, I had gone running off to my doctor to see if I had some frightful disease. My belly was bloated constantly, taking on a shape it had never been. I’d look at myself in the mirror sideways, aghast. I looked six months pregnant, even though my childbearing years were far behind me.

My doctor is diligent and he is kind. So it was only after a thorough exam and a face filled with apology that he gave me my diagnosis. “That’s just how women your age start to carry their extra weight,” he said.

“Oh my God! I’m fine? I’m fine, and just fat!?” I was elated. Except for the fat part.

Based on his diagnosis, I got the idea in my head that my weight gain was inevitable, and worse, irreversible. I didn’t think there was a thing I could do.

I could write a week’s worth of posts about how a relatively small weight loss completely transformed my life. How I’ve only had one head cold in two years. How I can now easily get to short balls on the tennis court that I used to just let go. Most profound, though, is that with the shedding of pounds, I’ve ended up shedding a lot of negativity that was (sorry for this) really weighing me down.

I know, to a lot of folks I sound like a Weight Watchers huckster. I can’t help it. I’m a point-counter. And I’ve got 100 weekly log books to prove it.

Hot 100

Just about two years ago, I answered an ad looking for a “funny mom” to write a monthly column for a magazine. In a moment of bravery, I sent the publisher an email that said something like: I don’t know if I’m “funny” exactly, but I can be amusing. And I attached an old Holiday Letter that I’d sent out with my Christmas Cards in 2004.

The publisher called me almost immediately. This was his favorite part of the letter, he said:

Last night Joshua asked for potato chips for dinner. When I explained that potato chips are a snack, not a dinner, he burst into tears, sobbing and glowering in that way that only Joshua knows how. I suggested pasta, chicken nuggets, or peanut butter and jelly (thereby covering the only three foods that he’ll deign to eat) and he reacted as if I’d just slit his throat, howling and seething. (Think Golem in Lord of the Rings.)
“What’s wrong with chicken?” I said to him. “You like chicken.”
“I don’t want chicken!” he bellowed.
“Ever?” I asked.
“No, not ever. Don’t ever give me chicken,” he wailed. Then, just in case I thought I was having a conversation with a sane person, he added, “Even if I ask you for chicken, don’t give it to me!”

The publisher offered me the job.

When I got off the phone, I panicked. How would I ever be able to write up a column for a magazine every month? That would mean I’d need to be amusing on 12 separate writing occasions, and then if that all went well, there might be another year after that.

That magazine folded last January (I guess I wasn’t so amusing after all) and February 1st I started this blog to take up the writing slack that I had become used to. And this here that you’re reading right now is my 100th post.

I didn’t think I’d be able to write 12 pieces in a year, and I’ve just completed 100 in 10 months.

Listen, I know it’s not rocket science, but I figured out how to post pictures and change backgrounds and make those nifty little lists on the left. I even figured out how to re-do my posts when they started randomly (and out of nowhere) coming through with weird spacing and errant HTML code.

Maybe I just need a little something to celebrate right now, so Yay, me!!!

But Who's Counting?

Last night a friend of mine went to see his 100th Bob Dylan show. This is impressive on a few different levels – the main one, for me, being that he even knew it had been one hundred. When did he start keeping track? (How did he even remember?)

I guess I’m not a counter. I like playing tennis (which I’ve mentioned once or twice) and I love playing in my two weekly clinics, but I’m not even sure how many years we’ve been playing together. Although I’m pretty sure it’s not a hundred.

Laura the Tennis Pro once told us that in order for a shot to be consistent – that is, for you to rely on being able to hit a forehand groundstroke and get it to where you want it to go – you need to execute the shot correctly ten thousand times. How did that research come to be? Is someone actually counting?

Many of the things I like, I find it easier to have just one of. A few weeks ago my Neti Pot broke and I couldn’t bear the thought of a single day without a sinus rinse. So I went to Whole Foods and bought a replacement. I considered buying a second – a backup – but that seemed a bad idea. I thought I would take better care of the new Neti Pot if I didn’t have another waiting in the wings.

I only have one Barbie Doll. She sits on top of my pencil sharpener in her lavender crinoline and tights. I always know where she is.

Conversely, we had three copies (maybe four) of The Catcher in the Rye, and I can’t find any of them.

I was wracking my brain trying to think of something I could celebrate 100 of. And then it occurred to me: I’m just a few short Takes away from a hundred blog posts.

Hot damn!