I've become afraid for my bosoms. I joined Weight Watchers in June, and damned if the program isn't working. The problem is not losing weight, the problem is where the weight is disappearing from.
(Again, I'm in no way being paid by Weight Watchers to endorse their methods, mostly because I only have five readers and it would be a very poor business decision on their part.)
(Also because I'm sure Weight Watchers would want to distance themselves from members who have the points values memorized for alcoholic beverages but not fruits and vegetables, and or members who have actually contemplated how many points a very happy ending to oral sex would add to her daily points target, should she decide not to spit.)
(I'm not saying I've contemplated this. I'm just saying somebody could. Alright, fine. I can't be the only deviant ever to track Weight Watchers points, so let's not judge.)
I basically have to lose the equivalent in pounds of two kindergartners stacked on top of on another, so I'm in it for the long haul. I'm happy to report I'm on the verge of losing 10% of my body weight from the date I first joined, which means I'll soon get a special Weight Watchers key chain. I've wanted this 10% key chain very badly, and I will be thrilled when I finally get it.
I'm less thrilled that about 8% of this recorded loss seems to have come from my boobs.
In fact, I'm downright concerned. At no point in my decision to finally get serious about getting healthy did I look in a mirror and think to myself that my body would be smoking hot, if only my boobs were smaller.
When trying on pants and failing to find any that fit, the problem wasn't because my small boobs were preventing the zipper from closing, or my flat chest was blocking the pants from being pulled up over my knees.
When shopping for boots, at no time have I ever had to abandon the struggle to zip a pair of hooker boots over my peasant calves because my lack of cleavage wouldn't allow it.
My boobs aren't the only body parts disappearing despite my attachment and fondness for them just the way they are. My watch no longer sits where it's supposed to on my wrist.
Again, I never found my wrists to be a barrier to higher self-esteem and better fashion choices. I've never worn a t-shirt over my bathing suit because I just didn't want people to see my wrists. I could always wear bracelets. I've never longed to wear smaller bracelets, and yet here we are.
If this continues, I can only imagine what's going to start thinning next. Soon I'll be shopping for hair products to add volume and lip plumpers to give me back my pout. All the while, I'm afraid the rest of me is going to stay the same size, because I'm starting to look like a toilet plunger.
I have this irrational fear that the parts of me I'd like to get thinner, aren't going to. I'm going to keep losing weight from areas that were never a problem, and I'll be grossly unbalanced. My thighs might still rub together, but I won't have enough earlobe to stick an earring in, or my tummy will still have rolls but my spindly fingers snap trying to hold up a wine glass.
Even if I'm shaped like a toilet plunger, I'm sticking with it though. It's working. Against all odds, it's actually working, and that's more than I can say about a lot of things.
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