Drumroll Please . . .

Yesterday, at approximately 10:00 a.m., I stood on the confidential black scale in front of the plate glass Weight Watchers windows, and was informed that I had lost 1.6 lbs. Can I just say, I love meetings? They all cheered and carried on like I had lost 10. I got a bookmark to keep future "Bravo!" stickers on and also a free WW snack bar. Nummy. Only 2 points.

After I left the meeting, I thought to myself, well, it's not much, but it's a start--and hey, if I lose 1.6 pounds every week for a year; it could add up! So, I'm not sure what exactly what happened then, but I proceeded to have one of my most challenging days on the program thus far. I wanted to eat, and I wanted to eat big. I heard my inner sumo wrestler crying out: "Me want meat! Me want carbs! Me want chocolate! Me want the WHOLE BOX!"

But ME stuck to the program with the exception of using my last two flex points of the week on chocolates from my stocking. I could, and most likely will, discuss at length my propensity for stress eating and emotional eating, but for now, let it suffice to say that having the kind of day I had on Monday, and ONLY eating those two chocolates was a remarkable victory for me. I've seen days when a Monday like that would have called for a second dinner and a triple scoop sundae, but this Monday was different, and at this time I would like to thank the friend who thought to send me a bag of oranges and a note of encouragement at a most dire hour indeed!

History is rife with characters who pass through mountain top and valley experiences, and I believe that is what I experienced Monday; however, since most of my valley experiences are directly related to lack of sleep, I made it a point to be poised over my pillow by a quarter after ten last night. This morning, I did not get up and walk (explanation to follow), ignored the world until eight o'clock, and thus, indulged myself.

Alas, I paid a price for my frivolity. I woke to the sound of children banging on doors. My daughter had shut herself in her brother's room, wet herself through her pajamas, and in revenge, had dumped an entire bucket of legos all over the floor. My son had taken himself to the potty and was now stuck behind the closed door, because he is not yet coordinated enough to hold his half-dropped drawers and open the door at once. You see, he wanted to visually inform me of a poop streak in his pull-up. Very thoughtful of him.

However, though I did start the day behind the curb, I still managed to do that "thang" I do, feed everyone a 4:30 snack, pre-prepare dinner, dress everyone for a new outing, load the car, and have my last charge of the day all ready to go home with mommy. And where were we going, you ask? Had you been there to see the preparations--the sweatpants, the high impact unmentionables, the tennis shoes, the IBU profen, etc, you would have no doubt deduced one thing. Aerobics, my dear Watson.

In addition to the Jitsu of the Walker, I have chosen to embrace an unplanned-for opportunity. A local aerobics instructor is using the gymnasium of our church in which to teach her class; consequently, the female members of the church have been invited to join in sans registration fee. So, as fortune certainly does seem to favor the bold, I signed up before I had a chance to scare myself out of the idea.

Pre-fright and flight might have been appropriate, because after this evening's initial session, I might have unwittingly become part of Europe's next traveling sensation: the lame Irish. The workout was set primarily to music of a Celtic flavor, and the footwork had many of us toe-tangled to say the least. Those in the class who actually had their acts together will never make the cut. They'll just have to stay in Greenville and recruit the next round of unsuspecting celebrities.

Can I say that the gym was also sub-temperature? Apparently, it had been assumed that a gym full of so many hot, sweaty women would not require any heat. AT ALL. Thus, the instructor had no need to issue a warm-up order as every one was already obeying the natural impulse to jog in place, hop up and down, and run in small circles. These maneuvers, combined with our general measure of kinetic incompetence created quite a show. I can see the billboard advertisement now! Who needs "Lord of the Dance" when you can pay good money to see "Horde of Sweat Pants" and not forgetting it's sequel "Shiver Pants."

Yep. We'll all be rich, and then I can hire a personal trainer, and lose my 1.6 pounds a week while foregoing public humiliation. In the meantime however, I'll be back in the gym on Thursday for another rehearsal.