Ok. No more farting around. Well, actually, there is quite a lot of farting. I think it's the fruit. That's another story.
After eight months, almost to the day, I've hit my goal weight and now begin Weight Watchers maintenance. After 37 weeks of trying to lose weight (and the last nine, where I didn't net/net at all), I had a serendipitously successful seven days: Nine pounds lost, three under my target.
Under maintenance, which last six weeks, I get to eat more, to stop losing. At the end of six weeks, if I am within two pounds above or below 155, I get to be a life member: I never have to pay a cent again to go to meetings as long as I stay in the four-pound range, weighing in officially once a month now instead of once a week.
I cannot say that I have fully grasped this yet. So far, this is a typical Saturday, which means that in a few hours there will be gin and more than the usual amount of eating — that's the way it is in the hours after the weekly weigh, the safest time to eat into your weekly and activity allowances.
In a way, reaching goal is somewhat anti-climactic. Each week or five pounds' loss brought new feelings and lessons, rendering a goal-line something important to shoot for, but not actually an end unto itself. And now new skills must be learned, because while losing weight is harder than putting it on, it's easier than trying to walk the balance beam that is neither gaining nor losing ... forever.
Fortunately my eight months has exposed me to big losses, big gains, and periods of inertia — a microcosm of the rest of my life. I know what it feels like to put on even a little weight, what it takes to recover from that, how to lose by eating (even more!) instead of starving.
+John C Abell