HEY WEIGHT-WATCHERS-WATCH THIS

You know how a song gets into your head and seems to just lodge there among the synapses, playing itself over and over again? Songs like Baby Shark and Memory from the musical Cats and the William Tell Overture? The other day, just before a long-awaited lunch with friends, another song from the past presented itself, not while I was standing on the bathroom scale without a stitch of clothing in sight but immediately after. Anyway, it was that old Gene McDaniels song from 1961: “He took a hundred pounds of clay, and he said, hey listen. I’m gonna fix this world today, because I know what’s missing..and he rolled his big sleeves up and a brand new world began, he created a woman and, lots of lovin’ for a man. Yes, he did. Whoa whoa. He took a hundred pounds of clay.” Except in my mind, prompted by heaven knows what, the lyrics came out with a slight variation. “He took two hundred pounds of clay…” There are those in my life who grow impatient with my fixation on weight but they are not the people who have to keep buying larger sizes of jeans. My 100-pounds of clay hairdresser, Jen, who says, unsympathetically, “who is it that keeps shoving the wrong kinds of food in your mouth?” My 100-pounds of clay mother, Helen, who says, “any luck on the new diet?” My 100-pounds of clay daughter, Emily, who says, “could you please stop serving Boston cream pie, chocolate fudge cheesecake, and salted milk chocolate caramels for dessert on Sunday?” (Answers: me. No. I don’t think so.) Okay, so I get to lunch at Panera and, out of the blue, Judy says, “when my husband goes into a doctor’s office and is told to get up on the scale, he just does it, without removing his shoes, or his jacket or his wallet or his keys!” We gasp, momentarily suspending the intake of food, although it was fake in my case. My husband does the same thing. “My husband always challenges the nurse,” Bev said. “He tells her he weighs five pounds less at home.” Yeah. Like five pounds would make a difference. “No matter where I am weighed,” Susan says, “I take off my glasses.” “I take off my watch and earrings,” said Bev. “I take out my hearing aid,” I said. “Or, I would if I had one. As it is, I take off my wedding ring.” “Well, at least we’re all eating vegetables,” Susan says, looking with satisfaction at her soup and not at her hunk of bread. “Especially you, Ann, with all that lettuce.” I glance at my salad, a bowl of thick, ranch dressing and the BLT on the side. “And we’re having diet sodas,” Judy said. I remained silent on this, since I’d chosen lemonade. “And we had to pace around the restaurant for a good six minutes waiting for this booth,” Bev pointed out. “Think how many steps that is.” I checked my Fitbit and found the number still in double digits. “We should celebrate our efforts,” Judy said, producing a large baker’s box. “They’ve got a new fudge brownie and I got one for us to share.” “I got one, too,” Susan said, producing her own box. Bev and I said nothing but we set our own boxes on the now-crowded table. Everyone was silent for a moment. “I know,” I said, “we can make up for the brownie by walking back to the beverage bar for lattes to go with.” “Great idea,” Susan said, looking at her Fitbit. “And listen to this, girls. We’ve already been here for three hours. Just a couple more and the brownies will count as supper.” “Good plan,” Bev said. “It’s not so much what you eat as when you eat.” I wasn’t so sure. “We’ll probably be pretty hungry in another two hours,” I pointed out. “Why don’t I pick up a dinner menu when we go back to the line for coffee?” “Excellent idea,” Judy said. “And we can get another brownie, too.” On the drive home I consoled myself with this thought. By 1961 I’d already weighed more than a hundred pounds. Bring on the sculpting knife. And the Baby Shark.