Don't Fear The Up-Week Weigh-In

The Weight Watcher Newbie Holiday Trilogy: Part III

Part I: Thanksgiving Dinner: Please Pass the Turkey and Hold the Guilt

Part II: Accountability: Blood on the Scale!
Part III: Don't Fear The Up-Week Weigh-In

Never is the temptation to skip a WW meeting or weigh-in greater than when faced with the certainty that our next encounter with the scale will not be a happy one. We all know the feeling: it sucks! But if we resist that urge there are ways to make it suck juuust a little bit less.

Is That A Hole In My Sock?

Most of the time I already know before ever placing a shoeless foot on the scale whether or not my weight went up or down since my last WW (Weight Watchers) weigh-in.

How much it might have changed I cannot say but more often than not the direction of the change is rarely a surprise. It’s either a down-week (Woo hoo!), an up-week (Shit!) or a no change week (WTF?!?)

For me the canary in the coal mine are my pants. With Vulcan-like detachment my waistband passes judgment, rarely mistaken and never giving a crap about my feelings.

Unpleasantries with the scale aside I enjoy the weekly meetings and love my group. What I initially thought was going to be a royal pain in the ass—those "stupid weekly meetings"—have instead become one the highlights of my week and a crucial element of my success in more than just weight loss. For every pound lost on the scale I've gained two pounds of support and self-confidence.

Comprised of a diverse collection of several dozen kindhearted, quirky, thoroughly delightful individuals, Team Tabernacle NJ is led by a charismatic 600-megawatt dynamo named Christina who every seven days performs the miracle of turning weight loss into fun. Upon entering the room our differences soon fade and for the next 60 minutes we are companions on a journey toward better health and a sane, sustainable relationship with food. 

After a down-week there's a certain spring in my step as I bound across the parking lot toward the entrance of the little church where we meet. Life at that moment feels pretty damned good, my most pressing concern being how I'm going to hide the hole in my sock during weigh-in. 

Then there are those other weeks—the up-weeks—the weeks when my pants make clear that there’s definitely more of me than there was a week ago. The spring in my step is replaced by lead ankle weights and I fight the urge to continue on past the church to the dive bar that serves great Italian food just around the corner. Only the fact that I'm a cheap bastard and that I'm paying to be here keeps me from bolting. So with grim resolve into the church I go to accept my self-imposed fate.

Isn’t It Ironic? 

My pants have found me guilty of multiple counts of SmartPoint abuse, snacking past curfew, failure to drag my ass off the couch and overindulgence in the first degree.

As I approach the back of the weigh-in line my thoughts are dark and foul. I silently curse Janice in Accounting and envision her writhing in the hottest bowels of Hell for those fucking Thin Mints^® she's been pushing all week for her stupid daughter who recently joined the Girl Scouts!

I glance nervously around the room and engage in banal chitchat with the woman in line behind me. She looks terrific, why the hell is she here? We agree that the weekend can't come soon enough as I wonder in silence whether or not she can smell the dread oozing from my pores.

I'm tormented by the irrationally bitter and thoroughly unrealistic thought that everyone in the room--Greens, Blues and Purples alike--managed to tow the line with exquisite perfection and lost weight during the past week. Everyone, that is, but me.

Why hath God forsaken me, I ask myself, forgetting for a moment that I'm an atheist, and are those little WW snacks for sale on the weigh-in table really worth a buck each?

The line advances as the man in front of me steps up to the scale. I kick myself for not having hit the restroom before getting in line and perhaps preserving a few precious ounces of dignity.

He’s smiling as he chats pleasantly with the nice lady manning the scale. She congratulates him; he’s down 2.6 pounds. Good for him!  Asshole.

Shit, it’s my turn.

I approach the table and begin to shed as much clothing as possible, retaining only those garments necessary to avoid violation of conventional social norms and a possible prison sentence. Knowing no pride whatsoever I also remove my shoes, my watch, my belt, my phone, my pocket knife and even my wedding ring. Such is the senseless mania the weigh-in line can induce.

I step up onto the scale with the joy of a convict ascending to the gallows. Time stands still, my lips drawing upward into a thin, bitter smile as at last I recognize the sweet, savage irony of feeling like a loser for not having lost! 

The Other F-Word

Most of us don't mind weighing in on the heels of a down-week, the feeling of accomplishment to be expected and duly earned. But weighing in after the dreaded up-week can have its own rewards, often affording us an opportunity impart a unique kind of support--a gift, actually--we might never consider. 

First off let’s be big girls and boys and call most up-weeks what they are: a failure. Not a terrible or permanent one but a failure nonetheless. For good reason WW often shies away from the word (it should never be directed at someone or used as a weapon) but like all words there are times when its use is appropriate, failure included.

You've established a long-term goal to maintain or lose weight as part of a healthy lifestyle and no thanks to Janice in Accounting you’ve just blown a seven day chunk of it that you’ll never get back. We can call it a challenge or a setback or a speed-bump or a little white poodle but it won’t change the fact that it was by every definition of the word a failure.

Why does it matter? 

Because while you and I might possess the emotional health and fortitude to maintain perspective when faced with an extra pound or two, there's quite likely to be at least one person in the room who does not. For that person the minor setback most of us shrug off with relative ease can often feel like—say it with me—a fail-ure.

For some even the smallest gain can be soul-crushing, often dredging up a lifetime’s worth of pain, despair and self-loathing. Society has generally not been kind to the overweight and most of us have at least one or two scars to prove it, some deeper than others. 

The Upside of Up-Weeks 

I gather up my belongings as I depart the weigh-in table and take a seat. I’ve had an up-week, experienced a modest weight gain. A setback or a failure, depending on one’s point of view.

Christina is asking if anyone has any successes or milestones they’d like to share and Mr. 2.6 is the first to raise a hand. I feel bad for having called him an asshole and clap extra loud for him with the rest of the group. One or two more folks speak up and they too receive well-deserved kudos and applause. Then comes the inevitable…

     

     “Ok, does anyone have any challenges they’d like to share?” asks Christina, her voice just cheerful enough to energize the room but not so cheerful that I want to bludgeon her to the point of unconsciousness with one of the scales.

I now have two options: 

Option 1: Keep It to Myself 

My hands remain on the table, my eyes cast downward. Silence and shame won’t make the extra weight go away but all too often this is the route many of us take.

I can remain mum and draw upon whatever I’m feeling to motivate me for next week. It just might work but even so the best case scenario is that any lessons I might have learned will have served to motivate exactly one person: me.

Option 2: Go Public 

The other option is to share my f-word with my WW family openly, calmly and in as upbeat a manner as possible. I point out in a voice both self-confident yet humble that although I’m not particularly happy about my current state of affairs, it is indeed temporary. I have this and it comes across loud and clear.

Up-weeks afford us an opportunity to evaluate our progress, identify what we could have done differently and redirect our focus—and possibly that of our fellow members should we choose to not keep it to ourselves—on maintaining a healthy, productive and realistic mindset. 

What’s done is done. The weight has already been gained so you might as well allow it to do some good for as many people as possible. At times we've all felt alone with our struggles; never underestimate the healing power of "Yeah, me too."

By sharing our failures freely, confidently and without shame we’re blessed to offer others the gifts of camaraderie, hope and reassurance. Moreover, the farther we fall and the stronger we are in dealing with it the more likely it is to make someone else’s perceived failure seem a little less horrible by comparison, a little less daunting to overcome.

The positive impact of sharing your weight gain can be especially strong if you’ve been with the program for a while and appear to have been successful. You’ve a WW veteran and you look pretty damned good if you do say so yourself! You, my friend, are walking, talking, point-tracking proof that the program works and that the road to success is never a straight line.

The woman or man standing next to you or sitting quietly in the back of the room could be half a pound away from their final straw and giving up on the program—or God knows what else. The reminder that your struggle is their struggle, that your imperfection is their imperfection, that your hope, confidence and success can be their hope, confidence and success could mean more than you’ll ever know.

Openly sharing our failures allows us to repay the karmic debt we incur when we're cheered for our successes.