Last week, I got a letter from a weight loss company. I don’t want to say who it was, exactly, so let’s just call them “Schweight Schwatchers.” The letter talked about taking care of your health or something ridiculous like that, and also had a picture of a big, fuzzy orange monster with the headline, “We Want You Back!”
Well, okay, I thought while I shoved a cream cheese covered bagel into my mouth with one hand and held the letter in the other. But was I ever there?
Then a few minutes later, as I was washing down my morning chocolate with a gallon jug of half and half, I remembered; yes, in fact, I did join Schweight Schwatchers once! It was two or three years ago, and I signed up for a free one-week trial. Only, if memory serves, the trial didn’t go so well because I blew all of my allotted “points” for the entire week by inhaling a box of Krispy Kremes and a pitcher of margaritas on the first day. (Although, in fairness, I actually did lose weight that week because I had a raging stomach ache for the next six days and could only eat peanut butter and watermelon slices.) (Which I think actually might be the South Beach Diet.)
At lunchtime, I stared at the letter on my way through the McDonald’s drive-thru and thought, why is Schweight Schwatchers after me now? Is it because during my recent vacation to Hawaii, I only ate pork with a side of pork? Or because whenever we drive past my gym my husband says, “There’s where we donate $30 of our life savings every month”? Or maybe it’s because last week I almost had to call the fire department and have them bring over the Jaws of Life to get me out of my jeans. Who knows? It could be anything.
But at dinner, I put my piece of pepperoni deep-dish pan pizza down so I could obsessively re-read the recruitment letter again, and wondered — how exactly did Schweight Schwatchers know that I need to come back? Do they have illegal video of me ordering the Fatass Enchilada Plate at Rosie’s Tamale House? Have they been secretly monitoring my grocery purchases? Or was this some kind of Cellulite Intervention? Did someone, gasp!, turn me in? Was it my loser neighbor Gary? I knew he was up to something when he said, “Nice cankles, dumbass” at the mailbox the other day. Stupid Gary.
I looked at the letter a few more times while I was enjoying my before-bedtime snack of Pinot Grigio and Fettuccine Alfredo, and finally decided that I probably do need to make a few changes to my diet. I mean, I guess it’s a good idea to take better care of my “health” and my “lifespan” so I can “live longer.” Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going back to Schweight Schwatchers, even though I do appreciate their oh-so-flattering suggestion to rejoin.
After all, it’s always nice to feel wanted.