My Journey To Lose 25 Pounds With Weight Watchers

I snatched a handful of the Buffalo cheese fries that were lying unattended on my mother-in-law’s kitchen island, and quickly ate them before any of my kids would see me. 

Thankfully, I had a full goblet of wine to wash them down with, otherwise I might have choked.  

Knowing what was lying ahead for me the next day made it all that easier to grab five Hershey bars (the mini ones, of course!) and eat them quietly in the privacy of the bathroom, so I could then skirt back into the kitchen where a fresh baked batch of chocolate chip cookies beckoned to me. Aw, what the heck — tomorrow I was starting on a brand new journey — joining the local Weight Watchers chapter in Narragansett. “This might as well be my last hurrah,” I reasoned with myself, and gobbled down a few of those.

I’ve never been one to lie about my age (47 isn’t so bad so far), or that I really have a little (okay, a lot) of help at the salon staying blonde. For that matter, I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit I love drinking the last bit of green olive juice out of the jar (oh c’mon — you don’t know anyone who does that?), but when it comes to my weight I shamelessly confess that I’ve always tipped the scale at least 10 pounds less in my favor! 

In my mind, I had every right to do this because I am the mother of eight, and since my name is not Kate Gosselin, I have no personal trainer, nanny or even a newly canceled reality TV show to help me along the way.  I chose the hectic life of a busy mother of eight, and although it took six years of infertility and one adoption to accomplish, I wouldn’t change a thing.

The only real frustration for me with this blessed but very active life has been crossing paths with those who love to tell me how exhausted I look, or even better, the catty ones who casually let me know that it must be hard to lose the last of the baby blubber after delivering seven (8 to 10-pound) babies during the last 18 years. Ya think?

Believe me when I tell you how tired I am of trying the latest line of Wonder Girdles and spandex-like jeans, never mind partaking in the oldest tricks in the book — wrapping a sweatshirt around your waist so onlookers don’t see my triple-pot belly, or making “black” my signature color for any special event because of its slimming effects on my middle-aged body.  (Someday I swear I will wear white linen pants again!) 

It’s not even the fact that I’m tired of trying to disguise my double chin and pumpkin shaped face with turtlenecks 11 months out of 12.  What it has finally boiled down to is this new place I’m at in my life — an almost 50-something mother that has finally stopped long enough to value myself and my own health just as much as I do the rest of my family, friends and my mile-long commitments. No more “martyrdom” for this gal — This is the year that I take back my life!

Four years ago I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes.  No one in my family history has had diabetes, until now.  I wasn’t completely shocked, because five out of my seven pregnancies resulted in gestational diabetes.  I took insulin for those pregnancies, and I was told I would most likely develop it later on in life.  Later on came much sooner than I had hoped for, but I was otherwise healthy and active, so “bring it on,” I thought.

I never had a problem carrying a few extra pounds until I experienced infertility.  Be it the stress, the comfort of chocolate and great Mexican food whenever I found out I wasn’t pregnant, or the multi-calorie dinners my husband and I would indulge in to make ourselves feel better — that was the first time my 110 pound body took on a few extra pounds.  Ironically, during the six years of infertility, I gained the pregnancy weight without yielding a baby! 

I got serious when we adopted our baby girl in 1993, and I went on Nutrisystem, losing 25-plus pounds in four months, and I kept it off for a good five years.  Between 1993 and 2005 I delivered seven babies and that 25 pounds finally crept back on and has stayed put ever since.

I’d more or less accepted the fact that I have an extra spare tire and a schoolgirl round and chubby face because I’m a mid-life Mama and my “time” has come and gone, right?

Wrong!

I may be 47 and the mother of a small brood, but I am still my “own person” and my Type 2 Diabetes isn’t going to go away by wishful thinking. 

I’ve made enough playful excuses about why it’s okay for me to borrow clothes from my husband’s drawer rather than having a peek in my daughter’s closets, and after my swimsuit malfunction at the pool this summer (my tankini bottoms did not obey the “cover thy front and back” rules and let’s just say, the extra baggage that tried to jump ship gave the other guests a show they will never forget!), I decided what I really risked losing was “a healthy self,” never mind the pounds, if I “weighted” any longer to finally do something about it.

On Tuesday, Sept. 13, 2011, I sheepishly walked into the local Weight Watchers meeting on Woodruff Avenue and joined! 

“Hello, my name is Cheryl, and I love good chocolate, fine wine, and lots of other comfort foods that feed my crazy life. I’m 5-feet 4-inches (okay, 3 ½ inches!) and I weigh 162 pounds!  My healthy goal weight is 135 pounds.  The math says I need to lose 27 pounds — Let’s see what my mind, body and spirit think of this goal.”

Want to track Cheryl’s progress? Click the follow-up link below!