I step on the scale each morning. At meals, I measure my food. Am I healthy or obsessive?
I am at our usual restaurant having lunch with two friends. After we each place our order, before the waiter leaves, I put on hand on his arm and stop him with a request. Others at the table join in as if a chorus: Please bring a take-home container with the meal.
My companions' merriment does not annoy me. I laugh with them. The waiter is accustomed to hearing this plea. He will often finish my sentence for me.
When the food and plastic box arrive, before diving in, I move half of the contents on my plate to the box. I seal and move it out of sight. My pals are silent, but smiling as I do this maneuver.
Where did this habit come from, you may wonder. My confession: I have followed the directives of early Weight Watchers long after I joined, and decades after the company refashioned its plans.
But at the time, soon after it's founding in 1961, I attended weekly meetings. I credit this allegiance for being at an ideal weight, 97, for my tiny 4'9" frame.
Lately, with the popularity of Body Positive philosophy overtaking weight loss programs, I'm wondering if I'm still on the right team.
When creator Jean Nidetch brought Weight Watchers to Chicago, I was an eager participant. I was not fat, just what Jewish people would call zoftig.
Before that, in my youth, a little extra fat at the tummy vexed my mother. And like so many good daughters, this displeasure by the most important person in my life, set me on a course of weight loss obsession.
Mom, who had the figure of a 1940's bathing beauty, worried that any extra ounce on my form would scare potential suitors. Despite her good looks, she wound up behind the counter of our family grocery store, with a white apron concealing her curves. And she was married to a man whom she never loved.
She wanted a different potential for me; a doctor or lawyer would be perfect. But first I had to be primed for that role.
Nagging was her method of choice. "Do you really need that? she would ask as my eyes travelled to chocolate cake. Thus chastised, I would step away from the temptation. I'd wait until Mom was otherwise occupied, and steal a slice.
A partner for mom came in the form of methylphenidate, which was prescribed by a "diet doctor." I would visit him weekly. The medicine worked, but its affect of speeding me through my day and inhibiting sleep ended that practice.
Weight Watchers took over Mom's issues when I was an adult. The program worked for me. But more than the sensible eating and the plan's accountability, I loved the camaraderie of weekly meetings.
Looking back, I suppose those gatherings of women --chubby to obese--, were similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, or other programs where we gather with others in the same sinking boat. We shared cheers rather than jeers. We revealed secrets. We celebrated pounds lost. And like me, we found a method that made sense.
I am one who loves keeping track. Researching calorie counts and recipes, writing down intake, and keeping me focused on the task at hand, are actions enjoyable to me. I was as a bookkeeper in a vintage movie, cackling happily as I penciled in the stats.
But lately, as I hear the taunts of table companions, and consider my established routines, I wonder if I'm overdoing it. And worse, am I leaning toward dangerous obsessiveness.
Here is a typical day. What is your vote: healthy or neurotic? Every day at 4 p.m., I enjoy 1/4 cup of Chardonnay wine mixed with an equal amount of calorie free Le Croix. At 6 p.m. dinnertime, I top my generous green salad with 1 tablespoon of dressing; my concoction of 5.3 ounces of vanilla yogurt, 2 oz. of Extra Virgin olive oil, and 1 oz. of Vinegar.
My dinner plate is small (a Weight Watcher trick) -- rinsed salad plate where a palm-sized portion of protein (most often chicken), carbs (1/4 cup of mac 'n cheese or similar size potato chips), and 1/2 cup vegetable.
Dessert is a portion of Halo faux ice cream.
I consider myself fit. Paired with watching calories, I exercise daily, swim three mornings a week, and walk my dog three to four times a day. And because of said pet, I always meet my iWatch directive for MOVE or STAND.
Please weigh in. Am I sensible and healthy, or fanatical and frightening?
