It's Saturday, 9 am. I've run by my office to grab the printed forms I left there the day before, and driven back to Coralville. I went to the meeting sponsored by my work that meets at lunchtime Thursdays, but a snafu with my payment kept me from officially joining the Plan until afterward. So no official weigh-in for me.
The Plan center is three blocks from my house, in a well-windowed storefront formerly occupied by a scrapbooking store, and is pretty much brand new. There are three stations with blue-ombréd, modern-looking curved "privacy screens" behind which you stand on the scale. It looks like people typically remove their shoes, so I do so as well. I wait for the young, trim brunette to check me in and patiently step onto and off the scale three times while she troubleshoots its connection to the computer.
Finally I stop looking at the number and stare straight ahead, and my weight registers. 213.6. About seven pounds less than I weighed a month ago, when I was halfassedly tracking food a few days a week, and working out once or twice. I'm a little annoyed that I don't get "official" credit for it, but I'd be a liar if I didn't think that was kinda cool.
She prints out a little sticker that lists my weight, the date, and my Dots allowance, and affixes it to my new paper weight tracker. I get a little blue envelope made of that fake-cloth substance that reusable grocery bags are made of, which contains a pocket guide to The Plan, a paper daily planner (which I can absolutely guarantee you I will never, ever use), and a bigger promotional magazine that I'm pretty sure I can toss after I skim it, since it's mainly just a big booklet of happy smiling people standing next to pictures of heavier, frowning versions of themselves.
Past the booths is the meeting area, outfitted with large windows, cream walls, bright lime green chairs, and a big-screen TV. It's about two-thirds full with about 30 people, mostly women -- far bigger than the work group I sat in on Thursday, which is struggling to make its 15 required participants. The energy seems both higher and more positive, too -- maybe it's a factor of it being so early on a weekend, or maybe it's the sun streaming through the windows. They've done a nice job with this space. It feels welcoming, almost despite itself.
There's a little magazine called "the Weekly", which has a leader profile, a few pages of cheery, brightly colored information on the week's meeting topic (this week's is fiber), and some coupons for Plan frozen entrees. They gave me coupons at the work meeting, too -- apparently will be one of their big pushes. Noted. The leader launches into the meeting presentation, and runs through it perfunctorily. This is the second time I've seen it, and I have to say, the work leader did it better. But then, she was speaking to fewer people and had more time to engage individuals.
A few minutes late, a woman comes in that I recognize -- a former coworker who I'll call Nora. She ends up sitting next to me and then recognizing me; it turns out she's a Life member (someone who once made their goal) but is coming back for the first time in about ten years. We chat briefly, sotto voce, while the leader draws for the winner of a door prize -- a package of one of the Plan products, enhanced-fiber oatmeal. (Because apparently oatmeal doesn't have enough fiber? The hell.)
Now it's sticker time. Apparently the Plan is big on stickers. Stickers are passed around for us to add to our weight logs. There are also stickers for people who make other goals. One person gets her 10% award (losing 10% of her initial starting weight), which is a keychain onto which further charms representing later goals are added, and another makes her goal weight. The leader asks the Life members if they have any advice for maintenance. Don't stop tracking, one says. Keep coming to meetings, says another. There are nods. Some appear to be maintaining, while others say they're back after a few years and gaining some weight back.
There's a little introductory session after the meeting, and Nora and I stay for it. It's pretty basic -- another slide show, and an exercise where we construct a sub sandwich, calculate its Dots, and then look at substitutions that would make it worth fewer Dots. I'm pretty sure there is no sandwich place that actually uses 6 Dots' worth of mayonnaise on a 6" sandwich, so it seems a little contrived, but the take-home message is pretty straightforward: add more vegetables, use mustard or olive oil instead of mayo, use less or no or reduced-fat cheese. The one thing that surprises me is the suggestion to add more lean meat, not less. It's more filling. You don't want to eat a sub sandwich and then be hungry an hour later, do you? Ok, yeah. There's something to that.
Before I leave the Plan center, I browse some of the products they have for sale. Most of them aren't relevant to my interests in the Age of the Smartphone -- paper trackers and little electronic Dots calculators. There's also Plan-branded food: mostly snack bars, some candies and the aforementioned oatmeal. I glance at the nutrition facts on one of the bars -- added inulin "fiber", a melange of sugars and syrups, some chemical names I don't recognized but that are probably the standard leavenings and preservatives. Nothing worse or more artificial than what's available at the supermarket. I'm starving -- not the Plan's fault, I just don't usually get up this early and often skip breakfast on weekends, so I haven't eaten -- but none of this sounds like a good idea. I wave goodbye to Nora, and leave without buying anything.
After running another errand or two (I have a vague idea of making whole-wheat English muffins tomorrow) and make a fucking delicious lunch. Orange chicken (from a frozen mix), rice (half white, half brown), broccoli, and fresh pineapple. I evaluate the chicken once it's spread out on the baking sheet, and decide to split the bag in half and save the rest for another meal. Everything is in the food database except the chicken (they apparently haven't inputted anything from Aldi or Trader Joes), so I pull out the tracker on my phone and add it. Unshockingly, lunch takes about half my Dots. I add lemon pepper to the broccoli after steaming it. The pineapple stings my mouth.
The question that keeps running through my mind is -- how much of a commitment do I want to choose to make to this? How much time and attention focused on body change is too much for me? Right now? In two years? In twenty years? Exercise and thoughtful attention to food is one thing, but (if I drink the sugar-free Kool-aid) do I need to go to meetings my whole life? Am I joining a church? And if not, why does it feel like there are so many things I'm being asked to take on faith?
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