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I started rehab today.

OK, Weight Watchers. Same difference.

The only things missing are the chain smoking, and Dr. Drew.

Otherwise, it’s rehab. Think about it. My drug of choice is being restricted. (Of course, I can’t go cold turkey because of the pesky need for food to … well … live. It would be easier if I could say, “Screw you, delicious taco pizza! Never again!” But no. I must sup to survive.) And there’s that element of therapy. (Is your hunger physical, or emotional? Listen to your body AND mind.) And there are the leaders … cheerleaders … in snappy little suits, showing the crowd their “before” and “after” pictures, and offering bits of sage advice. Yep. Rehab.

I chose Weight Watchers because it’s realistic. Real food. Real personal responsibility. Real support. And the last thing is something I’ve been sorely missing on my “Lap-Band Journey,” as the experts like to call it. Like there will someday be an end to this battle. Doubt it.

In a conversation with my husband this morning, I was explaining to him why I chose to join Weight Watchers. He kind of didn’t get it, considering the restrictive device I had surgically implanted in my gut. He thinks it should be kind of magical when they wheel you out of surgery. Believe me, it’s not.

And so I explained to him that — at least with my surgeon’s program — there’s a real lack of a plan and support once surgery has happened. There are monthly support group meetings and a dietician on staff to help with food issues. But there’s no outlined plan that says, “eat this; don’t eat that.” (Hey … great book title!). There’s no website (OK, there’s this site called www.ObesityHelp.com, but it’s a lot of forums and marketing of gastric surgery, IMHO). And there’s no regular (weekly) meeting in which I get on a scale and stand there, accountable for my actions.

I need a no-excuses plan of action.

I joined with my best friend. That makes me feel hopeful. I believe just having someone else there is imperative. We have already texted a handful of times today. “I’m hungry,” I said. “I swear I smell barbecue,” she said. I love her.

I also worry about her. She will probably kill me for saying this, but her blood pressure is an issue. Her doctor yelled at her the other day about it. She comes from a family of big girls, just like me, and I don’t want her to die. Her mom died way too young. So did her grandfather.

So there we sat, newbies in a sea of old pros. One woman at the meeting today had lost 75 pounds on the program. Wow. I would be really close to liking my body if I could do that. And wearing clothes I’ve purchased for just such an occasion. Yeah. I do that. I buy clothes that don’t fit yet. It’s dumb, but it makes me feel hopeful.

So rehab should be fun. I’ve always approached such things with skepticism. I’m not the Weight Watchers type. I don’t like the catchy little sayings … “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels” … I don’t like the phony leaders that are paid to pretend they think I’m funny (which I am) … I don’t like the balls-out marketing of Weight Watchers products I must endure in my meeting place. Uh-nnoying.

But I would like to feel better. I would like to have more energy. And look better. I would like to wear that sweet shirt with skulls and crossbones all over it that I can squeeze into right now, but that totally gives me back-boobs. Yikes. I want to be able to skate faster at roller derby, and have more endurance, and look hot in fishnets when I compete. Cause I’m wearing fishnets come hell or high water. Not negotiable. Hopefully, my legs won’t look like a Thanksgiving ham.

So begins rehab. Wish me luck.

In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Best friend, Chain smoking, Diet, Dr. Drew, Fishnets, Lap-Band, Lap-Band Journey, Rehab, Roller derby, Support group, Taco pizza, Weight loss, Weight Watchers. | #