Waaaaaaay back four months prior to efforts to conceive, I did Weight Watchers and kicked ass on it. By the time I attended my cousin’s wedding, I actually felt great. When I refer to this period of physique bliss to my sister, I refer to it as “Jai’s wedding”.

And then I got busy trying to get pregnant. Which eventually led to fertility drugs. And not much physical activity. But two little miracles we did get! You might have heard me talk about them. Or seen a picture or two.

Well, this happy mama says it’s time to get back on the wagon. And back into clothes that are collecting dust in my closet. It’ll be like shopping for free.

Telling the Internet that I’m doing weight watchers kinda means then I have to do it, right? My sister is half-assing it, her assessment, not mine. Which, by the way, is 100% more assing it than I am. Just moments ago, we shared this conversation:

” B, I’m so proud of you for doing WW. I STILL don’t have the cajones to start. But my raw pizza dough stomach is seriously getting in the way.”

“I’m not officially ‘doing it’, I’m just putting my toe back in the water to test it out. Like, I’m having steak tonight!”

“Yeah, but even one WW-type thinking/meal per day is really productive, and you’ve clearly lost weight, so that’s a bonus!”

“The thing is, I’ve stopped BF-ing which helped me maintain my weight, I’ve stopped walking, started the pill, whilst still eating poorly, so that = weight gain. I’m [do you seriously think I’d tell the Internet?] pounds right now.”

“I’m WAAAAY above that.”

“Isn’t it ‘fun’ eating this way, though?”

“YES! But in the way I feel like what a prostitute might feel like after turning tricks.”

“Rich?”

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