Rants

I have a short list. People who irritate me immediately simply by their appearance, mannerisms, or beliefs. Not exactly a charitable quality in me, but no one is perfect. Especially not the people on my short list.

My short list is, by definition, not terribly long and varies from year to year. People who once bothered me I find agreeable, fences mend, and I grow up. There is one type of person that seems to forever sit on my list. One person that, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t understand, tolerate, or pretend to like. I am talking about the label loving rock-star mom.

You know her. She’s in her early 40s and she has chunky highlights, either in blonde or something ridiculous, like purple. You know, because she’s young and hip and cool. She wears every label she owns all at once and drives a Hummer. To the mall. On her fingertips sit 3-inch long acrylic rectangles she occasionally uses to scratch a boob fill tight with 300 cc of saline. Her gum snaps, her lips flap, and she thinks she is incredibly hot. She is not.

I arrived at Weight Watchers several minutes early last Friday because the last few times the line moved slower than I do on a walk. By the time I cattle hearded my way through the line with the equally obese, the meeting was over. Normally this would not be a big deal, but I was due for a couple of goal related awards and, dammit, I wanted that sticker in my book.

This time the line was short, and before me flitted the leader of the short list. Some blonde thing in skin-tight stretch capris who, I figured, was here for her monthly maintenance weigh in before going off to exercise for three hours. She was actually a repeat offender–someone who started the program last year and was now back to lose the 3 extra ounces weighing her down. During her extended leave, she forgot all the Weight Watchers protocol, including where to pick up her book and where to stand while other people weighed in.

I was nice and friendly, even when she asked (loudly–they’re always loud) if she should be standing where I was, a 3×5 mat with the words PLEASE STAND HERE WHILE OTHERS ARE WEIGHING IN stamped boldly along its entire length.

I said, “Yes,” {moron}

Two stations opened up and we both walked up to get weighed. She went on and on about how she was back because she gained 15 pounds and even though her new husband said he would still love her no matter how fat she was, she couldn’t stand it.

I estimate she weighed about 138 pounds. A real lard ass, if you ask me.

She was there with her friend who has been doing the plan for two weeks. Her friend appeared to be a rotund 150 pounds. The two of them together are practically my goal weight.

As usual, I sat front row, left seat. They sat second row, diagonal to me. The talked to each other the entire meeting. Mainly it was blondie espousing all her diet tips. Her friend announced to the meeting that blondie was very smart and the master of diets and carbs. She was, like, practically a nutritional-ist.

But not so smart that she could avoid gaining 15 pounds in 9 months, right? I was good. I kept my mouth shut.

Until.

Until it was my turn to get an award and Donna, the meeting leader, asked me what was the hardest part of the plan. I spoke honestly, and said the hardest part is admitting what you can and can not do. I gave my popcorn example, and how I would pick at dinner so I could eat 7 points worth of popcorn.

Well, the entire room gasped. Which I found funny, because I doubt any of the people in the room grew their dimpled butts eating carrots. I ignored them. But I couldn’t ignore blondie. I noticed Donna looking behind me, and when I turned around I saw blondie looking at me with a mixture of disgust and revulsion. Like I was some creature that had just crawled from under a rock. The look on her face hurt me. A lot.

So, I pulled out a can of whup ass.

“You shouldn’t look so shocked and disgusted,” I said calmly. (Sort of. I could feel my blood begin to boil.) “A teaspoon of oil has 1 point. I use three tablespoons of oil (9 points) for 6 tablespoons of popcorn kernels that my husband and I share. It adds up.”

Donna chirped like a nervous bird, “That’s right! It adds up!” {ohcrap. ohcrap. ohcrap. pleasedon’tfight. pleasedon’tfight}

Blondie looked at me, still disgusted, and said, “I can’t staaaaaand oil.”

I looked at her, imagined her typical diet (a six pack of Michelob Ultra and an Atkins Bar) and responded, “I guess that’s what makes you better than me.”

And in that regard, maybe she is. Maybe she does have a better grip on snacking than I do. After all, she has 15 pounds to lose. I’ve already lost 16 pounds, and I can barely tell the difference. I can only assume I’m losing fat around my liver, because everything else looks the same.

But she’s still on my damn short list.

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