Kathy joined Weight Watchers. Shut up. Because it apparently breaks some weight loss commandment to display even a scintilla of cynicism at meetings, Waisted is where she bitches about eating, not eating, oversharing weight watchers, and probably you.

By Kathy Cacace [Archives]

To this day, when I see a dumpy old guy in a hat, I think George! to myself. This is because the game Guess Who? was a formative childhood experience, one that embedded itself into my cognitive schema for categorizing and judging strangers so early that every ginger bald guy is Bill, every nerdy academic type is Tom, and Mrs. Peacock from the movie Clue is Claire.

My brothers and I played this game far longer into our preadolescence than the box recommended, keeping it fresh by consistently updating the kind of questions we would ask. “Does your guy have a round nose?” we might’ve asked each other when we were 6 and 8 years old, but by 12 and 14, it was more along the lines of “Does he look like he might be in that Good Touch, Bad Touch video they showed us in fourth grade?”

So, I present my submissions to Guess Who: Weight Watchers Edition.

Sylvia
The Spry Retiree
Sylvia refuses to dye or cut her hair; it is gray, it is long, it is probably parted in the middle. She wears running shoes with everything, she has a yoga DVD she “truly enjoys,” she is chatty and her stories go virtually nowhere but through them you will glean 1. her political affiliation, 2. her religious bent, 3. the number and ages of her nieces and nephews, and 4. at least one piece of uncomfortable sexual and/or medical information. There are actually two Sylvias in my meeting, though they are on opposite ends of the Sylvia spectrum. One is what my mother would refer to as “a real broad.” She sounds like Bea Arthur and you can easily imagine her using half her points swilling cooking sherry. The other might’ve taught you 7th grade life science and probably has a semi-exotic pet. Like maybe a chinchilla.

Rachael
The Expert
It doesn’t matter if you can make a four-course dinner worth zero points for three dollars. Rachael—sunglasses perched firmly atop her head, Diet Pepsi in hand, cell on vibrate but never off—can make it for negative points. And it’ll taste better. In fact, everything she does is better, regardless of whether she has ever lost an ounce on the program. Oh please, sweetie, we all NEED our chocolate fix, you’re lying if you say you don’t. You still use Equal? Well, it’s YOUR colon cancer… Every morning I just HAVE to go to Trader Joe’s for one of their Morning Glory muffins—they are just DELICIOSO. SO much better than the Thomas’s one you were talking about before. Oh, my coffee cake recipe is, like, one point for half a tray! Come talk to me after the meeting, I’ll give you the recipe. Just come talk to me. I’ll give it to you. Let me give you that recipe. Just come talk to me after the meeting. I’ll tell you all about it. LET ME TALK AT YOU.

Dolores
The Old Maid
Dolores is both a cautionary tale and a cliché, and I swear to God she once wore a Loony Tunes sweatshirt to my meeting, and I will not harp on her lest karma consign me to online dating and chocolate/affection surrogacy for the rest of my crappy life.

George and Martha
The Couple
I realize that attending Weight Watchers in Chelsea makes my experience slightly left of center when compared with meetings in the rest of the country. Take, for example, my favorite couple that attends my meeting: gay, mid-forties, and one is a D-listy former television personality whom I LOVED, though I may be the only one who recognizes him. There are a few couples who I see weekly, and though there’s all that, you know, supporty stuff, there’s also this ragey undercurrent that I sort of love to watch. Like, yeah, great, I fucking love you, but if I have to hear you talk about your fat ass one more time, I’m going to stab you with a corn cob holder.

Bruce
The Gay
I think a fat middle-aged gay and a fat young-ish girl probably have as close to the same experience with their bodies as possible considering their differing entrances, exits, and the traffic that flows through them. We’ve basically got the same ideal beauty standard we’re held to, it’s found on opposite sides of the Abercrombie bag, and it’s equally impossible for the both of us. Bruce is not a club gay. Bruce is a comic book gay, or maybe theater gay, or possibly even an antiques gay. He has a collection of some sort. He has novelty t-shirts and maybe a small dog. He is nice though, and kind of makes me sad, and you can look him in the eye when desperate for someone, anyone, to acknowledge that there is something painfully idiotic going on.

Charles or Lizzie
The Play-doh Eater
Without fail, the source of the idiotic thing. In fact, Charles and Lizzie are the source of all pain, all discomfort, all need for eye-rolling to be in the library of human facial expressions. They are the Quip Rehearsers, the Role Players, the Clog Wearers, the Laugh Snorters, the Monty Python Reciters, the Snood Enthusiasts, the Cat Fanciers, the Livejournalers, the Hypochondriacs, the Last Picks for Kickball, the Evanescence Fans, and the Only People Excited About a Second X-Files Movie. In their presence, listen intently and loudly your iPod. Avoid the elevators. Do not linger in the parking lot. Do not make eye contact. Do not tap on the glass, and do not feed the animals.