Fresh Writing: Has Anyone Died From Looking?

I pedal to the nine thirty meeting on a Monday morning, one week before Christmas, and the sky is a complexity of gray clouds and cuts of blue.

Another bike is already chained to the light pole and I puzzle my own bike to fit in. Across the plaza, Rose's bakery is a wide yawn of dark emptiness—out of business—which isn't a bad thing. Who needs a bakery three steps away from Weight Watchers? That's just bad planning.

Inside Weight Watchers, florescent lights blaze down from the particleboard ceiling and tight bound carpet meets my feet. On the walls are glossy posters of men and women in various poses of confidence and enthusiasm —some are off to work out, others stand with a hand on the hip in confident ease and still others are surrounded by plates of inviting food.

The actual meeting has already started and at least thirty people—all women—are in their seats with eyes dutifully trained on the team leader.

At the front desk, I hand over my Pocket Guide, which dates back to June 2009. A year and a half has passed since I've been to a meeting but some things never change. The scale is still here, waiting for me to step up.

I tug off my shoes, the top layer of my black waterproof pants (another layer is underneath) and my goldenrod jacket along with the fleece sweatshirt. Every ounce counts.

"You know we have a whole new plan?" the woman says, her voice low.

"I heard," I whisper back.

"It's Points Plus now. Fruit is free."

"Fruit is free?"

She waves me to the scale.

"Plus you get more bonus points," she whispers.

"Why?"

"New system," she says.

The woman's dark brown eyes are trained on the computer screen, where my weight is being tallied and I'm ready for the bad news. I must be at least one seventy by now.

"Just up six ounces from your last visit," she says. "Does that seem right?"

"Ounces?"

"That's right," she says, "you are doing great on the plan."

I want to laugh out loud. I haven't been following the plan. I just eat what I eat and exercise when I exercise. I do my best to keep it all in tow but the other night I got a back end view of myself and almost had a heart attack. I remembered a poem I heard Sharon Olds read about her examining her own naked behind in the mirror. It started: Has anyone died from looking? That's exactly how I felt. I wanted to die from the sight of my own renaissance ass.

"Just six ounces? Are you sure?"

An automatic sticker prints out with my new weight and the woman nods as she affixes it to the back of my brand new Points Plus Pocket Guide. The new book is thicker and has a bunch of plastic tabs. Bright blue is for Stay on Target! Bright green is for Power up! Bright orange is for Treat Yourself! And hot pink is for Get Up & Go!

"Stay after the meeting to learn Points Plus, it takes about fifteen minutes to explain," she whispers, "and you can toss that old book."

I hold fast to my old book, a streamlined silver folder that doesn't have any brilliant colored tabs or exclamation points. I can already tell I like the old plan better.

With my shoes, pants and coats on again, I sit in the back row and study the new plan.

Up front, the team leader is a high-energy sort in a yellow, white and black patchwork sweater that fits snug over her athletic arms and she has a shock of short blond gray hair that shoots straight up and back from her forehead, mad scientist. or more like that comedian Kramer on the old Jerry Seinfeld show. Her outfit, hair and general jocular vibe is like you might expect from a ski race champion who zipped in for this inspirational speech and has plans to spend the rest of the day on the slopes.

"Looks like Doris has dropped five pounds," the leader announces and this generates a round of tired applause.

The leader passes a star sticker to Doris, a heavyset woman in a gray parka. "Give us some advice, Doris!"

Doris puts her sticker into her book with total concentration.

"A little tip for the rest of us!" the leader prompts again.

"Well," Doris finally says. She looks up at the ceiling, considering her words with care and compared to our peppy leader, Doris is practically comatose.

"I just make sure to get my walk in," Doris finally says with a shrug. "That's about all."

"Get up and go!" the leader shouts and punches at the air. "Like it says in your book, exercise is key."

And on it goes. More stickers are passed out for those who have dropped five and ten pounds and each recipient takes their little star sticker with the shyness of a second grader. Into each book the stars go.

Conversation unwinds about how to eat over the Christmas holiday. "Just how do we avoid those cookies? Those glasses of wine? Those whipped potatoes and gravy?" our team leader asks. "Turn to a friend and talk strategy."

Next thing I know I am knee to knee with a woman named Helen who plans to use all her bonus points for Christmas dinner. "I'm saving up," she smiles. "What about you?"

"Oh," I say, "I'm just trying to figure out the new plan." I wiggle the new Pocket Guide between us.

"You'll love it," Helen says. "Fruit is free."

"I heard."

"And you get more points, did you see that? More points and more bonus points too."

Our team leader claps to pull our attention forward before Helen can continue. She then reads a clever Christmas story about walking instead of eating and everyone laughs. Applause goes up again, another meeting done and purses are tugged on shoulders and jackets are zipped against the cold.

As everyone files out, I stay put and flip through the booklet and discover I'm indeed I'm allowed more points (I used to get just twenty three per day) and fruit is free. It seems refined carbs and sugars have gone up. Four ounces of wine used to be two points. Now it's four. A slice of cheese pizza used to be six points, now it's fourteen.

Pretty soon it is just me and another woman, both of us Lifetime Members, which means we met our goal, long ago, and our own books have been maxed out with little star stickers. We say polite hellos.

The team leader zips over with her shock of wild hair and asks if we are here to learn about the great new plan—Points Plus? Before we can do more than nod, she drops her trim behind to the edge of a chair, balances a flip chart on her knees and is off on her presentation that matches all the tabs in the pocket guide. Stay on Target! Power up! Treat Yourself! Get Up & Go!

"Throw out that old book and start fresh. Don't look back, that's what I say."

As she talks, she spies my old book on the chair next to my purse and looks like she might just snatch it away. I ease it under my leg, safe and sound.

"I just have a couple questions…" I begin.

"Me too," the other Life Timer adds.

"Are you skimmers?" the leader asks. Her eyes dart from me to the other woman and back to me again. I'm not sure if she sees us as much as she scans us. She has the electric eyes of someone who spends a lot of time on a computer or texting.

"Because you are going to have to read all the materials, I mean all the materials to understand the brilliance of this new plan. We just can't argue with Weight Watchers science, I can't, can you?"

"But, I…" I begin and hold up my new Pocket Plan.

"You're a skimmer," she says. "I can tell. Go home, read all the materials and then you'll understand."

The other woman has the good sense to zip her mouth closed and I do the same since I guess I'm a skimmer, which must mean that I don't read things as carefully as I should. As the leader flips through her presentation, I think about how I'm a writing teacher who sees about a hundred students a week, a mother who does homework with her two children each night and has to read piles of complex instructions and how I'm getting an MFA in creative writing which means a thesis, a critical paper and research. I never really thought of myself as a skimmer.

When the leader finally takes a breath, I try one more time.

"I'm just wondering…" I begin.

"I can tell, you have that look," the leader says, "you're one of those people who doesn't like to change. And you're a skimmer. You aren't taking in the information."

I lean forward, rest a gentle hand on her thigh and look into those electric eyes. I want to tell her that she has no idea who I am and frankly, I don't know who she is either. After all, we are strangers. She plays her part as the "high energy team leader who inspires woman and men to make healthy food choices and exercise more," and I am supposed to play mine as the doe-eyed follower here for her leadership but it's a lie because I'm not a passive follower who resists change and skims through. I'm myself, unique, one of a kind and I have a question already.

"I-will-read-the-material," I say, my voice measured out. "Believe me, I will read every word. I would just like to ask one question, please."

The woman opens her mouth, as if she might just tell me again that I am a skimmer, but instead she clamps her own jaw closed.

I sit back from her, remove my hand and take a deep breath. "How many points now, in this new system, for a yoga class?" I ask.

As if she has been short circuited, the woman's bright tech-tronic eyes blink with surprise and her mouth falls open. There is a sense of defeat in her that makes me almost sad. Just what is her sorrow anyway? Why is she trying so hard? What is she trying to prove?

"Oh," she finally says. "I really don't know."

"All righty then," I say. "That's all I wanted to know."

The woman next to me asks where I take yoga.

"Down the street," I say. "In Irvington."

"Do you sweat?" she asks.

"Yes, I do. In a power class."

"Maybe I'll try that too," she says.

"Oh, it's great," I say.

The silenced leader looks at us, unsure of what to say next and I close my new Pocket Guide, shove it into my purse, grab my things and say goodbye.

There is a meeting next week, same time but as I go out the door, I decide I'm not coming back—not to this time slot anyway. Heck, I might not be back for another year and a half. Who knows?