Weight Watchers Works. Wait, What?

In case I haven't mentioned it, I'm fifty. Oh, I have mentioned it? How many times? Wow, sorry.

Anyway, after 18,417 days spent cruising down life's interstate, I can glance in the rear view mirror and see quite a few stretches where I wasn't exactly wearing a seat belt.

Safe sex analogy? I'm going to say no, since my dad reads this.

What I'm really getting at is, how often have you looked back at an event or entire time period in your life, slapped your forehead V8-style, and yelped, "What the hell was I thinking?"

The thing is, no matter how savvy and seasoned my old carcass grows, these OMG moments still occur, the most recent a mere month ago. But first, a few more dated examples:

How could I have allowed a girlfriend to convince me that popping my collar, wearing penny loafers with no socks and stylishly tying a sweater around my neck, even with Miami Vice sitting atop the Nielson ratings, was a solid decision?

Why did I promise the same emotionally rickety individual that, in the event of her untimely demise, I would personally pen her biography, so that everyone on our big blue marble could understand the calamity of a brilliant life cut short?

Since I'd always wanted to wear my hair in a ponytail, yet preferred short bangs to locks which cascaded over my eyes, why did I surmise that a mullet provided the best of both worlds? After testing this naturally-cultivated 'coon-skin cap look one afternoon at Safeway, my wife forbade me from ever venturing out again with such an abhorrent hair hat.

While slightly offended at the time, I thank you now, my bride, one thousand fold.

But no obscene behaviors, no loathsome practices, have reared their little, double-chinned prairie dog heads with more frequency than my eating escapades. Since I was old enough to pronounce the word "Caligula,", I've vacillated between moderation and all-out Homer Simpson-esque gluttony.

Eat an entire pizza?  Come on, challenge me, my man. Pint of ice cream? Easy, then I'll eat Ben and Jerry.

Today marks the end of four full weeks on "Weight Watchers Online For Men"(I can't really tell any difference from the regular Weight Watchers, other than the bold font on the homepage and how the words might be uttered by the dulcet baritone of James Earl Jones.).

And since it's now been a month, I've again had an opportunity to revisit my behavior prior to beginning this regimen which is more about sane eating than it is a gimmicky diet.

The concept is simple—keep track of everything you eat. It's similar to how accountants or lawyers record billable time, but without the social stigmas of repressed arsonists with mother issues or soulless sycophants who pray on baked daytime-TV-watching whiplash victims.

So unfair. I was an accountant, and my mother issues were minimal most days.

It's all about ownership. Everything you throw down your mineshaft, you report to James Earl Jones. The day before I started WW, I enjoyed a twelve-inch meatball sub with chipotle sauce (What the hell? Was I fourteen and going through a growth spurt?). It was delicious, no doubt, but if I'd introduced a bag of Sour Cream 'n' Onion Lays, that single meal would've devoured all my points for an entire day.

As with so many other areas of life, I'm just trying to be mindful. I'll still knock down a couple of beers or glasses of wine on the weekend, but when all my choices show up in digital splendor, I'll think twice about lining up another IPA.

So far, I've given birth to a fairly robust food baby—nine pounds down. My clothes are a little looser and when I look in the mirror, there's a little less fleshy overhang, but this train needs to keep on rolling for another twenty ell bees.

Then I can buy a smaller sweater to tie around my neck.

Happy New Year from All of Me.

"Dad, you're not fat, you're just overweight."
-Zoe, my seventeen-year-old daughter

January 1, 2013.

I slowly awakened, exhaling gratefully. My relief was palpable, and I mumbled a silent oath of gratitude that I hadn't actually attended a Styx concert in my back yard, naked on a blanket while spooning the stubbly scapulae of a bearded Taylor Swift.

Rolling onto my back and propping my head on a second pillow, my hands rested comfortably atop my belly. I looked across at my fifty-year-old fingers, interlaced at an equal altitude to my crusty eyeballs. Performing some rudimentary calculations, I quickly surmised that my hands lay approximately twelve inches above the surface of the mattress.

Everything in between was me and my DNA. Nothing but fella flesh. A heapin' helpin' of Tim loaf.

I woke this morning a year older, a year smarter and about six years fatter.

And honestly, my credibility is shot. A couple of years ago I proclaimed a new healthy tack after the doctor labeled me as obese while pointing accusingly, his latexed finger still moist with my shame. Last year, I again threw down the gauntlet and announced that enough is enough, it's time to whittle off some of this lard or forever live in Elastica, land of sweatpants and football jerseys.

I  realize that as we age, things become increasingly difficult—losing weight, covering up bald spots, making people under forty laugh at a joke about Richard Nixon or pet rocks. However, some tasks actually keep getting easier, such as eating an entire sixteen-inch sausage and Canadian Bacon pie. Twenty years ago, I might wimp out a slice and a half short, whereas now I can choke one down with the prowess of a human anaconda.

It's also become significantly easier to watch football for hours on end. In the past, I may have gone out to throw the ball with friends at halftime. Now, I rise only to stave off involuntary couch voiding or to fend off the dangers of sedentary bed sores and perilous clot migrations.

About three years ago, I lost twenty pounds simply by counting calories, but I seem to have lost that discipline. Repeated forms of motivation, like countless "biggest loser" competitions at work have rendered my efforts fruitless.

So now, it's time to dance with and old friend. I joined Weight Watchers this morning, the same organization I graced with my presence forty years ago, one hand grasping my mom's palm and the other a doctor's note.

I want this to work. I want to stop grunting when I get out of chairs. I want my knees and back and ankles and feet to stop fighting back and return to my squad. I want food that misses my mouth to fall to the floor, rather than a conveniently located chin crevice.

It's time to leave Limbaugh and go Gosling.