A Moment of Jen
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Sunday, August 11, 2002
posted by Jen at 8/11/2002 11:37:00 PM

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, and a thousand times no.

I'm sorry to have to disillusion viewers of one of my favorite TV shows, but tonight's Sex and the City got it all wrong. (And never mind that they're stealing my shtick.)

You cannot, will not, are not going to meet Mr. Right -- or even Mister I'd Go on a Date with Him -- at Weight Watchers.

Trust me on this. As a ten-year, seven-plus-times veteran of WW, as someone who's survived Points, Servings, Fat & Fiber and Weekends Off (remember that one?), plus a leader who wore more makeup, per meeting, than I've worn, cumulatively, in my entire life, and who'd get things off to a festive start by shrieking "I lost an ENTIRE PERSON!" (I was always of the opinion that she should've kept going), I can assure you that you are not going to meet nice single guys in Weight Watchers.

I don't know who the folks at WW paid off, but let's be real. Weight loss? Maybe. Lasting weight loss? Well, they aren't allowed to promise it in their ads any more. Love connection? Nuh-uh. In my experience -- which is, as I've said, extensive -- you will find only the merest handful of men at any given meeting, most of whom will either be A., dragged there by wives/girlfriends in preparation for weddings/high-school reunions, or B., weirdos.

I'm sorry, but there you have it. It may be different in NYC, and it may be different in the Weight Watchers At Work programs, where normal guys can get weighed in without fear of shame or public scrutiny, but at every meeting I've ever attended, in three different states, over 10 years, I have never even once seen an interesting-looking guy.

I think this has to do with a fundamental difference between femmes and hommes. My friend Ginny -- the one who turned me on to the swimming pool -- and I have talked about this a lot, in conjunction with something else entirely. Basically, we've decided that women are joiners. We're happy to sign up for a group. We like the support, and commIseration, and the social aspects of being with people working toward a common goal.

Men are different. Whether it's mastering a diet or learning a new skill or sport, they're more likely to go it alone. Diet group? Meetings full of strangers? Public confessions of how you gave into temptation, in the form of gooey cheese nachos? Most men won't go there. Most men won't even glance in that direction.

So never mind Miranda. (I did love it, however, when the Scale Lady got her weight wrong, and the leader bawled out the right numbers for all the world to hear).

Anyhow, on to the Anna Nicole show. She's mean to her assistant. Bad. She's sexualized her dog. Bad. She keeps her husband's ashes in a canister on top of her Hello Kitty TV set. Yikes. But I have high hopes for Bobby Trendy. Adam and I started counting how many times he said the word "luxurious," in connection with the rolling leopardskin sofa he was trying to get Anna to go for, but then he said "Luxury! Luxury! Luxury!" three times in a row, and we figured, what's even the point?
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