It didn't quite go to plan.
So there I was queuing up alone (thanks to Susie who promised to come but bailed at the last minute saying that her dog was depressed and she had to take him to the vet) and I overheard two women chatting behind me. One was blond, plump and short and the other was brunette, slim, but with a very rounded tummy.
“Well I need to lose half a stone to fit into the Dolce number,” the blonde said proudly.
Once they’d mentioned Dolce I couldn’t help myself and started suggesting places for them to find fabulous dresses. They were really happy to have my input until I turned to the brunette and asked, “So when’s it due?”
“Pardon?” She looked confused
“The baby, when’s it due? The reason I ask is that I brought all my maternity clothes online…” I continued until I saw the look on her face.
“I’m not pregnant,” she said through gritted teeth.
“When’s yours due?” she added quietly, her gaze lingering on my stomach.
“I didn’t mean you looked pregnant, it’s just you looked too small to be here. I thought you were supporting her.”
I turned to the blonde whose face was quickly turning a shade of crimson that didn’t match her yellow dress. I stuttered an apology but they both ignored me, which I think is really quite rude. Then they turned away and started talking loudly about how rude it was to butt into people’s conversations.
When I finally got to the scales I was quite flustered but the leader, who introduced herself as Nancy, put me at ease by smiling and talking as one does to a child; calmly, slowly using simple language. She looked a bit miffed when I gave her my Miu Miu handbag, coat and phone to hold but she recovered nicely just as I took my shoes off and popped them on top of the pile. Her face was slightly obscured but I figured she was probably grateful. The alternative view was a room full of porkers.
I stepped on the scales and heard this huge scream, which I was told later came from me.
“These scales are wrong,” I screeched. Well I didn’t think I was screeching until Nancy asked me to calm down. Apparently the scales were not wrong.
“I’ve gained ten pounds in a month.” I was sobbing but that didn’t stop the blond bitch behind me piping up,
“That’s one large baby sweetheart.”
“How much do you want to lose?” Nancy asked, her smile looking ever more plastered on.
“I’m suing Chateau Chateau for this.”
“Shall we say…?” Nancy started.
“Fine two and a half stone.”
Her smile wilted. “You don’t need to lose two and a half stone. You’re already in your healthy weight range so the most you can lose is a stone though I don’t advise it because that takes you down to the lower end of your healthy weight.”
After a long discussion about BMI that started with me explaining how I wasn’t even sure it was an accurate way to measure weight I concluded that a stone would have to do. Nancy insisted I stay for the “talk” but then asked me to leave when I took a phone call as she was harping on about the fat content of a pork pie. Apparently having a conversation with my hairdresser is rude. I think its rude interrupting someone when they’re about to find out if Marco really did shave a heart into his Chihuahua’s fur.
When I got home my smarty-pants daughter scoffed, “Mum, you’re pure embarrassment, do you know that?” Then my husband chipped in. “Who asks someone at Weight Watchers if they’re pregnant?” He shook his head in bemusement.
They both concluded that I am in fact very stupid.
Still I’m going back next week.