I give up. I’m going to Weight Watchers. In person, live and dreadful. I’m going to listen to the leader cheer me on, absorb all the advice to eat sugar-free Jello and fat-free salad dressing.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to shed my 50 pounds of spare lard over the course of the coming year. Something has got to happen. Because I’m deeply fearful that I could turn into the 647-pound lady on the Discovery Health Channel. I suppose it’s kind of sick that I’m always watching some horrific fat story on television. What’s more, I’m looking forward to the debut of this season’s installment of the Biggest Loser on NBC. I think it’s because I see myself so clearly in all those fat people.

So I’m off to Weight Watchers. Oh boy. I now accept that I can’t do this on my own. I’m weak.