First week on Weight Watchers, lost 3.9 pounds and I’m thinking very seriously of applying to be their spokeswoman.

I mean, if Jared can do it for Subway . . .

I am not a diet person, I mean, other than being born female which naturally predisposes me toward such things. In my first 40 or so years of living, I was unfamiliar with all the various dieting options and never considered altering my normal dietary regimen, which encouraged regular servings of ice cream and the occasional Twinkie and Double Stuf Oreo.

But over the last few years, I have visited the other side, relapsed, re-visited and am now, officially, what I believe is referred to as a yo-yo dieter.

I’m not sure there is a clinical term for it, but I am the opposite of anorexic. That is, when I look in the mirror, I have the ability to stand at precisely the right angle so as to think I look pretty good and thinner than I actually am. But occasionally, I will notice subtle changes like my clothes no longer fit, and I feel forced to do something about it.

I tried Jenny Craig and lasted a week. No way can I eat freeze-dried and frozen food in a box and pretend it tastes normal . I tried Suzanne Somers’ plan, but in order to make that work, you have to either give up real sugar for life, or spend the day creating Baked Alaskas from one of her cookbooks with her secret non-sugar sugar, and there was no way either of these were happening.

 If I understood the Zone diet, I’m sure I could give you a good reason why I don’t like that either.

As a child, my mother baked all kinds of wonderful desserts and at all times kept a full stock of Baskin-Robbins Rocky Road and chocolate chip ice cream as well as a stash of Milky Ways in the freezer. My dad liked his desserts monochromatic — Sara Lee pound cake, Nilla wafers, vanilla ice cream – often combined into one big dessert.

In other words, sweets were not in any way forbidden, I had the metabolism of a housefly and yet I still allowed 18 years to go by without fully appreciating any of this. In fact, I rarely ate dessert at all, which , in addition to the metabolism, probably explains why I had to put rocks in the pockets of my jumper in first grade so that I could avoid embarrassment and hit the 30-point mark when Mrs. Bunce, the school nurse, wheeled the big scale into our classroom and announced our weights in front of everyone.

If that happened now, a class-action suit would surely be forthcoming.
Forty-plus years later, I am back to where I began, standing on a scale in a storefront of our local strip mall, only this time wishing it wasn’t illegal to be naked in full view of the Dominick’s parking lot. If one less layer of clothes guaranteed a better weigh-in, I dare say the place would be filled with naked women.

As it is, I kick off my running shoes, pull off my Nike Dri-Fit – which combined, weigh maybe 10 ounces – and step on the scale. I resist the urge to thrust my fist in the air.

I must say, I was not so confident going into the weigh-in, coming as it did the day after Yom Kippur. That’s because Jewish people traditionally observe the New Year by giving ourselves massive hunger headaches before gorging on bagels, lox and Aunt Elsie’s chocolate coffee cake.

I looked up Aunt Elsie’s coffee cake in my new Weight Watchers Complete Food Companion, but the closest thing I could find was worth more points than I am allotted in a day.

So maybe I would have done even better in my first official week on my new regimen if, you know, I had tried even harder on Yom Kippur, maybe fasted past 2:30 in the afternoon and had a little less generous piece of coffee cake.

But I’m also thinking, hey, 3.9 pounds including the bagel and coffee cake. This diet isn’t half-bad. Next week, I may have to work it in again. Atoning for my sins is working out nicely

I hate when people talk about working out, tell you how many miles they ran or how many push-ups they did.  

Writing about it, however, is a whole different story.

I can’t even remember anymore why I exercise. I’m pretty sure I stopped liking it years ago. I have no idea how to calibrate calories when I eat, so I definitely don’t know how to subtract them when I work out, and I don’t believe it when the treadmill does it for me.

I would say I do it for my health except that I’m so sore most mornings that I make squeaking noises, so I’m not buying that so easily either.

I do know that it makes me feel productive somehow, particularly when I’m not feeling so much otherwise. But then I can turn a load of laundry into a constructive experience if I really try hard enough.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I exercise in the morning, mostly so I don’t have to think about it, just go and get it over with. Also, I think I have less chance of throwing up with less in my stomach, though I’ve never researched that thoroughly.

Tonight, I went to the ‘Y’ because my daughter Amanda wanted to use the elliptical machine. She would like us to buy our own elliptical machine for the house, but much like her wish for a Cadillac Escalade to replace our embarrassing minivan, we ignore her.

My husband Rick wanted to take a walk, which we often do at night during the summer. And Alec, having no conscience at 11 to bog him down, simply wanted to eat another snack and play his new Wii game.

Our compromise was to all go our own separate ways.  

Exercising with your kids can be fun. I especially love it when the women in our aerobics classes bring along one of their cocky (re: cute and skinny) college-aged daughters and halfway through, the kid drags herself out red-faced and has to wait by the snack machine.

I didn’t watch Amanda tonight as I was busy hyperventilating on the treadmill while listening to Campbell Brown interview Whoopi Goldberg on CNN. I like watching TV while I am in extreme pain and don’t know how people managed in health clubs before each treadmill had its own little set attached.

I especially like watching Oprah and feeling very haughty as she and Dr. Oz talk about avoiding cardiac plaque build-up with exercise. But more often than not, I’m tuned into the Today Show watching Matt and the gang scarfing down Emeril’s jambalaya at 8 in the morning and feeling very jealous that they have such great jobs.

Amanda listened to her i-pod, which I embarrassingly referred to as a Walkman (they tell me this is not unlike when I leave the room in the middle of something good on TV and ask my kids to “freeze frame” so I won’t miss anything).

Then, after lingering just a little too long near the cute guy doing stomach crunches, Amanda and I debated how hungry exercise made us.

We all met up again, as we so often do, back home in the kitchen. There, we bored each other with our tales of exercise while watching Alec eat a giant bowl of ice cream.

It’s just not right.

Great story in the latest issue of Sports Illustrated about college football players who discover after their playing careers are over, that they are seriously overweight.

Most people would go right to the cover story on the Stanley Cup. Or the NBA Finals. Or even the feature on the 16-year-old baseball player they’re calling “Baseball’s LeBron” (more on that tomorrow). Me, I go right to the story about the fat kids.

I’m not being insensitive calling them “fat kids.” As one of them, Jeff Kendall, a 300-pound-plus lineman from the University of Oregon, said in the article: “All of a sudden you go from being a fat kid living the dream to, well, just fat.”

It was an interesting story, highlighting the fact that less than three percent of college players go onto play professional football while many of the rest are left to wonder what’s next. And for the guys whose bodies just need a break after years of lifting weights and working out and eating whatever they want, the 300-pound-plus lineman become 400-pound health risks.

And what lasting and meaningful impression was I left with after I finished reading, you ask?

How annoyingly unfair it is that men have such an easier time losing weight.

Granted, one former player, Nebraska center Brett Byford, had age on his side when he dropped 75 pounds in three months. I think if you read with a highly powered magnifying glass, you’d see underneath his “After” photo: “Results are not typical.”

And indeed, his diet plan was a bit unconventional: one meal a day for the first week, followed by two days of fasting.  

But that’s how men do it, no matter what age they are.

My husband skips his nightly bowl of ice cream for a week and he loses five pounds.

And how about the guys on my favorite show, “Biggest Loser,” who routinely drop 30 pounds in a week (If you’ve watched the show, you know I’m not exaggerating). On one episode, one poor woman contestant, after spending just as much time on the treadmill while pretending that a two-ounce container of diet pudding was satisfying her sweet tooth, actually gained weight. The trainer’s explanation? That stress contributed to her weight gain.

I’m not saying men don’t have their own problems. They get stressed, their cholesterol goes up and their hair falls out.  As much as we women can tolerate – childbirth and the communal dressing room at Loehmann’s springs immediately to mind – I don’t think most of us would handle baldness as well as our male counterparts.

But in the world of dieting, men have a distinctly unfair advantage.

I’m sure there are very sound physiological reasons that I could Google if I really cared about backing up my opinions with fact (this should also look good on my next employee background check). But I prefer to chalk it up to the gods.

 I chalk a lot up to the gods when it’s convenient.  For instance, when I was on my way home last week from two really encouraging and fruitful meetings concerning future employment only to field a phone call from a mean New York literary agent who told me that NO ONE would buy my latest book idea, I immediately determined two things. One was that of all the correspondence I’ve had with New Yorkers in my lifetime, at least 95 percent has been unpleasant. And two, that it was the gods telling me not to get too comfortable or too cocky.

And so it is that the gods are also responsible for men losing weight easier. The gods like it that most men don’t really care that much how they look. If I told my husband he could stand to lose a few pounds or that his stomach was getting bigger, he’d shrug and go back to watching American Chopper on TLC. If he said the same thing to me, I would cry and likely seek legal counsel.

His blood pressure went up and he cut back on the ice cream, got on the treadmill and now has it under control. He might like it that his pants fit better in the waist, but only because he doesn’t have to buy new pants now.

As for me and my friends, we talk about weight only slightly less than we talk about our children and much more than important world events.

I would come to some profound and maybe even witty conclusion at this point, but I have to go downstairs and pretend that blueberries and Cool Whip are what I really want for dessert. And that I don’t deeply resent my husband for eating coffee chocolate chunk ice cream.

The gods have no sense of humor.