Going on hiatus ...

No reason for this graphic except PINK is my favorite color.

I am still banded (surprise surprise!) and after my first fill there is practically still no restriction.  I guess this isn't unusual, and it may take a few more fills to have something really happening.

Anyway, I have two other blogs and I have been VERY busy with one of them especially.  It's a blog that grew into something more than a blog;  it's actually become an effective way for me to both celebrate and raise awareness about a particular breed of dogs (Welsh Corgis, which are actually two breeds), and -- this is the really ambitious (read TIME CONSUMING) thing -- put together a calendar with photos of over 200 of them in it to raise serious funds for the rehabilitation of breed rescues.

It's been exhausting, thrilling, tedious, but most of all rewarding.  I can see that it is finally going to happen, that it is going to look fantastic, and that it will be the first creative product I have ever truly conceived of, executed and published entirely on my own. 

For reasons of privacy -- I don't want to have my identity traceable through this blog and have people I don't want to know about my bariatric surgery find out about it -- I'm not giving the URL's for my other blogs here.  But if you'd like to know more about them, leave your name and contact information in a comment on this blog.

One of them is on Welsh Corgis (here and here) and the other one is all about my taste in design.  Mostly home design, but also fashion and various other things.  I love color and beautiful things and "romance" (not the Harlequin kind necessarily) and that blog is a way for me to express those things.

So -- if I don't write here for a while it's because three blogs going is too much for me -- but I will in all likelihood be back eventually ...

Take care!

I heart housework ... NOT!

God, I am SO up a creek right now with housework. 

I live in a very small place, with basically three rooms.  (I combine the kitchen and bathroom to make a whole room, with the living room and bedroom rounding out the count).  You'd think it would be easy to keep up with the whole maintenance thing.

You'd be wrong!

There is always, always, always something more interesting to do than housework, including picking the tiniest bits of lint off my newly brought out of storage corduroys.  Way more intriguing than a Swiffer duster ... trust me.

I had a friend in last weekend to help me get some of the most important things done, and that was good.  It was a start. 

Act One.

Housework to be continued ... tomorrow.  Or the tomorrow after that.

We'll see!



Ouch!

Day one post-fill has gone well so far ... there really isn't a WHOLE lot more restriction, thought what is there is more noticeable than before.

I've had two protein shakes, about a half cup of split pea soup, and a 4 oz. package of Wheat Thins.  (That many Wheat Thins were a no-no, but I'm not doing this perfectly).  I haven't had nearly enough water, I'll admit, but before I go to bed in an hour or so I'll have another glass or so, and probably another protein shake. 

The major body complaint I have at this point is my aching ankle and knee, which dog me no matter what I do!  I think I'd have to rest up for a week in order to calm these hot spots down.

(Sorry, Ben Gay). 

Back at the end of April I sprained my left ankle really badly (as in torn ligaments bad), and according to the orthopedist it'll take a year to heal.  In the meanwhile, walking on it apparently isn't helping.

The problem with the right knee is simple:  I sat on my butt for years and all of a sudden I'm walking around, going up stairs, acting like Wonder Woman ain't got nuthin' on me.  A for ambition, D for execution! 

I dove right into it -- particularly the climbing stairs part -- without a second thought.  They (meaning the people on my bariatric surgery team) said to exercise as soon as possible after surgery, so I did.  Walking was the easiest, cheapest (free!) thing going, I could do it right inside my apartment building throughout this Summer's numerous heat waves, and it felt good! 

At least until my ankle and knee started screaming blue blazes.

So that's where things are at today.  I'm having to practice patience, which means I actually have to find some patience to practice with. 

At least I don't have to eat reindeer dumplings.  (Globe Trekker is on the telly right now, and they're exploring the cuisine of Scandinivia).

Reinder dumplings.  Just say NO!

Wahooooo! Got my first fill today.

I feel so relieved it's done that I could dance the watusi ...

There's definitely some restriction. Not sure yet quite how much because I'm on liquids only for the next twenty-four hours (thank the goddesses I actually like protein shakes).

It's like getting the keys to the car ... let's drive this sucker!

Yay.

Reality calling!

I never fail to be amazed at how miserable I have to get before I pick up the phone (or get on the computer) and contact other people to ask for help!

I'd love to be the woman who does everything right, the first time, on my own, thank you very much!  Somewhere along the way I learned that this was the way to BE, and anything less than that meant BEING less.  Unacceptable.

Would I expect this of anybody else?  Nope.  So why do I deserve it? 

I know just where I picked up that notion, actually (entire books have been written about how these things get handed down from one life to another) ...  but I'd like to learn how to drop it off and leave it behind, for good. 

Thing is, I need help with it.  (Oh no, not that!)

There are ambassadors at the clinic where I got my bariatric surgery.  They're post-op patients successful at a year (or more) out -- some of them are three or more years out -- and they voluntarily make themselves available to those who are following in their footsteps.  Or hoping to, at any rate.

One of these ambassadors was a great help to me before the surgery, and she visited me in the hospital afterwards.  Super nice woman, a bypass patient whose husband also had the procedure done.  Their lives have changed for the better in so many ways ... so yes, she's an inspiration.

The thing is, I get afraid to approach these "success stories" with my own troubles.  As if they've never been there, never had similar obstacles to overcome.  I struggle to remember that people who are thin are actually the same species as I am -- a humorous exaggeration, but not by much!

It's just been so long since I was anything but an obese person. 

Anyway ...

My "fathead" thinking is getting in the way.  The "I'm not good enough" thinking.  The "they'll always be better than me" thinking. 
Stinking thinking!

The good news?  I reached out for help today and a very cool lady who got banded in '06 reached right back.  She is the soul of positivity and encouragement.  I feel some hope returning, after the desolation of the past couple of weeks.

I'm NOT supposed to be able to do this alone, am I?

If I could, wouldn't I have already done it?

Hangin' by a thread.

Ack!

Still in the "making alterations" phase of post-op ...

... knowing full well this will be of little or no inspiration to those of you hoping to get a boost from my bandit's blog, I'll just say that as I await fill #1, I am eating whatever I want, however much of it I want, and frankly Scarlett -- not giving much of a damn while I'm at it.

I'd like to be able to write that I've been virtuous, my diet's been pure as the driven snow, and am therefore smugly self-satisifed.  But no, none of these are even remotely true.

The one thing I can say is that I've continued my walking routine, even with the bum knee and ankle.  At least there is that, right?

People are telling me to be easy on myself.  That just sounds like utter nonsense to my addled mind right now.  But that probably means it's the most important thing I can hear.  When I'm seriously clinically depressed (which I am), I am averse to hearing helpful things because I doubt any of them will help ME. 

So this is where I'm at, and it's just me being honest about it.

Thanks for reading ... I sincerely hope you are having a far better day than I, dear reader.

image:  blog.craftzine.com

The times, they are a-changin'.

So, after an extended absence (during which I seriously considered deleting this blog altogether), somebody actually asked after my well being via a comment. 

Neat-O!

Not only do people have me bookmarked, at least one of them is actually reading!  I find this encouraging.

So thank you, reader(s).

Where have I been these last weeks ... well, truth be told I've been all over the map.  I have developed a condition my therapist likens to post-partum depression.  I didn't give birth to a child, I gave birth to a new way of doing things around food, and as a food addict that is HUGE.

I had been glossing over that fact, doing a pretty swell job of denying that I needed any more help with this, that I had the whole thing licked (pun intended), when in fact I was whistling Dixie cups in the wind. 

If this major life change has showed me anything at all, it's that I need the support of other people. 

Now I don't know about you, but I grew up in a household where there was a lot of fending for yourself.  By this I refer not to regular meals, clothing, transporation and comfortable shelter.  Instead, I refer to the whole emotional piece of life.  I learned what I learned in a fairly dysfunctional environment, from people who themselves were raised in dysfunctional family systems, and it turns out that you can get along pretty well in life for a while on your own smarts and charms. 

Pretty well, until those things fail to feed your soul (as they inevitably will, if your soul has any depth to it). 

It isn't the first time I've hit a wall like this.  In fact, the wall has the imprint of my face on it.  No mean feat, when you consider it's made of concrete.  (I can be very determined, tenacious, stubborn ... and thick as a brick).

Surprise, surprise ... in spite of what I learned, I'm not supposed to do Life alone. 

In the past two weeks, my best friend's cat died (and it nearly nearly killed the both of us, having to put her down), I lost NO weight, and I started bingeing my brains out again.  There's essentially no restriction with the band as it is, so I'm waiting for next Tuesday's first fill like a hungry baby waits for the bottle.

Thing is, as much as really do need that, I have large issues of self to look at.  Instead of eating, I have to look at them. 

Damn!

To those of you considering having this surgery, especially those who have been dealing with any sort of depressive or anxiety issues over a long span of time, I must warn you:  bariatric surgery will not only NOT fix those things, it might actually exacerbate them until you figure out other ways to "deal" than using food.

Make sure you have a support network, and be ready to use it!

On why I cannot keep (even sugar-free) pudding mix in the house ...

... because pudding is a binge food for me, and I can have pudding in FIVE MINUTES FLAT if I have the mix and milk (which I always have) on hand. 

If recovery and growth is about honesty, well this is the honest truth.  I can't keep even the "guiltless" versions of these things in my house yet.  Maybe someday, but not today.

How do I know this? 

Two bowls of pudding yesterday, kids.  An additional six hundred or so calories, which in and of itself isn't the problem, so much as the fact that I chose to eat instead of dealing with my feelings.  Weekend feelings, which are some of the hardest for me.

Can anybody else relate to the "weekend feelings" phenomenon?  When the hustle and jostle and routine of the week are absent and there is suddenly a lack of structure and routine to distract?

It's an issue. 

And issues gotta be dealt with.  (Damn!)

This time it's serious.

Well, I knew the pink cloud was going to dissolve eventually.  Nearly four weeks out from my surgery, it has definitely disappeared.

I ate it.

Now, without the fog of food, I am faced with all the stuff I was eating over.  All the stuff that was eating me.  It's up in my face, and I want to eat. 

So I've eaten.
And eaten.
Ane eaten.

Even without any restriction (still waiting for my first fill), there really is only so much I can eat without feeling sick.  MUCH less than I used to be able to eat, and before the band I wouldn't really get sick, per se.  I'd just get so full and fogged out that all I could do was sleep.

Yep, food drunk.  It's a real thing, and it isn't pretty.

So far I haven't ventured into any bread or pasta products, having heard such horror stories about them getting stuck (or worse, coming back up).   Luckily I haven't experienced a single episode of anything coming up ... it all stays down, though if I've taken in too much my stomach will hurt as though it's been stretched. 

The food is down but my "stuff" is up. 

A couple of people who care greatly for me have told me that I need to stop looking backwards, because the would-a, could-a, should-a's are not helpful, and in fact are downright nasty.  I've been advised to take the rear view mirror and break it.

"Caution, memories in mirror are closer than they appear" ...

And more dangerous, too.

Repeat to self, as many times as necessary:  I'm on a learning curve.  Things won't happen overnight.  There is no such thing as an overnight success.  Success takes time, effort and patience.

Ah, patience -- that's what I crave most of all!

Oh, shit.

I gained 1.5 pounds in the past two weeks.  That's right, I GAINED weight on a diet of protein shakes and (not a lot of) pureed food.

I'm perturbed!

I'm disturbed!

I don't get it!

My clothes are all fitting me more loosely than they did two weeks ago.  People tell me they can see the loss in my face, neck and abdomen.  I am feeling so much lighter ...

... or at least I was.

What GIVES?

On the brighter side, tonight's support session on "Changing Relationships" was helpful.  What a terrific program they have at my hospital.  Truly outstanding!

I'm resolved to get more exercise.  I've been fooling myself into thinking that so long as I don't eat much, I can get away without exercising regularly.  When they told me to exercise religiously, that it would be absolutely necessary for me to lose the weight, I didn't really believe them.

 

Silly rabbit!  Mind tricks are for kids.

After polishing off a six pack of sugar-free pudding cups (which solved absolutely nothing), I am ready for a night's sleep to wipe this day clean.

Yay, sleep!

Bariatric TV

I've become a regular watcher of the weekly "episodes" (10 minutes and under) on bariatrictv.com. They're fun (if a little dorky sometimes) and informative.


Here's the latest one; sorry it's so HUGE but I don't know HTML and can't re-size it.

Meet my motivation.

This photo of Scottish actor James McAvoy is the wallpaper on my PC.

When my mind wanders off into potato chip territory, I turn to Mssr. McAvoy, look deeply into his eyes, and imagine him saying "Do you want THAT or do you want ME?  Because if you have that, then darlin' you can't have me."

There really is no contest.  I mean look at those eyes.  Those eyes are talkin', and what they're saying isn't fit for polite company.

Not that I'm going for polite.

ahem.

Fun with protein shakes: lemon cheesecake!

Everytime I figure out a new way to glamour-up a protein shake, I want to share it with the world.  But since the world isn't tuning in to my puny little blog, I will share it with you, my faithful readers!

To eight ounces of vanilla protein powder, add a good shake of sugar-free, fat-free Jello pudding mix in lemon and cheesecake flavors.  (Not the entire packet, maybe 1/4 to 1/3 of the packet). 

I like to include an ice cube or two to make the whole thing colder, and a bit of water to make the whole thing last just a little bit longer.  If I remember to do it, I'll throw in some sugar-free fiber powder too, to up the ante.

Result?  Lemon cheesecake flavored protein shake.

It is yum with a capital Y!

Where the boys are ...

Tonight I'm attending a support group tonight for bariatric surgery patients on "Changing Relationships", and it can't come a moment too soon.

I've just entered the "Visibility Zone".  By which I mean I am no longer completely invisible to all men, everywhere.  Some men -- admittedly a small percentage -- are actually starting to regard me as worth a second look, a checking out, a lingering glance.

At some point, some men might actually pick up the phone and call me.  Haley's Comet comes around more frequently than men calling me (if you don't count the telemarketers).

(Eeeeeek!)

image:  vintagerotaryphone.com

Now, if it were the young Elvis -- and he was a perfect gentleman (ha!) -- I wouldn't mind.  But the net drags in a lot of interesting catches, none of whom have ever been remotely Elvis-like.  Well, maybe they fanced themselves as Elvis-like, but really ... delusional.

I'm not saying looks are what it's all about, though of course they do matter.  It's my own looks are the game changer, here.  As my looks change for the better, the invisibility cloak begins to fade and I feel ... vulnerable.  Even though I could still give the Pillsbury Doughboy a run for his money, I feel the change afoot.

How many times have I sat by the phone wondering, waiting, asking why?

Why isn't he calling?

Why can't I call him?

Nice girls don't call ... do they?

"Is the phone working?  Because ____ might've tried and couldn't get through!"

It's been more than 15 years since anybody with a male chromosome has asked me out on anything but a friendly date.  "Friendly" meaning no kissin', no huggin', no nuthin' at the end of the night.  Which I settled for because I was a B.F.G. (Big Fat Girl), and I believed with all my heart that this meant nobody would want even a casual kiss and cuddle with me, unless they were kids below the age of five, or my cats. 

I was married for a while.  But after a too-short time there was precious little carnal knowledge, most of which I had to pursue.  Wait for it ... can you hear the far-off sound of self-esteem ratching down another few notches?

My point -- and I do have one -- is that the tides are changing beneath my feet, and unless I keep myself on social mothballs, as I've been doing for over a decade, I will have to brave the sticky wicket of men and How Men Are.

There is always staying at home frisking about with my fabulous hair dryer!

They ask out, they put themselves on the line, they express interest (even when they already have someone else they are supposedly very interested in ... as in married, co-habitating, or leaving their toothbrush, toenail clippers and clean skivvies at their girlfriend's place).  How am I supposed to figure out who's safe and sane and who isn't?

I need advice.

I need to learn how to judge and fend for myself.

But most of all, perhaps I need to learn to trust myself and my own instincts, so that I can drop the scaredy-cat armor and actually ENJOY the attention, the opportunity, the fun of being desirable again.  At least to some.

Which is better than none.

Like my blog banner says, this space is all about my "misadventures".  If I can laugh and share them and connect with others around them, I have to believe I'll be OK.  That, and the obligatory visits to the shrinker, will see me through.

Can anybody else relate?

I'd love to hear from you!

Today, I weigh.

I haven't been weighed in for two weeks now, since my first post-op visit with the surgeon on August 10th. 

There's no doubt I've lost additional weight, so why am I nervous about stepping on the scale?

After all, "a wise woman can read her romantic future in a bathroom scale".  (See above for this tidbit of timeless wisdom).

Maybe I'm just still a little freaked out by being asked out yesterday ... by a senior gentleman with one good eye and too much aftershave.  If I keep losing lbs., will there be more of his kind in my "romantic future"?

I'd really prefer somebody like Scottish actor James McAvoy ...

 

... I'd like to order up a six pack of THAT, honey.

Yesiree!

I was just asked out for the first time in over a decade ...

... by a sixty-something guy who has one good eye and too much aftershave.

oh.

my.

God!

He may have had only one good eye, but he was certainly using it shamelessly.  Up and down and all around, thank you very much.

Should I count this as a Non-Scale Victory? I did get asked out, after all, and this is a huge step from complete (and ironic) invisibility to men.

Excuse me while I go wash the aftershave and heebie-jeebies off!

p.s. I didn't say yes or no, I simply said "yeah, I'm sure I'll see you around again sometime".

Which I think is a nice no ...

Pepto a-bis-mol ...

Kids, don't try this at home!

I've tried the experiment twice now, and each time the result was the same.

Another weekend, another illicit rendezvous with instant mashed potatoes. 

I bought a smaller package this time, telling myself "Oh, it's less than half of what I had before, and I'm eating so little nowadays, it won't be a problem."

Ha!  Bold faced liar!

There are some foods I absolutely cannot have in my pantry without eating The Whole Thing Right Away.  Especially if they are simple carbs, even better if I can easily get them down through my (still-not-filled) band. 

So that whole bowl of very buttered-and-salted mashed potatoes has stretched my stomach and left me nauseous.  This a-bis-mol state of affairs for a five minute episode of mashed potatoes.

Not worth it.

Not worth it.

Not worth it!

The scaled down version of me.

I don't have a scale at home.  As I've previously mentioned, I have no self-control around a bathroom scale.  I am, in short, a "scale ho".

If the number is down, I'm up.  If the number is up, I'm down.  My moods are random enough already ... having an evil scale in the house will just give me one more thing to obsess over, try to avoid even as I can think of little else, and use as an excuse to eat or not eat, or overeat and swear I'll do it all differently tomorrow.

Ah yes, the perpetual, magical tomorrow!

I have had decades of tomorrows, and mostly they led to more eating, more weight and more misery.  Tomorrows always came, and with them the consequences of what I had or hadn't done the day before.

The scale was a favorite tool of mine in that war of attrition, until I gave up even keeping one in the house because I just didn't want to know what I weighed anymore.

Now I don't keep one in the house because I want to know what I weigh, I just want to know too MUCH!  Better to weigh in every other week at the doctor's office and be done with it. 

It's nice when there are simple solutions to pain in the patootie problems.

 

Dahling, you look MAH-velous!

I suppose this is a second NSV for me ...

I saw a dear friend from my college days recently, someone I've remained close to since then but whom I rarely get to see, and he told me I looked marvelous.

That he could see the "old me" coming back!

OK, I'll take that! I've still got over 100 pounds to lose (give or take) but if it's that obvious already ... s'MARveLouS!

And it almost makes up for the lingering lumbar agonies of having danced way, WAY too much on Friday night.

Oh well ... such is the life of a "loser".

First Non-Scale Victory!

I went to a B-52's concert last night and shook my honeybuns to every single song!

Even Rock Lobster. 

Now THAT's progress!

Woo-oooo!

Bite me.

OK, so maybe I've become a wee bit obsessed of late with "plus size supermodel" Crystal Renn (who by the way is a size 12) and her story of having gone from a too-thin-to-just-right body.

The plain and simple fact is that this woman looks waaaaaaay finer now than she did when she was a size two or, er, zero ...

... thereby planting the suggestion in my thirty-years-of-reading-fashion-magazine-addled mind that I too can -- and will -- look waaaaaay finer at size twelve than at a two.

This is a new thought for me.

Size two, BITE ME!

Quote, unquote.

"I've been skinny.  It's fucking boring".

-- Kate Winslet

 

I want this blog -- and my journey -- to be less about losing weight and more about gaining a life.

Sure, at 277 pounds I'm well aware I need to lose weight.  But if I grow obsessive about what I eat, what I "can" and "can't" have, planning out precise portions and counting every calorie, what kind of life am I going to have?  Is it really going to be better than the one I have right now?   

Or will I (still) be obsessed with food and eating?

I don't want to believe the myth -- as I have for years -- that if I am skinny all will be perfect.  I was skinny once, I wasn't fat at all 'til my early 20's, and my existence was far from perfect. 

Very, very far.

 

Could it be that I'm searching for balance?

Peace of mind?

Renewal?

 

If I keep writing, I'll find out.

 

 

FOOD!

Have you ever felt like this?

I have.  Very recently, in fact.

It's hard staying on limited portions of pureed foods!  Hard because a) my brain wasn't banded and b) my band isn't restricting enough.  Or at all, apparently.

I start on solids a week from tomorrow.

Let's hope my inner Cookie Monster doesn't rise up and devour everything in sight.

First fill ... you can't arrive soon enough!

Hmmmm, mocha milkshake ... bariatric style!

My protein shake this morning:

8 oz. 1% milk

1 scoop chocolate protein powder

A few good squeezes of the Hershey's sugar-free chocolate sauce

1 teaspoon of decaf instant coffee

1 ice cube

+

SHAKE it UP!

=  

MOCHA MILKSHAKE!

Oh shut up, skinny bitches.

As someone who has known life (I use the term loosely) as a 350 pound woman, I can safely say that the whining of size twelve women who are dying to be an eight or a six sounds like so many mosquitoes on crack.

(In other words, annoying).

How has our culture coerced us into this hive-mind type of mentality where if we are not underweight we are grossly overweight? 

(I'm pointing the finger at you, Vogue.  As long as I have loved you, you are a skinny bitch and it's SO over between us).

If your bone structure and genes dictate that you are healthiest at size twelve, for example, then dieting and exercising to stay at a setpoint below that is working against nature.

(And it's probably making you bitchier to be around, too!   Nobody wants to say it to your face, but it may well be true).

If you are at a ten or a twelve and not of a clinically anorexic mindset, I'd be happy to share my size 26/28 castoffs so you can step inside of them and realize how InSaNe it is to think that size twelve is "big".

to wit:

Crystal Renn, Size 12 supermodel!

Read the New York Times article "Triumph of the Size 12s", 1/13/2010

If and when I ever get back into a size twelve, I hope to God I don't sound like a skeeter, but if I do would somebody please tell me to knock it off?

The devil made me do it.

I decided for myself that it was OK to try non-pureed food today.  (Oh no wait, the devil decided it, and then he persuaded me.  He's wily like that).

Come to find out, there's a reason why you aren't supposed to advance yourself to the next phase of the diet without being given the OK to do so. 

The truth is that no matter how fine a paste I think I have mashed that chicken to in my mouth, it's not as smooth as it would have been pureed.  So it's just sitting unhappily in my stomach.  Sure, it went down fine.  But I'm finding out that just because something goes down fine past the band doesn't mean it's going to be good for me once it hits my "second" stomach.

Feels like a golf ball is banging around down there!  How I would know what a golf ball banging around in my belly feels like I can't say, but it does.

And it sucks.

Now I have to wait longer to take my walk, because if I start doing my walking with this discomfort, it's going to turn to crampy pain. 

I hope I learn something from these little rebellions.  Otherwise they're just another form of beating myself up, and I don't need any help in that department!

the fine print:  I am PMS-ing, which exhausts me and makes me testy.  Maybe I was just too lazy to clean my blender and throw the chicken in there?

Nah, that couldn't be it ...

Ah, the smell of sarcasm in the morning!

image:  cafepress.com

Supplements n' stuff.

image:  allposters.com

Visited the apothecary (fancy talk for drug store, I feel fancy this morning) yesterday.  Ended up spending what would have been the week's grocery money on fiber powder, Biotin and Citracal + D petites. 

Works out fine, since all I'm buying grocery-wise this week is milk, milk and more milk!  I've got protein powder to last me 'til Groundhog Day next year, and the five cans of food I bought last week are still feeding me.  I guess that's the way it is when you eat tablespoons-full versus gigantic soup ladles-full of foods.

I'm not weighing in again 'til next Tuesday (I refuse to keep a scale in my home ... I know I'd be a "scale ho") and although I know I continue to lose weight, I have to fess up to being afraid of finding out just HOW much I've lost.

(Insert explanation here:  ___________).

One of my neighbors has started calling me "droopy pants" because my formerly tight legging type pants (black, of course) are starting to bag around the butt and belly.

I think she means it as a compliment, but damn it I am sensitive to the word "droopy".  Dippy and daffy are fine, "droopy" not so much!

Lesson #1:  I cannot control other peoples' reactions to my weight loss.


Rats.

This chaps my plus-sized ass.

OK, so instead of having bariatric surgery I could simply have washed the fat away?  Along with "years of age".

And nobody told me this WHY?

 

If I'd have known, I would already be 125 pounds and look like I did at eighteen, without all the bothersome protein shakes and pureeing, to say nothing of being poked in the belly by the doctors with their voodoo sticks.

Methinks there is a conspiracy!

But I WANNA!!!

Today I've got some bad cravings.  

image:  Jill Greenberg

I wanna EAT my face off.  I'm having (gasp) emotions and I don't care to feel them.  They are scary!  Food is easier.

So says the addled brain of an obesity patient.

Mentally, right now I'm about two.  As in years.  Two and toddler-pissed because I cannot have my way.  Or I could, but what I want is wrong for me. 

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

 

Alternatives to a toddler tantrum (though it's a little too late)?

Napping.

Walking.

Drinking.
Reading.

Talking.

Meditating.

ok FINE.  I wanna but I won't-a!

And I refuse to like it.

So there.

(More) potty talk.

Last night I bested my own record for number of times roused out of a deep sleep by my own bladder.

(Eight times).

This haggard look on my face? 

Blame it on the pee.

On the bright side ... FAT FLUSH!