I'm Still Here!

Yes, that's right. I didn't fall off the face of the earth or into a crevasse somewhere in Idaho. Whether there is still anyone out there reading is another question, but onward I will go.

It's mid-August now and unlikely there are any beach days left, but should there be, I am there. Not having gone all summer I feel a distinct lacking both in my pallor and number of times I put on the swimsuit purchased in May that no longer fits well. If you're wondering where I've been, it's in part laziness, part lack of notable things to say, and part real life distraction. I spent the better part of the summer, and a month or so leading up to it preparing for the legal equivalent to water boarding, the bar. That is all I'll say about it here and hereafter because a jinx is a terrible thing.

It's been a tumutulous summer; the kind that makes you re-examine your life and wonder if you're better off living in a hut in Tibet or selling crafts on some dodgy street in Peru; in other words, hiding away from the world. Not counting the fray and subsequent discord that very nearly undid a year and a half relationship, a few weeks before the bar (great timing) I was told by someone so inconsequential to my life it's ridiculous that I appeared to be around the "2" mark. How this conversation got started isn't particularly germane to this discussion, but he complimented me on my noticeable weight loss before proceeding to slap me with one of the worst insults I've ever received in my life. If I hadn't done an immediate about face proceeded by a shaking of the head in an effort to bleach the remark from my mind, in a single moment I would have allowed this meaningless person to undermine an entire year of work, sacrifice, and gain of an entirely different sort than pounds.

Acceptance is a refined skill. I was filled in May with an extra cc. Promptly complained to Dr. J a month later that I was too tight, but kept it going so I could make it to my one bandiversary. I consistently say that if I didn't lose another pound I would still be content. More than content, happy, with what I've accomplished and where I am in my health and dress size. While that is true, I still march on, wanting more. I suppose that's part of human nature. Having reached my year mark, and sliding on those size 10 (that really needed bolding!) petite pants, a number I haven't seen in as many years and having to look, and then look again to make sure someone hasn't switched the tags I feel I'm at a precipice. A good precipice. A leap forward and away from the person I have been for the last decade, feeling fat and unhappy.

I once read in a satirical book, a woman pronounce herself as having a Doctorate in self-loathing with a minor in using food for emotional control. Jesus was that ever me. Except that instead of writing a book on how to embrace your big fat ass, I opted to finally get rid of mine. I haven't wanted to binge in I don't know how long and I don't sweat my ass off walking to work unless it's 90 degrees out. That's where I am at this year mark. And I am so incredibly grateful to my surgeon, my shrink and the multitude of others who helped me get here.

Forever 21?

It's been a while since I could realistically shop at Express, recommended to me again by a friend for the "Editor" pants collection. Specifically, it was college, and I asked my Mom if she would take me shopping because I was gaining weight and none of my size 10 or 12 pants fit anymore. (Sadly, this was the beginning of a downward turn that would land me squarely in the land of Lane Bryant and Target Plus for years) I was 20 years old, Express was the "it" store at the time in our hometown mall, apart from the Limited, and I needed some jeans that didn't look like they would burst at the seams at any moment.

I loved everything in the store, the sequins, the ruffles, the cling-y cotton tops. The tweens who worked there (apart from my friend Becky) were all sort of bitchy, but bitchy in the way girls that age are supposed to be, and because I was close enough to it myself I barely noticed. In the end, we walked out with two pairs of size 14 jeans that fit like a glove, and though I was grateful, I bemoaned that I was headed back in the direction of fat girl.

Sidebar- I went to AC with a group of friends two weekends ago. One of the two other girls going is my age and has an ecletic sort of Carrie Bradshaw vibe going and has always sported fun and usually "young" looking clothes. The other one is only 25 and the Express sequin-y clingy dresses are a staple of hers. My style (which I have grown into quite comfortably) is much more subdued, but I think sexy and fun in its own right.

With all this in mind, I strolled into Express just a couple of blocks down at lunch. I eyed a couple of the sequin dresses and even picked up a couple of the tighter tops. I felt better surrounded by the 21-something salesgirls when I saw several women obviously my age and even older perusing the same racks as I was. I grabbed up a couple of the only size 12/14 short pants in the place and headed to the dressing room. The girl that found them for me followed with a "we don't usually carry that size in short, so you're lucky." Yep- still bitches.

I started with some of the cotton/sequin dresses (in medium and large, not x-large thank you) thinking "hey, I can be fun and flirty too!" and dismissed them the minute they came over my head. I nearly cried when the 12 short pants fit up over my hips and zipped without a single strain, but they too weren't quite right. The shirt was long enough to be a mini-dress on me...if I wanted to look like one of the cocktail waitresses at AC, but would have looked ridiculous on me with jeans.

"What is this?" I thought. I'm not 45. I don't need to shop at Talbots just yet. My girlfriends (even the ones my age) that shop here look awesome in this stuff. WTF is my problem???

I guess, for me anyway, Forever 21, Express, and Charlotte Russe are behind me and I will stick to the lands of Banana Republic and Jones New York. It's ok. I had my time there, and it was good.

Haute Cuisine...or not

I recently finished a great read (made infinitely better if you are of the softer sex and were born between the years of 1976-1982...or so- it's a generational thing) by Sloane Crosley, called "I Was Told There Would Be Cake." I found her in an excerpted chapter on Salon where she covets the idea of a one night stand. Personally, I think they should have chosen the chapter where Sloane is propelled by guilt to the title of Maid of Honor (in pink plaid, no less) in a friend's wedding to whom she hasn't much spoken to since they were making forts out of couch cushions. Incidentally, this is exactly the type of book I can see myself writing- nostalgic and sarcastically dripping with humor- if my writing wasn't all over the place. Perhaps someday. Getting back to the point, in one of the last chapters/essays, Sloane laments her futile attempts to put together an elegant tart dessert in her Manhattan kitchen the size of a phone booth.

I used to bake. That is, I would occasionally blend a pre-mix of Betty Crocker Devil's Food Cake in the oven for 30 minutes and throw raspberries on top of it after mucking up the pre-made frosting 3 or 12 times and considered myself a lover of baking. This, when I had a kitchen in my converted apartment within a Victorian home in Massachusetts the size of my entire current NYC apartment.

I have taken criticism and and jaw-drops to my eating habits, or lack therof for years. I suppose, like all good children, I can blame my mother for this. Before I moved to New York, I had never tasted crab cake, or foie gras, and most of my foods were blissfully processed with things no one should be able to pronounce. Growing up, my mother had a philosophy that if her children didn't know what they were eating, all the better for them. Sadly for her, she had a wily tomboy on her hands who didn't want to eat if she didn't know what it was and would rather snack on the crabbing bait. Yes, in that manner, I shake my head at what a disgusting and quizzical child I truly was.

We weren't allowed cereals with sugar as one of the first three ingredients listed (seriously), enjoyed the state powdered milk and cheese for a long stretch, couldn't afford the more glamourous meal ingredients, and Mom worked a lot, so we dined on similar meals from week to week. There was no viewing of Julia Child, or Rachel Ray to come up with 20 minute healthy meals. So, it is that which I attribute my palate's adjustment, and ultimately, enjoyment of what others would consider painfully bland foods...and Lowry's Season Salt.

When I was 16, a six month stint working at McDonald's was all it took for me to swear off condiments for life. I still don't eat them, and won't eat anything that's remotely touched, or looks as if it's touched one. I fear change, obviously. The Subway folks hate me because I make them change gloves.

Today, with the growing list of foods I'm allergic to and the steadfast list of foods that make me recoil in fear and disgust, I have increasing fun trying to figure out what to eat. I once saw a Biggest Loser episode where a contestant was chided for his daily turkey sandwiches. "You're not going to eat those every day for the rest of your life, are you?" I took one look at the TV, and thought YES, by God, I can.

Moving to Manhattan, one of the foodie capitals of the world, has only highlighted this love/hate relationship I share with the stuff we need to keep on living. Amplifying this is that my kitchen really is the size of phone booth. There's a sink, but not a whole lot else going on there. No stove, no burners...my microwave sits on top of the small apt. size refrigerator and gloats that it's only really good for heating lean cuisines and campbell's soup.

One of my goals, and reasons for wanting to leave pristine Tudor City is in hopes of gaining a kitchen. A real actual kitchen that a 30 year old should have. Maybe once I get it I can work on expanding my palate. Nothing crazy here, there'll be no condiments- I'm not ready for that yet, but maybe I'll make a tart.

Confidence is Key

Not long ago, a new girl (I say girl, and not woman for specific reasons- see below) joined our firm and began sitting on my floor. She is a quintessential shlumpadinka (thanks to the source of that word- you know who you are) who consistently wears extremely unflattering clothes, man shoes, doesn't bother to do more than run a brush through her hair, doesn't wear makeup, and is considerably overweight. I can think of many TLC driven shows that would be keenly interested.

Why is this relevant, do you ask? Why does this girl- whose name I don't even know- bother me? How can I think such profoundly nasty things about someone I don't even know? I cringe every time I have to pass her. There was one occasion not too long ago, where she was wearing one of her blah white button-up shirts oh so cruelly tucked into her tummy flab and high waist pants that her entire right breast was hanging out of because she needed serious help from some double-sided sticky tape- and I was prepared to march her down to Saks to get it...alone with a few other essentials.

I realized recently that I hate to look at her (it pains me to look at her) because I was her. I'm not talking about me a year or two years ago when I was at my highest weight ever (but still dressed very well, thank you), but more like 10. This "girl" of perhaps 27 or 28 was me in high school. I say this because I don't get the sense that she's rebelling or turning down the "man" by dressing or lacking accessories the way she does, but that she 1. doesn't have a clue how she is presenting herself to the world and/or 2. lacks self-confidence and gave up trying (perhaps).

I recently watched an old French class VHS of me circa 1994. The hideous glasses, the tucked in t-shirt that had nothing to do with what the styles of the times were, the flat hair that I barely made effort to blow dry and brush, the lack of any makeup, the fact that I spent so much time looking towards the ground it's a wonder I didn't realize how ugly my shoes were....cringeworthy. Oh, and I did cringe. Jesus...I was Ugly Betty, without the confidence she carries or the trendy cable ratings.

When I had lunch with the friend who I made the tape with not long ago, we talked about how we had changed since high school. For her part, she's lost about 40 lbs and 6 sizes; and as for me, I gained a style (I like to think), and a confident sense of myself that I couldn't have begun to conceptualize back then. Life was just too shitty.

I don't know if this new girl on my floor is depressed or doesn't care, or just plain too tired at the end of the day to do more. I also couldn't ever attempt to intervene because it would be inappropriate and rude. But I'd like to. I like to think that makes up for some of the cruel thoughts I have about her appearance. I don't want to make her like me, but I could see me swooping in like the "what not to wear" guru's and turning her into a stunning reflection.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps she's totally comfortable and confident with herself and how she looks. Perhaps I'm a nasty bitch for this entire rant. Then again, if I'm right she could probably use some guidance and a lunch friend. Maybe I'll even have time to try that before I leave this place for good.

Tragedy Strikes!

Oh Holy God, I have grey hair. There is no way to sugar coat this frightening yet inevitable turn of events. So far, there has only been one rogue sprouting, wiry white fleck, but to be sure, more are coming. I completely ignored every old wives tale and superstition about 7 replacing 1 and plucked that sucker out seconds after I saw it.

I have vivid recollections of dying my mom's hair in the bathroom when she didn't want to be bothered with the salon, or felt it wasn't worth the expense that month. I have to add the caveat here, that as a granola woman who felt it misogynistic to shave her legs, she barely felt it necessary to do to begin with and mainly did so (I think) to appease me (though she always liked it afterwards).

If genetics have anything to say about things (and they will- we looked a lot alike) I have lots of white, unruly hair coming to me, particularly in the top and front. I'm sure wherever she is, she's laughing heartily at my current misfortune.

I've done the calculation, and I think I have a safe countdown of at least a couple of years before I can no longer pluck out random hairs and the non-stop coloring begins. Unfortunately for my hair follicles, which are healthy now after I stopped coloring over a year ago, I don't think I will wait that long. And so begins the death sentence...

Trials and Tribulations

So, my friendly readers...it has been more than a month since I've managed more than a thought or two towards this blog (usually just a passing "damn, it's been a while since I posted", and then I go back to Perez Hilton). Unfortunately, I'm afraid now that I've returned, though I do have some things to say, not many of them are cheery.

On the upside of things, I've been working steady with John, my personal trainer, for over a month now and I feel stronger and healthier for it. Getting to the gym on the days I don't meet with John are still a challenge, but it's getting easier.

I took Richard to Las Vegas for the weekend + two days for his birthday celebration. Expecting to gain several pounds in liquor and bad poolside eating, I actually dropped about 7 subsisting on a diet of cosmo's and not much else, including sleep. I'm thinking of selling the "Vegas" diet on the internet somewhere. I'm sure there's a market for it.

The big news waited until I got back, and had settled into the office Thursday morning. The news we had at least partially expected, but expected to take much longer had arrived. They're closing down my group, which means one of two things. I can either accept the extremely gracious offer of switching to something else within the firm, or look elsewhere if I wish to stay in bankruptcy.

It's Friday now and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still a little shell-shocked. My mind is racing with contacts and possibilities. I'm going to Connecticut this weekend for a fundraising walk. I guess I'm hoping inspriation will strike me on the highway, where my metaphorical highway of choices will meet the real one and a decision will snap into view. Wish me luck.

I am WOMAN, hear me rant

Kindly forgive the tirade- there is not much sense in the stream of consciousness to follow:

When I was 11 my mother told me the day I got my period she would bake me a cake. We'd have a little party with streamers and candles and celebrate all that is womanhood. Even at such a tender age, my sarcastic streak intact, I balked at the idea of raising joyous glee over something that would bring me monthly excrutiating cramps, emotional swings that would make any and all intelligent people avoid me for 2-3 days, tender breasts, inability to zip my pants because of bloating...and we're not even going to touch on the demon itself. Other women out there, I think, will understand why.

My mother didn't find out I had gotten my period (months before) until a doctor's appointment quite a bit later. To this day, I don't think she forgave me for robbing her of her earth-mother celebratory dance. Hoo-rah, we don't have penile appendages weighing us down and we are the bearers of all mankind...Hoo-rah! OK- perhaps that's a bit extreme, but she was irked. Her return to the feminine mystique at the time makes morse sense when I remember that it's the same time frame she came out as a lesbian. She was always a little granola, that one.

I was talking to a male friend of mine today, and somewhere the topic of his wife's stretchmarks came up. "She only has them on her stomach," he belabored about her post-babies figure, "but they're noticeable...you can see them from like 40 feet away." My instant reaction, given my penchant of late for cosmetic procedures was to tell him she should see a dermatologist, or a plastics guy if there was excess skin they could just snip off. It didn't occur to me until later to wonder WTF?!? since they didn't seem to bother her all that much.

Oh the sufferings we women endure (as I fondly think back to my summer readings of Nora Ephron and her guilt over neck rings). Even if we somehow manage to find acceptance in ourselves, to proudly take our clothes off in the gym locker room without feeling inadequate, too fat, or too thin; to wear that little black dress without a shawl; to manage to conquer our own demons of the non-flo variety, we shall always feel the need for more it seems.

I'm not saying I mind the upkeep, for there is male upkeep to, albeit of a far lower expense and production. I'm not looking to trade my breasts or my uterus (although, in fairness I don't plan to use it; so whose brilliant idea it was to give me one and deny thousands of women their own fair use is beyond me) on ebay for a penis and some testosterone. I like my heels for the power they instill in me when I wear them...the instantly sexy feeling. I would still get my waxings monthly even if I had no man expecting it, just because I like it. I would continue to have my weekly pedi/mani if for no other reason than the stress release of a spa footrub. I would even wear makeup.

But god damn it, if my man; after providing him his children from my ripped open nether regions following 9 months of hell and intense discomfort moaned and groaned at me about a few stretch marks; particularly if he was a little soggy in the middle section, particularly if he were lax in a grooming area...I swear I would raise some holy hell.

Somehow, I think we got the short end of the stick.

The Expense of Sanity

In this time of economic woe and strife, with Mom and Pop Midwestern clammoring on about the mortgage they can't afford, or the gas prices skyrocketing every day, or that they've had to cut back on their weekly trips to Wal-Mart, and practically begging for a socialized medical system, I find myself directed more towards the insane costs of keeping sane.

Don't get me wrong, I have a healthy dose of sympathy for those who are shelling out large portions of their salaries to get from Point A to Point B, but I just don't see it everyday; so like the adorable, yet starving kids in Africa that Mom and Pop are ignoring, I tend to ignore Mom and Pop. I like to picture them in little swaths of clothing with their hands together asking for more of my tax dollars to pay their bills. OK- I don't picture that...but it's a fair image, no?

I have never had a health plan that looked kindly on mental health care, and I've had some pretty damn good health care plans in the past. We're not talking HMO crap here. I'm beginning to think there's some sort of matched animosity between the insurance companines and the mental health providers that slowly but surely refuse to deal with them. It's like they throw therapy up there with other "optional" and self-driven things like plastic surgery or the chiropractic/accupuncture quacks. I can see the conversations they'd have with insurance compay reps insisting that therapy is hokum and malarkey they won't pay for and various psychotherapists shaking their dead chickens and voodoo charms back at them. HA

Owing to my emotional need to eat everything in sight these last few months, I wisely (I thought) elected to try therapy again with an LCSW (someone who doesn't care for the long and arduous route to PhD or MD land, so takes the quickie route of a Masters or even Bachelors' and a bit of testing). She was nice, soft-toned in her appeal, but essentially a sounding board who listened attentively (at times) and didn't have much to say back. I began to see the insurance company's point of only approving 30 visits per calendar year. Oh well...at least she was in network.

I have since upgraded myself to a full-on PhD cognitive behavioral psychotherapist...a fabulous combination of wit and intelligence in a package of someone who gives me lists of things to track. Upon my 20+ years of experience in therapy-land, she is by far the best I've sat down with to bare my long and belabored life story. The catch is that she doesn't take insurance. At All. I'm assured by other members of the medical community that the $150/hour rate she charges is quite frugal for this area and I should be grateful. The insurance company still refuses to relent though, and like all shrinks, personal trainers, and medical specialists, she wants to see me at least once a week. ONCE A WEEK? Forgive my snark, but if I'm not about to go postal or jump off a highrise onto innocent bystanders, that seems a bit excessive.

That's $600 a month. More than I used to spend on rent. More than I spend a month on groceries. Equal to a pair of almost-equal in therapeutic value Manolo's.

But I digress. My new, trendy analyst of psycho-babble; as comfortable a necessity in Manhattan as a purse dog, weekly massage and facial, or bugaboo is not alone in her requirements. From the churchdoor mouse LCSW, to the quack MD I saw for weeks who was clearly shilling for the pharmacopia in his drug pushing mannerisms, they all want you back, and back soon.

As the economy worsens, and belts tighten I may have to abandon my quests for better mental health care in favor of eating, or more likely the necessity of the summer dresses at Banana Republic. But I ask you...shouldn't we be able to have both?

Nip/Tuck

Last week I found myself sitting neatly on the pink pleather covered examination table, which was really more of an elevated chair, trying to figure out how best to cover my breasts for my introduction to the young and talented Dr.X, a plastic surgeon on Madison Ave. I had seen him once before, at a support group for bariatric patients, and he came highly recommended from my own surgeon.

Being of the rather well-endowed set for as long as I can remember (I'm pretty sure I had fantasies of breast reduction in junior high when most of my classmates didn't need a bra and I was inventing more and more creative ways of covering my full B's up), I had imagined how this meeting might go for years. However, no strings of imagination can quite prepare you for a man who is a stranger to you lifting and pinching your breasts in an orchestrated aria of technicality to show you how they will look when he's done with them; particularly when that man is very attractive, quite probably your age or younger, and looks more like he's 18. Hell, Dr.X is a man I might have dated in college, or even late-high school. (yes, he looks that young) I'm doing my best to avoid Doogie Howser references, but it would be appropriate under the circumstances. Since I'm sure Dr.X is a far cry from 18, prides himself on his medical accomplishments which took years to fulfill and would resent any and all Doogie references, I won't use his real name here.

Somehow I managed to maintain composure and decorum whilst Dr. X drew a large W on my left breast and lifted and tugged and the areas that will eventually need more attention than my personal trainer can provide. I asked all the questions I could think of; even throwing in questions I already knew the answers to just to keep silence from filling the room. Silence is a bad thing when you're standing half naked in a frosty room wishing to god you had worn the pretty bra today instead of the beige one that looks like it's for Grandma.

I'm pretty damn anal about medical research (if you couldn't already tell that), and even self-diagnosis. Much to most of my doctor's chagrine, I almost always know what I have and/or need before I even enter a doctor's office. The only things that eluded me as far as Dr.X were the specific prices, and his judgment about whether I should go for the tummy and breasts at once or have my doses of excrutiating pain separately. I had seen his work at the support group and was impressed; moreso than the dozens and dozens of other plastics guys and gals I had peered at online over the last several months. It seems shopping for a plastic surgeon is like shopping for produce. Those are too square, or oblong etc... Dr.X, along with his high recommendation had pictures to back up his reputation.

Since that day, and several peanut gallery chimings later about the overall pain of the procedures I plan on having, the relative positives and negative of having "gigantic hoohaa's", and thoughts of scarring, not to mention thousands and thousands of dollars to consider, I am still at somewhat of a loss as to exactly what I will get and when I will do it.

It will surprise no one to hear that my boyfriend enjoys my double D's so much that he's rooting for implants, if anything is done at all; that my girlfriends of comparably modest endowments would like me to save some of the natural tissue for their own surgeries, and that those friends opposed to the nip/tuck genre are telling me to avoid the "butcher" altogether.

Thankfully, in some ways at least, I'm not planning on having anything done until towards the end of the calendar year. Perhaps by then I'll have my mind made up.

Ayyyy Dios Mio

So I rolled over round about 3am; an almost instinctual body movement at this point which reminds me that I've had too much water before falling asleep. I move to shimmy my down the end of the bed, around my snoring boyfriend (believe me, there's plenty of nights when I'd like to just climb right over and wake his ass up as a reward for putting me in the bitch spot, but I don't this time) and it hits me. OH my f'ing god, the pain. My abdominal walls feel like I've been prison shanked on every inch of muscle, my legs are suddenly wobbly in ways they weren't before I laid down to sleep, my trapezius is throbbing...; and then I remember, I hired a new personal trainer. I'm PAYING someone to feel exquisite pain in the core parts of my body.

I suspect it will not go on this way. I suspect that the throbbing I've got from head to toe that's making going down steps as equally uncomfortable, if not moreso than going up them, will subside in time. I have a distinct feeling that the punishment I'm receiving now has more to do with months of inactivity than the workout I completed yesterday. But still.....DAMN.

I hired a new trainer because I have difficulty with self-motivation. When I was skinny I had trouble with self-motivation. This is not rocket science to me. I chose a trainer my friend had been with for the past nine months rather than to scroll the tombs of Craigslist again, or go skulking back to HRC or Equinox. It also helps that this trainer charges less than any Manhattan trainer I've seen, and the gym membership is discounted to boot.

Essentially, I decided in the last week I was done being controlled by my wobbly bits. Upon suffering tear-saturated glances in the mirror, I finally said NO MORE. If I had the courage to cut my belly open and have a band surgically placed around my tummy, I can get to a trainer and reduce the likelihood I will need plastics. I can work my ass off and get to the goal weight and fat percentage I want to be.

I will become one of those women who trot proudly naked through the locker room on the way to the shower, their saggy breasts and cellulite a glaring reminder that they too are not perfect, but are more accepting of the way they look. (But hey, If I choose to continue to hide, I fit in just one of those gym towels now instead of two- hallelujah)

My ass hurts today...my calves...my thights...my forearms...hell, I think even my toes hurt from the calf curls. But by some strange token, I feel better.

The Dreaded 3-0

Oh joyous rapture, I have landed amongst the thirty-somethings of the world. That statement isn't really the quinessential, dripping with sarcasm expression you'd expect from me; but it's not a glowing proclamation of sincerity either. The truth is, I have nothing against 30. I haven't lived in fear of it for the past year or five or ten. Unlike many women in my birthyear, I will not proclaim this to be my last "official" birthday, nor will I wince at the question of my age for the next five years.

My twenties were by and large spectacularly miserable. There were a few bright and shining moments centered around various graduations, holidays, and special moments; but I wouldn't exactly characterize them as the best of my life thus far. I took the long, hard road of school...followed by more school...and then some more after that. Because I'm an apparent glutton for punishment, I also worked...and then worked some more, and then some more after that in laborious and humiliating jobs that paid in a regular month roughly what I will spend on cabfare in the next few weeks.

I did it all though, because it put gas in the crappy little car I drove, enabled me to stay in school so I could continue to complain about all the hours I was working and "working," and imagine a better life down the road. I quite literally lived for the future then. I imagined finishing law school to have some fabulous job, go to happy hour every once in a while, have a fabulous boyfriend and family/friends I had time to spend with.

Upon super-speedy analysis of my current life, I can honestly say I have most if not all of those things. My job is pretty cool most days. It keeps my busy and challenged, and the pay isn't half bad. I don't work 80 or 100 hour weeks like some of my lawyer counter-parts, and I can enjoy going home to crap TV most nights instead of spreadsheets and midnight conference calls....OK, most nights.

My boyfriend is fabulous; and charming, and intelligent, and sexy. He surprised me with a couple of my girlfriends to throw me a surprise party at a local bar last Friday with decorations, cake, and open bar. I see my family...well, what's left of it, and friends in Connecticut every couple of months instead of once or twice a year...a marginal change, but still one for the positive.

I get out to happy hour every so often, and the club scene too. I don't have kids, so I can pick up and go to St. Croix on the weekend if I want to (and did). I can walk into a designer shop, buy something extravagant for myself and not suffer ills in my wallet or my guilt complex.

I've made strides for my health too, and down over 50 lbs and working on the next 40 or 50. I have visions of plastic surgery dancing in my head.

I have no parents left to die, so I've gotten major tragedy out of the way early!

Hey hey!! Thing are actually pretty good here. Maybe joyous rapture was a sincere expression after all.

So what if I still live in a shoe box apartment. So what if I can't eat bread. So what if I have bunions from my designer shoes. So what if I haven't exactly fulfilled my utmost career potential. So WHAT if I've still got cellulite. So what....so what...so what!!! 30 is good dammit!

The Lady Will Have the Fish..or the Soup..no, the Fish

Variety is the spice of life, or so they say. When I first met Richard he managed in a few short months to have me trying types of food that I hadn't ventured towards in 29 years of living. Duck, Lamb, a few varieties of fish, and some other things I can't pronounce were placed in front of me and I bravely brought fork to mouth, with some surprisingly good results, and some quick runs to the bathroom to discretly throw up the foulness that was trying to defile my tongue.



My picky, plain eating is somewhat a result of my adult-developed food allergies, but much more by my meager upbringing subsisting on chicken cutlets from Weaver instead of roasted pheasant with red potatos and sage, or generic cheerios instead of elaborate omelets.



I have an immense distaste (and what is considered a great oddity by many) for condiments. I don't put ketchup on anything but the occasional french fry. I won't touch mustard, mayo makes me gag, and the smell or taste of salad dressing does the same thing. I can't usually order from fancier menus without fanfare because of the amount of extras they put on dishes; particularly at mexican restuarants that aren't happy unless they've drowned your over-spicy chicken or beef with sour cream, guacamole, and salsa. Blechhh. I used to make the "sandwich artists" at Subway change gloves prior to making my sub because I claimed I had extreme food allergies and could be harmed by their chance of touching oil, ranch, or onions from someone else's sandwich.

Unfortuantely, I have been cursed as well as rewarded by my tendencies for the untouched. I don't get the fats from oils or dressings, but I also can't ever enjoy my former lunchtime staple, plain turkey sandwiches. Yes, just the turkey and the bread, usually a kaiser roll. Because of the lack of lubricating condiments, they get painfully, annoyingly stuck and leave my stomach feeling like there's a ten pound rock pressing on my esophagus in all directions. It sucks bad, to say the least.



So lately my lunch choices have been reduced to the following- soup, or....soup. Occasionally I'll be brave and attempt a few bites of one of my previous faves like a chicken parm roll-up from Fresco or a meatball sub from Subway. It doesn't take long for me to shake my head and acknowledge that it's not going to happen.



At dinner, I look for the soft stuff that gives me no trouble. Fish, or shellfish go down just fine. Pasta, occasionally, and if eaten slowly. Even steak or tacos seem to be ok these days, I'm just limited to size, which is the point of the band anyway.



The real problems hit me at lunch. I'm not going to order filet mignon or sauteed scallops for lunch. And so, the lady will have the soup.

Red Pill Blue Pill Old Pill New Pill

Earlier this week, I left my office with a tremendous sigh and a drag in my step, commencing the stroll two blocks over to meet my new therapist. I am somewhat begrudgingly undertaking this repeated step of couch-lying in an effort to improve those things that I haven't managed to deal well enough with on my own. I am cynical of my prior history with LCSW's, MSW's, PsyD's, and LPRN's, but not so cynical as to deny that I may need a little help in my quest for self-improvement, particularly with my urges to binge. I know where they come from. I know why I do it, and what the triggers are, but I am still obtusely confused as to how to effectively stop them, despite the unbeknownst efforts of several internet article authors and yearly humorous calendars.

It is with that cautious optimism that I feel obliged to pose a question on a very serious, much maligned, and equally praised tool for self-growth and healing. Why the FUCK does every emotional wellness practictioner cling to the idea of psychotropic drugs with the earnest of a crackwhore to her fix????

I can ramble on about my considerably fucked up family and past, and it raises nary an eyebrow...it didn't from this one either. But upon the first mention of the words Zoloft, Xanax, Cymbalta or Prozac, the pen scribbles furiously, the "uh huh's" change to questions on dosage, assumptions of efficacy, and immediate thoughts of trying a new something. It leaves tremendous suspicion that these people are little more than highly paid advocates of Pfizer and Lily.

I left the last shrink (a real one, not an LCSW, etc..) I had because every time I saw him he wanted nothing more than for me to remind him of my current dosage and immediately write a script increasing it. If I had stayed with him, I would be a zombie- comfortably numb, and imperviously sending hundreds of dollars to the pharmaceutical companies who sponsored him.

Yet I've returned again. What the fuck is wrong with me, you might ask? My first experience with "therapy" was when I was 8 or 9. Several attempts from then until late college left me with one seemingly undeniable truth- "therapy" did not work for me. In fact, it seemed such a waste of time, energy, and money I resented even the word.

Yet, here I am. Several months post-op and my eating compulsions have not faded, disappeared, or otherwise left me alone. In fact, in some ways they are stronger because of my inability to partake in them as much as I used to. The other stuff that puts me back on the couch, talking about uncomfortable, painful shit that does much better repressed deep inside some unused brain synapsis covered in cobwebs...well, we'll just have to see.

When I mentioned to the new shrink that I didn't want to be on the SSRI's for more than a few months, she asked why, with this look as if I had two heads, or just made a shocking statement akin to wanting a sex-change operation.

It felt like a lobbyist for the tobacco industry asking a 2 pack-a-day'er why in the world they'd want to quit smoking.

I'll keep you posted, but so far things do not look great for the soft-spoken shrink and her taupe-shaded couch.

Lipo at 13? WTF?!

There are 13 year olds out there vying for liposuction, tummy tucks, and gastric bypass. If I think back hard enough, I probably would have enjoyed the idea of a little liposuction on my thighs, possibly the hips at that age. Hell, I also would have taped my breasts down if I had thought of it. I'm sure based on peer pressure, poor self-image and the litany of other teenage emotional maladies that plagues american girls that plastics would be a welcome device. However; the trouble that draws my focus today is that I am reading that these things are actually happening. There are actually doctors perfectly willing to comply if the money is there.

As for breast implants, nose jobs, and the like, those are for another day; but TLC had a special on especially young obese people, and articles I've read regarding a very young teenager in Texas who had lipo, and then followed it with banding when she re-gained the weight. Don't even get me started on the Mexican doctors who don't care if you have a 30 BMI to start out and will carve you up anyway.

I remember the exact moment in time when food became a problem for me. I was a skinny kid- a tomboy...a girl climbing trees and the only girl at my catholic school welcome to play kickball with the boys (which worked well for me because my crush was always the pitcher). When I was 12 my Mom came out to us as a lesbian, we moved away from my hometown and friends, and my sister departed for adventure in multiple scenic homes for problem children all in the span of three months. Jesus, what a cocktail for kiddy suicide.

When we got to our new home, I weighed 83 pounds at a height not too different from what I am now. Puberty hit, and I have no doubt that attributed to a little weight gain...hips and breasts will do that, but by the end of eighth grade I was up to 115 lbs. Still a size 2, but not making any friends in the human form at our new digs, I found them in the shape of Elio's pizza and macaroni and cheese. I remember learning to hear the exact motor sound of my mom's partner's truck, so that I knew when I'd have to run to the kitchen and toss away whatever food was left in front of me. How fucked up is that? Another move, and the awkwardness of high school at my feet, I put on more weight, upping it to somewhere in the 150 range until I was the perfect size 14 (so sayeth the Caldor pants Mom bought for the new school year round about junior year).

I also continued to make friends, not at school, but in the kitchen. I learned how to hide exactly how much I was eating and the fine art of binging. Mom was decidedly no help in this department. I don't blame her, but verging on 300 lbs herself and more in tune with other things than dieting (or denial- take your pick), it never occurred to her to figure out why I was getting so big. I finished high school near 160, managed to take it all back off in the first year college; and then played the roller coaster of gain and loss, loss and gain, and mostly gain for the next ten years.

It took me years to come to the decision of putting a band around my stomach. I'm hitting 30 in less than a month, and I still have vast concerns about the idea of plastic surgery. I was a mature kid. I had more adult friends as a teenager than any my own age. I read Shakespeare and Plato with intense earnest while others my age were more likely to hit the arcade after school. STILL, I can't imagine on my best day I would have had the emotional maturity to make such a decision. Even if I had, my mother would have nixed me at the gate. NO WAY in hell, she would have said; and I would have tromped back to my room slamming the door for good measure. (Adolescent obnoxiousness did not pass me by entirely)

These kids are asking for, and getting advanced medical procedures at 13, 14, and 16. Still very young, and naive, they feel impenetrable and have no concept of informed consent. Worst of all, perhaps, many seem to see surgery as a quick fix (I speak of course to bands and bypass- not lipo, which in some ways is a quick fix).

On the one hand, I can see the optimistic side...save a kid who is pre-genetically disposed to obesity a lifetime of self-hate, loathing, social isoation and misery. On the other hand; it appears the ones to take the most advantage of this are the permissive parents who let their kids eat anything, sit on the asses all day eating twinkies and playing XBox and then trot them off to the surgeon to take care of the problem they helped create.

This is an altogether frightening proposition.

Republicanized?

If I can put aside the weight commentary for just a bit, I have a venting coming due of an entirely different variety.

I was raised a liberal. My mom had me marching in demonstrations against nuclear weapons wearing anti-Reagan t-shirts when I was still in diapers. I grew up as part of the working poor, standing in line for the state subsidized powdered milk and block of cheddar cheese they gave the welfare families. I played with other children in our little corner of the low-income housing where roach traps were common, and we were told to stay clear of the older kids who ran with gangs. We shopped at thrift stores and fabric stores for clothes, and toys were things like bins of cornmeal and kidney beans with funnels and empty sour cream containers. We didn't go to Disneyworld, and even Riverside, the local amusement park was a once a year treat.

I still think of myself as a social liberal. I believe in abortion rights, and help for the "working" poor. I think immigration is a good thing without complete amnesty, and don't believe in the death penalty.

I do however, carry a more cynical view of the lazy welfare-ites who find they profit more from remaining on federal and state welfare programs for years and years than putting in an 8 hour day at McDonald's. I carried myself up to my current Manhattan apartment and lifestyle by working my ass of for twenty years, so I resent those that would rather stay home and watch the next season of Ally McBeal on their huge flatscreen TV's (though they live in a trailer and for some strange reason can't afford groceries this week) while I get up every day and go to work. I have a limited view of "classism," as it purports itself, because I managed to crawl the hell out of it all on my own.

My mother would likely roll over in her grave to hear this, but she didn't live long enough to see my own sister subsist on government handouts for the entirety of her adult life!

Unless you live under a rock, you know that this week the government announced a tax rebate program that would give $600 to single tax payers and $1200+ to families with children. Even those that did not pay tax last year (thank you, EIC) but earned more than a flat amount ($5000?) will benefit from $300 each. Those however, who earn more than $87K as a single or $174K as a couple will get nothing. Zero, zilch, NADA. You are "phased out" and deemed to be part of the wealthy who doesn't need such a windfall.

That may be true if you're single and live in Bumfuck, Oklahoma; but if you live in Manhattan, $87K a year means you probably live with a roommate, you have trouble making ends meet just like everyone else, and you could definitely use a little break from good ole' Dubya and Nancy P. If you're a family and only pull in $174K a year and you have kids and private school, and nannies, and medical bills to pay for just like the rest of America, you're equally strapped.

I don't know about you, but I am personally PISSED and offended that my thousands and thousands of dollars I paid in taxes last year (Oh yeah, and I had to do a payment plan to get it to them) will benefit those that will use it to pay down their gambling debt or run out to Wal-Mart and put a few more kitschy things on layaway. I'm outraged that I'm subsidizing the jeebs that couldn't afford their rents in the first place who ran out and got sub-prime mortgages and SURPRISE! can't afford those either. Oh, and their friend the govt. is going to bail out the lenders too.

My colleagues had a response to my outrage and despair, "Welcome to the Republican Party."

How sad, how irretrievably broken is our system. My boyfriend is a Republican (it used to be that I wouldn't even date them), and we've had some interesting political debates of our own. I don't qualify for any of the IRS' "benefits" because I don't conform to the American norm of married, mortgage holding, child-bearing normalcy the IRS deems deserving. Then again, talking to my Manhattanite colleagues and friends, the only thing that gets them is a boost up to the AMT (alternative minimum tax- to those of you who don't have to bear it) basis, more evil than what I have to endure.

When it comes to economics, I am moving ever closer to the dark side, with what seems something akin to Darth Vadar breathing down my neck. If things continue down this route, I may even sway my side to the true dark emperor, Mikey Bloomberg.

I feel like screaming!

PC Philosophical Debate

Let's talk about the "F" word for a moment or two. I do not refer to that wonderful catch-all noun, verb, and sometimes adjective that isn't welcome on television or radio lest the FCC stamp you unsuitable and slap you with an enormous fine. I'm talking about FAT. I've used it here before, and plenty, but an article about its acceptance and the increase of obesity-hugging blogs read yesterday had me rethinking.

It's pretty taboo (even in this country) to point at someone and call them fat. Perhaps you whisper to your friends, or make pointed looks in their direction, but if you're going to refer to someone, the polite way to phrase it is "overweight," "heavy," "obese," "thick," or if you're 5'3", 200 lbs, and living in a fantasy world, "chubby." We've even made up pleasant acronyms (BBW) so that the fat women of the world can date without having to describe themselves as anything of the above, or lie and call themselves simply "curvy." But we who are (or were) fat seem to deem ourselves allowed to use the word. A difficult comparison, but not unlike African Americans and the N word, or Lesbians and the D word (incidentally I felt myself grandfathered in on that one because of my Mom), we feel entitled to call that F word our own and berate or compliment ourselves with its affectation.

There's a whole "FATOSPHERE" of fat acceptance websites, articles, and blogs out there of people who are tired of dieting, tired of people expecting them to conform to a size 4, or even 12, and just want to be loved and accepted the way they are. I used to be a pseudo-member myself. After all, what self-respecting person with decent self-esteem wants to go around feeling like shit about themselves all the time? Nobody.

But when you're verging on taking up the space of two people, can't fit properly into the rides at amusement parks, can't sit in a theatre without encroaching on the people on either side of you, can't ride in an airplane without a seat belt extender, or visit a buffet without all eyes on your choices, or even go up a flight of stairs without sweating like a buffalo, where do you draw the line between empowerment and denial?

My mother, at her heaviest (perhaps 280 or 290 and 5'1") would tell me when I asked her about losing weight that it took her 30+ years to accept herself as she was and she wasn't going to let anyone else make her feel badly about herself. A noble thought at first glance, but it also inhibited her from ever trying to do anything about it. She loved her food, her butter and salt on everything and would manage to find her size 24/26 pants somewhere. My entire childhood I was both deeply embarrassed and incredibly saddened by my mother's weight. I felt like in some way her weight problem was partly mine and my sister's fault because of our burden on her as a single mother. She only managed to lose weight when hit with the disease that would eventually kill her.

At my heaviest (which I won't divulge here in numbers, but suffice it to say was FAT), I wrote a brief commentary that was published in the Best of Salon Table Talk section. It was an enumerated treatise of sorts in support of those who were fat- that diets and exercise did not work for everyone- and the portion of the population that were genetically "blessed" with the extra weight should not be ostracized like a Calcutta leper colony. It also contained a list of things which made being fat intolerable, unhealthy, and not something to be celebrated.

When I read the words of Kate Harding in the Fatosphere, I know she has some good points. Not everyone with a BMI of 35 is unhealthy, no matter what the articles may indicate. There are a lot of factors at play.

But I also know that it wasn't until I could give myself an honest look in the mirror that change was possible.

Plateau: The Cold Arctic Tundra of Frustration

I can say with sincere elation that over the last month of winter-induced digestion of comfort foods that I haven't put back any additional poundage that I've worked so hard to attain.

People who have been no more than minor acquaintances in the office and out have made commentary on my weight loss, and it has felt good. Fitting into clothes that I couldn't squeeze into before has been a marvelous undertaking, and throwing to Dress for Sucess those size 18 suits was a triumph.

All that said, I feel I've hit a rock of sorts. I haven't seen my weight drop more than a pound in either direction in this last month. My surgeon would likely smile at that and be pleased with the slow loss, the evening out of things, so to speak; but it's difficult to go from 14 pounds of loss one month to nary 5 or 10 the next. It's tough, when there's a goal in mind, and the numbers represent far more than they should.

If I'm honest with myself, I know I can attibute the frustration only to one place..and that is me; to the two chocolate milkshakes I had in the last week and a half; to the grilled cheese and sodium-laced chicken soups I've had at work, to the lack of exercise.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, except that I needed to type, and get it out of my head and onto page. I suppose that's where I always work best. I think my goal for the next couple of weeks is to focus on re-attaining my focus to where it should be; and figuring out the next step of this band, where it will take me.

I'm halfway there, and the rest is decidedly an uphill battle...somewhere akin to the Himalayas. I'll get there.

In Defense of the Band

Yesterday, in a rare (these last few months at least) lull at the office I found myself scanning the message boards on MSN, and bumped into a post from someone looking for input on the lapband. She was the usual sort just seeking general advice.

In my enthusiasm for the product which has changed my life, I made the tragic, naive mistake of responding in earnest to her query, and the result was a two hour debate with uneducated, anti-bariatrics, likely-slender jeebs which left my blood pressure on high alert.

I despise debating, arguing, and to some lengths even discussing the band with those who don't have it, haven't done the hours and hours of research that I have, and yet remain staunchly opposed to bariatric surgery in general, and more particularly label the band the "easy" way out. I am not foolish enough to believe that I will change anyone's convictions on the subject and moreso find it an exercise in futility engaging in raucous debate with those who will never know what it's like to be in the situation of needing this particular tool.

Yesterday though, I took the bait, and lashed away at myself for it in the end- closing the window after a final post and promising not to return to engage myself further.

"ARGGGGHHHHHHHHH," I screamed at myself (quietly and inside my head).

In some manner of speaking, I feel this should go without saying, but since I have devoted an entire post to the subject, I am going to say my peace once more- both for those that are interested in getting the band, and for those that may read this blog thinking it is the worst thing in the world (other than RnY).

The band is NOT easy. Nothing about it is easy. The simplest part is the two hours in surgery, and you are not even the one doing that part. For months leading up to the surgery, you will face a mountain of psychological self-doubt, feelings of failure, acceptance, defeat, fear....you name it. You will put your body through the rigors of countless exams by strange and probing fingers, echo-cardiograms, blood draws, lung capacity machines, sleep apnea procedures, and the worst- manometry- a thick tube down your nose and into your esophagus for the better part of a half hour while forced to sip water at various intervals. You may fight tooth and nail with an insurance company with the supreme power to issue you one devastating word- DENIED. You will work with a dietician- just as you SHOULD if you were doing it the "hard" way, learning about proper portions and calories, fat, and carbs. You will learn to read labels if you can't already. You will have to start exercising and maintain it...just as you would if you were doing it the "hard" way. You will undertake the most grueling "diet" of your life pre-op, taking in only clear liquids and protein shakes leading up to surgery to make your liver optimal. You will be expected to lose some weight before they will put you under the knife.

Post-op, if you are unfortunate like me, you will face some of the worst physical pain you have ever felt in your life. You will not be able to wipe your own ass for a day or two and you will feel like crying every time you try to bend over to pick up something you dropped. You will invariably develop "dropsies" syndrome during this time and drop EVERYTHING. You will STILL feel hungry. For three weeks, or a month, you will not be able to eat normal food. You will continue subsisting on protein shakes, and chicken broth, and mashed potatos. You will have incredible gas pains. You may be terribly constipated. You could develop infections, or other post-op complications.

Once that's over- the real fun begins. You will have to go back to the gym. You will grit your teeth and get back to work. You will re-learn how to eat normal food while your stomach heals. You will have scars where there were none before. If you are wise- you will consider them badges of courage. You will continue to be hungry until you are blessed with your fills.

After your fills- you will kiss goodbye FOREVER some of your favorite foods, the things that brought you comfort when you were lonely, sick, feeling miserable. You will not be able to get that wonderful "stuff your face" feeling as before. You will struggle internally for months until you find a way to work around your brain's desire to eat, and eat, and eat and eat. You will throw up if you try to eat to fast, or try to eat things that your band will not accept.

You may feel a lack of energy, or downright faint on days that you just aren't able to get that caloric quantity that your body needs. Your hair will fall out. Maybe just a little...maybe a lot. You may have to buy a wig and develop a tough exterior. Your skin will start to sag in areas that the fat held it up before. You may have fill after fill after fill and still not feel "tight." You may feel worse when you look in the mirror than you did when you were a size 18, 20, 22, etc...etc...etc..

You will have to continue going to the gym, making proper choices with your food when you eat out, and you may have to hide it all from the people you care most about in the world because they WILL judge you, no matter what.

YOU WILL HAVE TO BE STRONG.

NOTHING about the band is easy.

If you get through all of this, and don't defeat the band, you will also lose weight. You will gain a confidence you may have never had before. You will see your clothes start to fall off of you. You will cry the first time you step into a regular clothing store and not only are treated well, but the clothes fit you in the dressing room. You will feel energized. You will watch the numbers on your scale drop to those you may not have seen in years. People will treat you differently. Sex will be better. You won't shirk from mirrors or cameras anymore. You will be proud of yourself, and the work you have done.

The rewards are too numerous to recount, and they are different for everyone.

So please- to everyone and anyone out there- do not try tell me that the band is the easy way. You have no idea what you're talking about.

Queen Size

Cable TV, in its 1000 channel plethora of vivid color, HDTV, fibre optic glory has no shortage, especially today, of after-school special variety "feel good about yourself"/improve yourself programming- in both the reality and non-reality based forums. The past week I noticed a few weight-focused things that caught my attention.

Yesterday, whilst putzing around the boards there was a post about a new Lifetime/WE variety made for TV movie with Nikki Blonsky (the plus-size chick from the new Hairspray). Titled the same as my post, it was about an obese high school girl who is nominated for Homecoming Queen as cruel prank, and then (I think) goes on to win and change the minds and hearts of her fellow students and administrators. Say it with me people....AWWWW. In some cruel twist of fate, this movie was on late last night when I couldn't sleep...on Lifetime or WE, I can't remember which, and basically they're the same channel, and I watched it for the better part of two hours until I couldn't stand it anymore. The fat girl, her socially acceptable slender best friend, her non-understanding, and in fact berating mother, her plight through the torturous gauntlet of high school, the boy that secretly likes her, and the requisite binging scenes of Blonsky downing Haagen Dazs and cupcakes.

Here's the thing. I get it. It's nice to have a message of "love yourself, and others will love you." It's nice to see something that shows teens a positive message. It's nice to see someone Blonsky's size (at 4'10" and clearly around an 18/20 [I'm guessing, but tried to find something on Google]- not so different from where I was 50 pounds ago) on TV; but good GOD this was so over the top unrealistic it does nothing to really help the younger generation with similar problems. I couldn't watch, except to think.. "jesus, was my ass that big when I was her size?"

At the other end of the spectrum, there's a new show called "How to Look Good Naked," (another fine product from the Lifetime/WE set) that I absolutely love. Hosted by an over the top queen-like guy who's not afraid to put your headless mostly naked body in full color on the side of a building for comments from passerby's; this is something far different from Biggest Loser, The Swan, or Extreme Makeover. It gives the same message about self-acceptance that the Blonsky movie does, but it manages to do it without making me cringe.

When I started down the surgical weight-loss road of life, I became obsessed with shows like the latter, thinking in my lawyerly black and white way that I was going to either be everything I wanted, or unhappy.

Watching this show in particular reminds me how far I have come; and frankly, I just flat out love the format. For me, Blonsky can go back to Hyde Park, or continue making cheesy movies for girls that won't help them in the end except to join her in a cupcake and say, "see, she gets it"...

"No Longer Qualify"

Just for kicks I went back to the lapband site today; not the message boards I frequent every few days to see what's new, but the official Inamed site. I plugged in my height and new weight, a number that before now, I hadn't seen in many, many years...eight or so, if you're counting. Wonder of wonders- I no longer qualify for the band surgery at my new weight!!! I've come down 9 BMI points, several sizes on top and bottom, and I'm really only half way there- unless you're reading this Dr. J; I've accomplished your goal as of this week.

Everything has changed. The way I look at myself, the way I feel about myself...it's all intertwined.

The holidays proved to be challenging. Dinner with the SO's family (who doesn't know), where it was easier to make a visit to the bathroom after eating than to refuse some or most of the meal in front of me. I became the poster-child for the band with family and friends at home in Connecticut who hadn't seen me since before the surgery, and a MAJOR nsv- I can now cross my legs, both ways..and without yanking on my pant cuff.

It's such a simple thing and something I'm sure most women who can do it take for granted every day, but I haven't been able to cross my legs since college. Every day it seems, there is something new I feel or can do that I couldn't before.

At one of the support groups at the end of last month, there was a lot of discussion about confidence and self-esteem; something I thought I had even when I was fat. A comment a friend made about me probably two or three years ago at this point has always stuck with me. She, for point of reference, is a size 4, and stunning. She remarked that she envied my confidence, my ability to walk into a room with a certain poise, an assertiveness. I always thought that was remarkable, given her natural gifts. I always knew I was pretty, that is not the comparison; but it was clouded for so long (literally, your face loses so many of its features when it's inundated with fat) by insecurity.

I felt before that I had confidence. I was shy growing up, to the point where I would hide behind my mother's skirts, but somewhere in college and prior to that I developed this ability to become assertive; primarily through forced extrovertion in social situations- where I was most uncomfortable.

When I was fat...well, fatter than I am now (technically I am still "obese"), I walked with an assuredness, I dressed well; but what was on the inside was ugly and shameful. I sincerely felt inwardly that I didn't deserve a lot of things...good relationships, a family, a better job, etc...because I overate, because I was this fat creature. It's a strange dichotomy, this false confidence.

I feel a change in that too. I no longer feel like that ugly person. I don't carry shame with me everywhere I go; and I am deserving of so many things, not just because my body is smaller.

For regaining that feeling, I will always be indebted to Dr. J., and to this band. It is nothing short of miraculous.