Archive for July, 2007

Do these shorts hide my thunder?

untitled winehouse

Gosh, I feel a tad sheepish even posting, it’s been so damn long. Perhaps it would be less awkward if I just faded away into blog oblivion. Work’s been a shitstorm as of late, and I barely have time for my 3 o’clock popcorn. Blasphemy.

Don’t know if I’m looking any smaller, but I thought I’d flop it out on the table for you all to see anyway. Let’s see, as of this morning, I have lost a total of 85 pounds (65 since day of surgery). I am size 24/26 now, which means not only can I shop in Lane Bryant. I’m not even the biggest size in Lane Bryant. (If you feel the tremor where you’re at, that’s me shaking my bony ass).

Only 65 pounds, and you had surgery five months ago? Well, yes. Turns out I’m a slow loser. There are these old women on www.obesityhelp.com that have lost 20 pounds more than me at this point, and they don’t even exercise. Argggh! It’s kind of a bummer, but oh well. I have to stay focused on the big picture. I weigh 85 pounds less than last summer. Even if I didn’t lose another pound, it would’ve been worth it.

Last month, I lost like one or two pounds. Talk about a mindfuck. Meanwhile, I lost two inches from my waist. Anyone who diets has to know this happens. Now I’m losing again, but the inches are staying stable. The body is a fucked up temple filled with evil gnomes. The kind that make you weigh 280 this hour, and 276 next hour. I mean, seriously. There’s just no excuse for those shenanigans.

After doing a little research, I found out that the main reason that I am a slow loser is that my surgeon bypasses less intestine (like 105 cm). The benefit is that I have fewer food intolerances and nutrient malabsorption issues. In other words, I won’t be sucking up what’s left of my bones with a Dustbuster when I’m 50. The drawback — the weight comes off slower. At the end of year one, we all supposedly even out.

The hardest part right now? I’d say the eating. If I eat even a few bites past my limit, I am very uncomfortable. To the point where it just feels better to throw up. Don’t worry - there’s no looming bulimia here. If I was capable of bulimia, I would’ve fully embraced it and I wouldn’t have needed surgery.

There’s no pattern as to what makes me sick. I’ve thrown up on a small quantity of light microwave popcorn (which I’ve eaten many times before and many times after without consequence). I’ve also thrown up on, duh, a Cadbury egg (bock bock UGGGGGGGGH), a too-big protein bar (maltitol sweetener), and a Smart Ones fettucine and broccoli meal. Meanwhile, I have tolerated chips and queso and M&Ms (again, small quantities and not very often). So like I said, no rhyme or reason. I just have to come to terms with the fact that every now and then, I will hurl. But again — it’s worth it.

The most unexpected part? Ah, there are many. I was surprised at how quickly I began to feel better. After 20 pounds lost, I had exponentially more energy. My blood pressure had dropped considerably as well. My mental state, which I did not realize was suffering, has also improved. When you feel good and look good (comparitively), everything just seems sunnier. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday seem more like Friday, if you know what I mean.

I have also been surprised at how I have taken to exercise. I work out 4-5 days each week, doing 32 minutes on the elliptical, and about 15-20 minutes of weights. It’s not a leisurely workout, with me reading Good Housekeeping or something. I really get after it. The proof is in my hair. When I return to work after my lunchtime workout, I look like a truckstop whore who bathes in a bathroom sink. untitledhusband would say that’s completely unrelated to my workout, bless his heart.

I do see loose skin - under my chin, arms, stomach and thighs. I hope it firms up a bit. I have read that the slow losers like me usually have less problems with loose skin, so I hope that’s the case. I’ve also read that exercise really helps. Don’t know if this is true, but I’ll keep at it, especially since I actually enjoy it now.

About four to six weeks ago, the comments started flowing in, all of a sudden. “What are you doing?” “Oh my gosh, you are melting away!” “You’ve lost a shitload of weight, right?” That last one is my personal favorite. It’s more awkward than I expected, because after the compliment is given, an explanation is expected. With most people, I just say I’m eating less and exercising more — which is completely true. With people who look like they could use the surgery themselves, I am honest. I don’t usually like to bend over like that, but if one person goes on to have the surgery, it will be worth it. I find myself wanting to go up to certain people and say, “Seriously, just go have this done. You will thank me.” But I can’t do that.

All in all, this whole process has been so much easier than I ever thought it would be. I never feel deprived. I’m always satisfied. My cravings are like one-fourth of what they used to be. Don’t get me wrong — it hasn’t been a cure-all. I do have to work at it, getting my protein and working out and drinking all that water. But I finally feel like I have the same willpower and ability to be satisfied as everyone else.

Now I don’t know if this is just my perception or not. But I feel like people actually see me as a person now, worthy of having a door held open for her. Worthy of a first conversation. Worthy of respect. Before, I felt like an obese object. I had to work to peak people’s interest. My personality had to make up for my shitty clothes and all that fat. I don’t feel like this anymore, even though I am still quite fat. It’s amazing how much confidence returns with the ability to cross one’s legs. And I will continue crossing them until the surgeon uncrosses them for my varicose vein surgery when I’m 40.

Perhaps this wasn’t my most humorous post. But it’s where I’m at right now, as I sit on my porch listening to Wilco and the crickets. Give me a few days, and I’ll tell you all about how untitledmother bought a sweet little dog and returned it within three days, all because it was “too much work.” What a fucking loveless hag. Oh, don’t get me started… I need to go watch TV.

Speaking of TV… a free bariatric protein shake — banana flavored — to anyone who can attribute the title of this post.

The joy of socks.

Last weekend during a shopping-induced frenzy, untitledhusband and I dropped $473 at the mall. We don’t know how it happened. We went there to buy me a few new bras. My old ones have gotten a bit big, and were making my girls looking less like melons and more like two zucchinis. I also got some running shoes, workout clothes and socks, which turned out to be the hardest decision of the day.

So I walk into Lady Footlocker and drop the bomb. “I’m going to start running, so I need some running shoes and socks.” It can’t be everday that a girl of my size walks in with this kind of optimism, but the sales clerk held it together regardless. Once she recovered, she hooked me up with the most comfortable shoes I have ever worn outside of my Crocs, which made me question the cartel responsible for withholding these babies from the general non-exercising population. Must one run (or even leave the couch for that matter) to experience such comfort? Blasphemy.

After overcoming the orgasm induced by said shoes, I headed towards the large barrel filled with white athletic socks. “Low-rise or mid-rise?” she asked. I must’ve stood there for five minutes, trying to decide. This was a conundrum, for I am from the generation that has seen every sock trend imaginable. I have clear memories of wearing purple and gold knee-shooters while playing basketball in junior high. Somewhere between then and high school, socks became scrunched (all the better to showcase those pegged jeans). Now, it seems we have the invisi-sock. Unless there is a market for hosiery that only covers ones toenails, there is nowhere to go but up.

This revelation has me awaiting the return of thigh-highs — socks that would make even the thinnest of legs look like paunchy, cottony Greek columns. Socks that could double as Wilt Chamberlin’s sleeping bag. They would protect my inner thighs from the inevitable chafe of my early morning spins on the elliptical. I would gladly rock the look of the fat chick from Meatballs if it meant I could forego the Gold Bond for just one summer. But being an overweight 36 year-old from the Midwest, I fear my vision might be misinterpreted as high-functioning autism or worse yet, fashion ignorance.

So until the sock apocolypse arrives, it looks like I will be wearing the shorties. Every other part of my body is well-covered, but my ankles are out there, naked and free, spotlighting vein patterns that only moms and injured gymnasts have. I have one body part free from jiggle and stretch marks, and by god, I ought to flaunt it.