Re-learning how to type.

So I’ve been hacked. I take a writing hiatus for a few weeks (OK, almost a month) and the barbarians invade. I’m flattered. Now take your battering ram and Molotov cocktails and be off with your bad selves. There is truly nothing you can gain by hacking my little blog.

I just posted my most recent photo below (taken on Thursday, May 17th). I can finally buy clothes in Lane Bryant again, as evidenced by this very Lane Bryant outfit. I know, they are the devil — for only Lucifer himself would make sleeveless shirts and short shorts in size 28. I can assure you — you are NOT ready for this jelly.

It’s been so mentally therapeutic to buy clothes that somewhat reflect my tastes (as opposed to the tastes of, say, Liz Taylor). I can’t quite fit into leather chaps and crotchless undies, but you know damn well that’s where I am heading. It’s hard enough weighing 300-plus pounds. But it kills your spirit when you are forced to wear ugly clothes made of synthetic or paper-thin fabric simply because they fit. The horrible fat clothes are almost worse than being fat. Seriously.

I had an a-ha moment yesterday while at my three-month post-surgical checkup. The nurse started talking about the obesity gene. Not much is know about it, other than the fact that a child who inheirits the gene has little chance to escape it. 75% of obesity is inheirited. 25% of obesity is lifestyle. That’s what she said. Holy shit. I think of all the years I spent feeling guilty for my weight — all the years I thought discipline could solve my problems. God damn the medical society for even suggesting Weight Watchers or Xenical or Meridia to someone like me. You fuckers should know better.

Now, for the first time in my life, I am able to implement discipline effectively. I am not driven batshit crazy by the thought of a chocolate chip cookie. I still — and will always — need to exert discipline in eating and exercise. Surgery does not cure these things. It simply levels the playing field. I now get a bat, ball and glove like the rest of the normally-sized world. But I still need to push myself away from the hot dog stand and join the game.

Some other things I’ve noticed. Guys now hold doors open for me (they never did before). They even strike up conversations with me, whether I’m in the elevator or at the convenience store. I find this interesting, cause I’m happily married and wear my ring. I used to stand for minutes at the Clinique counter to get service. Now, she is right there. Theater seats are much more comfortable. The world is so hard on fat people — as if they need it.

I know I have said it before, but if anyone out there has a body mass index of 40 or above, you should seriously look into this surgery. Once you have it, you’ll wonder why you waited so long.

She who folds my undies.

untitledmother-in-law is a saint, have I said this before? She came down to watch untitledson during spring break. She took off work to do this. Certainly this alone would qualify her for cannonization. Not one to shirk off her holy duties, she then proceded to sweep out our muddy garage, do all of our laundry (two week’s worth), change and wash her own bed sheets and empty our dishwasher on more than one occasion. They just don’t make women like this any more. Let it be said that the greatest gift you can give your daughter-in-law is a week’s worth of free childcare and laundry service. I don’t care that she (gasp) saw my period underwear. They’re clean, folded and put away neatly in my underwear drawer, now aren’t they. She did fail to fold our towels in the shapes of little animals and place them on our bathroom sink, but I have forgiven her for this transgression.

To thank her for her goodness, we thought about stuffing some cash into her purse. But this felt a little indentured servant to us. So instead, we took her shopping. We bought her some Crocs (she would never spend $30 on shoes for herself) and some dishes are Pier One. At one point, I was literally chasing her around Pier One, because she didn’t want to let us pay. Good lord, woman. Get over here before I whip you with this sprig of pussywillows!

We also took her out to eat several times. We knew this would be a dicey proposition, since she gets a little intimidated by glamourous destinations like The Olive Garden. Always up for a good squirm-fest, we opted instead for an even nicer local Italian place. We had hoped to expose her to the wonders on linguini with pine nuts or maybe the lobster ravioli. But instead she ordered, of all things, the goddamned pasta marinara (but only after mispronouncing marinara and asking if it was a white or red sauce). We could’ve just served her Chef Boyardee at home and called it good. I would’ve ordered some bruschetta for an appetizer, but that surely would’ve blown a gust of cold air under her skirt.

untitledhusband forced her to drink a glass of wine, and before we knew it, she was all red in the face, trudging up all the guilt-ridden issues from her past. Like why she adopted two kids when they were living on poverty level incomes. And why untitledbrother-in-law gets to live at home for free when he’s 23 years old, whereas untitledhusband was basically on his own by age 17 (when he graduated high school). This is a woman that thinks only with her heart. And those kinds of decisions are rarely the right ones. But nonetheless, she is still a saint.

Hi, I’m morbidly obese. Damn glad to meet you.

Sorry for the infrequent posting, people. Work has been kicking my ass as of late (and we all know how I like to stick it to the man and write during work hours). By the time I get home, make dinner, work out, and put the little man to bed, it’s 8:30. And damn if I don’t want to sit on the sofa and watch American Idol for the last remaining hour of my day. Viva Sanjaya (or as I like to call him, Indian Michael Jackson). Blake needs to win, but I just can’t get enough of the po-hawk. In fact, I’m hoping to replicate the ‘do for casual Friday next week. That ought to go over well.

The good news is that I have lost 38 pounds since my surgery on 2/12 (a total loss of 56 pounds, when you count my pre-surgical loss). I now weigh 305. My BMI has dropped almost 10 points. I’m no longer super morbidly obese, just morbidly obese. For a woman who is 5’8″, if you weigh 198 or more, you are considered obese. 264 or above, you are morbidly obese. 339, you are super morbidly obese. Two words that need to be permanently extracated from the English language — morbidly and obese. Jeez.

This whole experience has been friggin’ awesome, people. Awesome enough for me to dust off the word friggin’ and add it back into my vocabulary. And awesome, for that matter. So many people out there are hesitant to suggest the surgery because of the minute risk of complications, to which I say “blah blah blah, my big fat foot up yo ass.”

But I tell you — anyone out there who is 100+ pounds overweight needs to at least consider this surgery. And what if you’re 90 pounds overweight? Well then I say gain 10! A few McGriddles ought to do the trick. I know, I know. Everything you read will scare the bejesus out of you. I was scared, especially when I saw these awful diagrams of all the changes they make to one’s insides. I would have anxiety about permanently altering my perfectly normal anatomy. But truth is, if it was perfectly normal, I wouldn’t have weighed 361 pounds. And wasn’t my anatomy already altered by all the extra weight I was carrying around?

The docs will tell you “this is serious surgery.” And they are right. But knowing what I know now, I would gladly do it all over again — even if it meant I had to take out a $60,000 loan to pay for it. You just don’t realize how much mental and physical energy it takes to be overweight until you start losing. I was one of those people who said, “I know I am fat. But I am smart, I have a good job. I found a handsome guy to marry my fat ass, contrary to untitledmother’s predictions. I’m fine.” But really, I had no idea how sad I was until this weight started falling off. Housework is so much easier. I dare say it’s even a bit fun. I had no idea I could run the stairs and not be out of breath. I didn’t realize how much self-confidence I would gain by simply being able to wear cute clothes again.

I’m like the opposite of an anorexic. I’m now wearing size 28s and I feel like I should be trying out to be a Denver Broncos cheerleader. I know that’s funny (especially to those wearing size 14s and freaking out about it), but it’s true. I actually look for my reflection now, instead of avoiding it. It’s amazing how much happiness it gives you to look in the mirror (or step on the scale) and be proud of what you see. It makes everything in life (even folding untitledhusband’s skid-marked underwear) more sunny. What is it with men and skid marks, anyway? As untitleddad used to say, “wet fart.” Wet fart, indeed.

I feel almost completely normal these days. I can go out to eat, as long as I choose wisely. Some things I have had include 1/2 of a chicken fajita and some refried beans at a local Mexican restaurant, 3/4 of a grilled Buffalito at Buffalo Wild Wings, and 3 pieces of sushi. And yes, I get quite full off of this (you think I’d quit eating mid-fajita if I wasn’t full?). I made the mistake of eating 4 pieces of sushi once. ONCE. I ended up in the passenger seat of the Jeep, straight as a board until the food began to clear out of my stuffed stomach. “What? What? Haven’t you ever seen a person digesting before.”

Now, all together now — let’s ask untitledhusband to take my picture so I can post it for you!

Junk in the trunk.

Did I say I’d lost 23 pounds? Make that 28 (actually 46 total, counting my pre-surgery loss). I have asked untitledhusband to take my photo, but it seems he is busy reading www.perezhilton.com right now. He has no shame, which is precisely why I married him.

So why five pounds in one week? I don’t know. I have been doing a few things differently. I have upped my daily water to 60 oz. (from 48 oz.). I also recently switched my exercise bike’s setting from a constant resistance level within my target heart rate zone (138 approx.) to interval training, in which the resistance alternates from zero-gravity to my-quads-my-quads-my-quad-are-on-fire. Since doing this, the weight seems to be coming off much faster. I had read on www.obesityhelp.com that there is something magical about interval training, in that it pumps up your metabolism. Notice they didn’t saying anything about the liquifying-your-leg-muscles part.

I’m officially on soft foods now (oatmeal, ground meat, cheeses, eggs, etc.). Unofficially, I have been eating soft (and a few hard) foods for about two weeks now. I ramped up slowly and was extremely careful. I have not gotten sick yet (which can happen when you eat something too sweet, too fat, too bulky or too fast). I only eat healthy foods with lots of protein. I am scared to death to try sweets (although I did have 3 of untitledhusband’s Junior Mints the other night). I kind of view my three Caltrate chewable calcium tablets as a sweet since they taste like big Sweet Tarts. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it bears repeating — do NOT make the mistake of buying the Target brand of chewable calcium (they taste like ashtray). I try a few new foods a week. Turns out I can tolerate half of a Buffalito (grilled chicken with lettuce, tomato and sour cream in a tortilla) at Buffalo Wild Wings. I also had half of a beef soft taco at our favorite local Mexican restaurant (or as untitledson calls it, “the place with the gum.”). untitledhusband says he has been surprised at how little it takes to fill me up. Meanwhile, I’m watching what he eats, and I’m amazed he can fit that all in (keep in mind, he is perfectly thin). If I eat one bite too much, I’ll get the sensation of a cannonball trying to pass through my egg-sized stomach. Very pleasant. In these situations, you will find me reclined, belly in the air, looking like a snake who has swallowed a rabbit. “Do NOT talk to me! I am DIGESTING! Arrgggh!” And then it passes, and I am ready for my cake and ice cream.

I am waiting for the day when I eat something that doesn’t agree with me, and I end up shatting myself in public or something equally as disgusting. Sadly enough, it won’t be the first time (see “Female poop etiquette“). I suppose this brings me one step closer to fulfilling untitledmother’s prophecy (in which I, like her, will be forced to carry a miniature roll of toilet paper in my purse and an empty coffee can in my car trunk, you know, just in case).