You look Flab-uous!

In a completely non-creepy, Silence of the Lambs way, I would just like to say that it would be highly beneficial on many levels if I could take the extra skin I am sporting as a result of this weight loss, and turn it into something useful, like a cool handbag or a pair of shoes. This shit is wackadoo freakish and I don’t dig it in the least.

On the top half of my arms it's total I-will-rock-your-universe-if-you-mess-with-me muscle thanks to yoga and the Shakeweight (yes, I own one and love it!). I will arm wrestle you Sylvester Stallone style with my hat turned backwards, ala the movie Over the Top and flex awkwardly to show you were the gym is on occasion. And if I can’t take you down with my super human girl muscles, I can flip it and smack you upside the head with the elephant-like skin hanging off the bottom of my arm like a fleshy stalker. Because the bottom of my arm will salute you with the eternal wave. It’s that flabby, leftover, extra skin that has nowhere to go and “hangs” around waving for days even after you have lowered your arm. And it’s pissing me off.

Don’t get me started on the beanbag attached to my lower abdomen. While my ribs are now present once again, and my tummy has gone down considerably, I am now wrestling with the extra, stretch marked skin that has formed a home in the shape of pizza dough at the bottom of my stomach. It is smushy and fun to play with, but I do not like that it hangs low, or that I can swing it to and fro. I do not want to tie it in a knot. I do not want to tie it in a bow. I will not throw it over my shoulder like a continental soldier…..ok, I’m done. But seriously, where is the justice in this? It’s a constant reminder of what I did to my body. No amount of yoga or running or pleading with the gods will make it go away. And I have to learn to be ok with it. Or buy lots of Spanx and just fake it.

Now, I’m not complaining….oh wait, yes I am! But it’s a little bit defeating that despite working out 5 days a week and following all the rules I don’t have the guns of a previous Biggest Loser contestant. I just want my body to reflect the time I am putting in to be better and to look better. On the same scale, I do appreciate the fact that I am healthy again. It’s not to say sometimes I wouldn’t trade some of my healthiness for a buff body with abs of steel and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, but I digress.

Back in the day, ya know when I was the size of a small house, I had a GREAT ass. A fat ass, but still a great one. It garnished its share of whistles and dirty compliments, and while it couldn’t always fit into a chair, it was still a pretty nice ass. Now, it’s flat, and a little saggy, and if I wear the wrong underwear, I not only get panty lines but I also have the honor or sporting four butt cheeks. Now, that’s sexy! I went from having an ass that was, let’s say “prominent” enough to be able to rest your coffee cup on to an ass that can no longer hold up a pair of jeans without a belt.

There are so many things about myself that I am still getting used to. Like the fact that I now have normal boobs again. No more 44DD’s for this girl. Now I have to rock my little 34C-cup with pride. And buy bras with super-human-push-up-powers to make it look like I still have a set of twins that you want to motorboat. On the flip side, at least now my boobs stick out further than my stomach so I guess I should shut up and be happy with that. Or with that fact that my boobs aren’t so deflated that I look like the December cover of National Geographic.

These are just some of the changes I am learning to appreciate and accept about myself. It’s not always easy and sometimes I hesitate to share all the gruesome details, but it’s my journey and my story to tell and if I can’t be honest and real about what it felt like, I always run the risk of forgetting and ending up right back where we started. And can you imagine what it would look like to re-inflate this balllon??

On that note, Merry Christmas to all!

WTFat?

Every once in awhile, my body speaks to me.

Sometimes, it says “Hey, good job being less fat! Let me allow you to button those jeans!”

Other times, like last week, it says, “Hey dumbass! While I appreciate your efforts at being more ninja and less flabby, if you don’t relax, hydrate and feed me, I am going to donkey punch you right in the baby maker and force you to lie down!”

I had a rather scary and unpleasant experience with low blood pressure for a few days. Basically, anytime I sat up, stood up, opened OR closed my eyes, or even attempted to move my head, the whole world got blurry and spun like I was on some demented merry-go-round while knocking back Tequila shooters. And while I do enjoy a good Tequila buzz and the occasional amusement park ride, this was not a good time for me. It forced me to come out of downward facing dog, turn off the treadmill, eat a nice salty meal and drink water until my kidneys were dancing the cha cha alongside my bloated bladder.

As my one year “birthday” approaches, my mind is clouded with thoughts and feelings regarding who I am as I lose weight and take back control of my life. There are days I almost forget I’m not that person anymore, so when I put on a pair of skinny jeans or put my hands on a waist where you can no longer pinch extra skin, it seems very surreal to me and takes me a second to adjust.

Let me break this down for you like this. In 9 months I have:

Lost 140 pounds.

Lost 15” from my bust.

Lost 17” from my waist.

Lost 16” from hips.

Gone down an entire shoe size.

Seems crazy, right?

Look here:


















I basically sweated and pooped out an entire human being. Nine months ago I may as well have been carrying my 10 year old son around on my back all day long. Yet when I try to swing a 20-lb kettle ball over my head I still feel like I might die. At least now I can do yoga without crying and I can run without my ass bouncing around like two pigs fighting under a blanket.

Now, you may want to take a moment to call the WHAAAAA-mbulance because I am about to whine and be a total ASSHOLE when I tell you how HARD this has been for me. When I started out, all I wanted was to lose 100 pounds. I have a photo of me on Facebook and the caption under the photo reads “50 Pounds Gone! Halfway there!” and I remember being SO proud of myself. 140 pounds later I wonder how I ever thought 100 pounds would have been enough. Then I wonder, what will be enough? When I lose another 25 pounds I will weight what I did when I graduated high school. Will that be enough? I feel almost unstoppable some days. Like, if I did this in 9 months, just imagine what I could do with another 9! Typically, you lose all the weight you will have lost within the first 18 months so if that is true I could achieve goals I never would have imagined for myself. But at what cost? My health? My sanity?

Because, if I am being really honest with myself, food and exercise are becoming an all consuming obsession. And in a completely different way than they were 9 months ago. If I am not researching the nutritional info in food or planning my meals, I am researching info on yoga, doing yoga, running or thinking about how much running I will have to do to burn off the food I spent all day researching, making and eating. Should I feel guilty for the chocolate I treated myself to or for the skinny caramel macchiato I just had to have after a long week?

Where do I find that happy balance?

When do I stop and allow myself to really be proud of what I have done?

When can I take a compliment without feeling embarrassed?

When is enough, enough?

And most importantly, will I figure it out before I exhaust myself and cause harm?

Eat me.

The day I have dreaded most is finally here. The day I remember what it feels like to be hungry and to want to eat for no reason at all. At almost 9 months and 130 pounds post surgery I find myself sitting at my desk wanting to graze and snack all day long even when I am not hungry. Like an alcoholic with coin in his pocket, standing in front of his favorite bar, I sit here in misery craving a Twix bar or a bag of chips to satisfy a non-existent hunger. I know what you are thinking: So, have a Twix bar or a small bag of chips, right? Well, I have and the craving….it’s still there.

At night, when dinner is cleaned up and put away and the kids have gone to bed and I finally get to sit down and relax, my first instinct is to look for something crunchy and salty, or melty and chocolately to stick into my piehole. It’s like all the ugly and compulsive desires to overeat and devour unhealthy food is sneaking up on me like a bad yeast infection on your wedding day.

I CANNOT go back to being that person. I would rather die than every try to squeeze into a booth at a restaurant or buy slip on shoes rather than ones that tie to avoid bending over ever again. I like being able to see my feet without having to lean forward. I like crossing my legs and buying pants that don’t have to be folded in half to fit on a clothes hanger. I like having only one chin and I like wearing clothes whose size don’t equal my age. Shouldn’t that be enough to stop the urge to binge eat? One would think so, yet here I sit with a skinny angel on one shoulder holding a fat free cheese stick, and a fat little devil on the other shoulder offering me a bite of his ice cream. That devilish little bastard is heavy and loud and keeps spilling drops of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey down my blouse.

I have replaced sitting on the couch, downing a bag of Doritos while watching Maury for yoga and running but something has got to give because while the surgery and the exercise will keep me losing for a little while longer, eventually time, age, life and mini chocolate bars will get the best of me and I have worked way too hard to ever let that happen again.