Two years and 190 pounds ago....

Time flies when you're becoming less fat, I guess.  Saturday will mark two years since my gastric bypass surgery.  It hardly seems possible that two years ago I was 317 pounds and waiting for my life to start.  It's been so crazy that I can hardly wrap my head around it.

So, how did I get this fabulously fit (yet flabby) body?  I mean, aside from surgically altering my entire physiology and putting my nutritional absorption abilities at risk?  Well, I run and do yoga.  A lot.  And not always because I want to.  As a matter of fact, I would much rather be sitting at home drinking wine, eating Cheetos and watching the Investigation Discovery channel plotting the untraceable death of my enemies. 

I mean running is dangerous, and not because I could wear out my knees, give myself heart failure, or fall on my face ruining my money maker either.  I watch all the crime shows.  I see it all the time.

“Mother of three abducted while on morning run.  No suspects have been found.  Her body was found in a bush near her house, with strangulation marks from her sneaker laces around her neck and an empty Mountain Dew bottle shoved in her vagina.”

 It happens.  Just ask Dateline.  Running mothers are a target, for real.  And I don’t even like Mountain Dew.

But I run and risk my life for the sake of a tighter ass, and the ability to wear my Victoria’s Secret push up sports bra.  I mean, it’s black and hot pink and makes me look like a buxom woman, rather than the B cup wonder I have become.

The past two years have been a roller coaster.  And I love rollercoasters because I think of:

A)    The fact that I can now lower the “safety” bar down without my stomach preventing it from clicking into place so I don’t go through a loop-de-loop and plunge to my death

 And

B)     I love anything that I am afraid of.  The adrenaline and the “I did it” moment that comes at the end is better than an orgasm.  Well, unless the orgasm is followed up with diamonds.  Then I take the actual orgasm over the rush, duh.

But this rollercoaster has had lots of unexpected turns and twists.  Some days the line to the coaster is short, you get to ride more than once, and when the secret camera snaps a picture of you to buy for a gazillion dollars at the end of the ride, you look like a goddess with the wind sweeping through your hair, rather than a stroke victim stuck in a vacuum tube.

Some days, there are nothing but road blocks.  Some days, you wait in line for hours, hoping you don’t fart after eating too many jalapeno nacho burritos because there is a hot guy standing behind you. 

Some days, the fucking coaster cars get stuck half way up the first really steep hill and you sit there like a moron, getting a neck cramp, while the hairy, bald guy with a wonky eye and no teeth fixes it, all the while smelling like the worlds biggest pot plant.  When the ride gets moving, you get motion sickness and vertigo and throw up the chili dog, cheese fries and chocolate shake you ate just before deciding that the rollercoaster was a good idea…..

And you throw up, both on yourself and onto the hot guy you spent two hours flirting with while in line.  Yeah, some days are just like that.

But in the end, I am embracing the choices I have made.  I am embracing my new life, the ability to run, the pride I see on my children’s faces, and the road blocks that will never stop me.