A spoon full of sugar.....

…..makes you feel like total ASS. Seriously. I have always had what you call a “sweet tooth”. I craved sugar like a drowning man craves air. I had to have it. Starburst, Skittles, Lemonheads, Lifesavers, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, cake and ice cream were all my drugs of choice. For the first month without sweets, life seemed almost unbearable. I hated everyone I saw eating something sweet. I wanted to high five them in the face….with a chair.

As time went on, it got easier to walk past the dessert table without wanting to swan dive head first into a raspberry cheesecake. I could even smell cookies baking without salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Eventually, not eating sweets was just a way of life. Ironically I found comfort in making the things I can’t eat, because somehow just touching and smelling it satiated my need to physically inhale it.

Over time I started to allow myself a treat here and there. A cookie at a Christmas party. A small piece of cake at a kids birthday bash. A few pieces of candy from the kids Halloween stash. Then the late night snacks started. Instead of having a cup of tea before bed, I would have a few vanilla crème cookies. Maybe wash them down with a miniature Butterfinger or two. As long as the scale didn’t move up, I had it all under control. Until I didn’t.

I started finding myself stashing candy in my drawer at work. Grabbing a candy bar in the checkout line at the grocery store and eating it in the car. Grabbing a handful of chips while I was cooking dinner. A couple of times, the scale got angry and screamed big numbers at me. My once loose pants didn’t feel so loose anymore. So I would slow down, eat less for a few days, maybe try a laxative and then start over.

I started feeling like absolute shit. I was tired all the time. I didn’t want to work out. My body felt sluggish and worn down. I had headaches and mood swings. Most men would say this was just me being a woman, but after a year and a half of living a healthy life, I could tell it was more than that. I was OD’d on sugar and coming off the high. No one has created a rehab for that, my friends.
Food is a drug. Plain and simple. Like an alcoholic with a drink, you can’t choose to just indulge a little. You have to go cold turkey. So I stopped making excuses, put down the miniature Snickers bar, stopped buying those delicious vanilla crème cookies, and hopped my ass on the elliptical. I opted to eat supper an hour later so I would have no excuse to snack at night. I stopped bringing candy to work. I started prepping my foods ahead of time so I had no reason to skip over the uncut celery and opt for the carb filled sandwich. I stepped away from the bowl of Halloween candy and put my chubby, chocolate covered hands in the air. I surrendered.

My name is Lisa. And I am a sugar-aholic.

Surprise, surprise, once I made the change I felt better (after a few days of feeling like total garbage!). I lost the 5+ pounds I had gained. My pants fit again. I found a renewed energy. I started to believe in me again. I play the following on repeat in my food addicted head:

I will not fail. I am strong and I am capable.
I will not fail. I am strong and I am capable.
I will not fail. I am strong and I am capable.

And it gets me through.

Run, fat ass, RUN...

A little over a year ago, the way I looked at exercise and the confidence it could give you changed. I went to Vermont with my best friend, Sarah, to visit and to watch her sister run a marathon. No joke. She ran 26.2 miles. Without dying. And so did a lot of other people. It was amazing.

I remember talking about it on the way to Vermont, and my friend Sarah and I were talking smack about how crazy these people were to do such a thing. I mean who wants to spend 2-6 hours of their day RUNNING? Not these girls. At that time we couldn’t even fathom running a 5k. 3.1 miles seemed like an awfully long way to run without an ice cream truck or a check from Ed McMahon waiting at the finish line.

But then we went, and what I saw changed me.

People of all sizes, shapes, ages and physical capabilities….running. Some fast, some slow, some with walks in between, but running nonetheless. And as we stood at the finish line I saw people bigger than me, and older than me, and maybe slower than me (?) crossing the finish line. And in that moment, I thought….I can do this. Maybe not 26.2 miles, but I can run. I can at least try to run. I can stop using my size or age or fears as a reason not to do something. That’s the point. Stop making excuses, and try something new.

Now the funny thing is, I went home hell bent on trying the Couch to 5k running plan because, damn it all, I was going to be a runner. I never did quite successfully make it past the 2-3 mile mark before I realized that will does not a runner make. But my friend Sarah, the one who SWORE that she would run to support me but had no interest in doing marathons of any kind, is now one HELL of a runner. She is aiming for a half marathon, which is only half as crazy as a whole one, but is crazy nonetheless!

Did I become a distance runner? No. Can I run a marathon? Only if you give me a year and a lot of naps. The point? Get up and do something. Anything. Just turn off Maury (don’t worry, he’s NOT the father!), put down the Ben and Jerry’s, stop making excuses, and find something that motivates you. Whether that be yoga, or running, or mall walking, or competitive laundry folding….try something new today. You never know what you’ll be good at until you try.

It ain't all skinny jeans and rainbows.....

For the longest time, I was the unofficial spokeswoman for gastric bypass. People would ask, “Are you glad you did it?” and without hesitation I would reply, “Absolutely! Everyday!”. They would ask, “If you could go back, would you still do it?” and I would reply with fervor, “A million times over!”. Over time my hesitation to answer these questions grew. My answers became less enthusiastic, and more questionable.

As you can imagine, the height of my excitement came at a time when my weight loss was almost incredulous in nature. To stand on a scale week after week and watch the pounds literally dissipate was amazing. I was awe struck and blinded by smaller jeans and the reappearance of a waistline I had forgotten existed so many years ago. I overlooked all the missed celebrations, the bouts of “dumping”, the jealousy over those around me who could indulge in sweets or finish a meal, and the fact that my stretch marks were no longer hidden under layers of cheese cake created flubber, because in turn, I was not only wearing skinny jeans, but I was, in fact, actually becoming SKINNY. And trust me when I say that the only time that the words ME and SKINNY went together was when used in a sentence like, “Hey, give ME the SKINNY on the nearest Cheesecake Factory!”.

The truth is, when someone promises to change your life in a way that you had given up hope on, you are willing to take the leap no matter the cost. When someone says this will affect the rest of your life, it doesn’t sink in just how long that will be. But let me tell you, my friend….it’s a mighty long time. When the initial excitement fades, and the weight loss comes to a stand still, and you are the lone wolf at the dessert table, holding an empty plate and drooling over the double chunk, macadamia cookies, I can guarantee you, you are instantly reminded of just how long “the rest of your life” actually is.

Is it worth it? In some respects, yes. Whether or not we want to admit it, we live in a visual and judgemental society where first impressions really are the lasting ones. People look at me differently now, they judge me differently, and they accept me easier than they did the 317 pound me. I blend in better now that I can fit in an airplane seat or a restaurant booth. People don’t give me the stink eye when I walk into a store like Ann Taylor or Express, nor do they worry I might want to try on their clothes. I am no longer the fat girl with a pretty face. I am the average woman. I am just like everyone else. Is that a good thing? Not always. It makes me less memorable. Less apt to speak out because I’m not really standing for anything. But also, it’s a good thing because I don’t stand out. It’s easy. Sometimes too easy.

I find that I not only lost weight, I lost a part of myself. When I was the big girl in my group, I never wondered what my friends thought. I ate what I wanted, wore what I wanted and knew that I was accepted. Now, sometimes I look around and almost feel shame for the way I look. I try not to try too hard. I don’t wear revealing clothes because I don’t want people to think I’m a narcissistic whore just because I lost weight. I try to eat what everyone else eats, because I don’t want to be the annoying girl eating a salad while everyone else chows down on steak and baked potatoes. I try not to make anything about ME. Maybe part of it is because I am always afraid that I will inevitably fail, and I know that if everyone’s eyes are on me ALL THE TIME, it means they will be the first to notice when I gain weight back. So, by not tooting my own horn, they won’t be able to say “I told you so” when I fall flat on my fat ass.

These are only a few of the things that run through my head everyday when I wonder if I made the right choice. And I never thought it would be this way. I thought it would be all protein shakes, skinny jeans and fields of rainbows. What it ends up being is a lot of time avoiding people all together, looking in the mirror, pulling on excess skin, wishing I could trim it off with a pair of scissors, and never feeling like I measure up. And then, an equal amount of time internally beating myself up for feeling/acting like a total asshole when there a millions of people out there who wish their problems were as minute and trivial as mine.

So am I still glad I did it? I don’t know. Would I go back and do it again. I can’t say for sure. All I can do is deal with the fact that it’s done, and I made the choice to do it, and I have to learn to live with it and do everything in my power to be grateful for this opportunity. Because although hidden sometimes, it’s still a blessing.

I'm Baaaaccckkkk.....

It seems that the saying is true that time heals all wounds. Or cleverly disguises them enough so as to allow us to get out of bed and face the world each day. Whichever it is, I am learning to cope with the choices I have made in the last couple of years that have brought me to the place I am at today. I am learning to let go of some of the anger and resentment I have carried on my back like a concrete block and stand straighter and accept the consequences for my lifes actions. Truthfully, most days I am held together by tape and glue. But there are other days I am stapled and nailed within an inch of my life and on those days, even if only for brief moments, I feel strong.

Like yesterday, when I opened my email expecting the usual spam, only to be pleasantly surprised with a comment to my last blog from The Chicken’s Consigliere which read in part:

“This is the most honest post I've ever read. What a talent you have for putting it all out there. Come back to blogging. I'm not one to talk because I post maybe once a month, but you have a voice that needs to be heard.”

And so I re-read my last post. I thought back to all the self help websites I have read through, and all the bariatric support group posts I have laughed and cried through, and all the stories I have heard from the women I have come into contact with who battle through the same war I wage upon myself. And, in that moment, I realized that the true honesty that is derived from this kind of angst is rarely spoke of. The fact that I allowed myself to evolve from such deep self hatred to a liveable acceptance is miraculous in and of itself. So, if only one word, or one post, or one line from my narrative strikes someone in such a way that they ask me to keep doing it, I feel it’s my duty to oblige. It’s less of an obligation to anyone and more of….an honor.

I don’t filter my words or thoughts. So, that sometimes makes it hard for me to let down my armor and put it all out there for the world to see and judge. But until I actually had gastric bypass, I thought it was taboo and rarely done. Turns out, it’s popularity was not only ever increasing, but had become a last ditch effort for millions who struggled with their weight and food addiction. It was the last resort to outliving our shame and overcoming our demons. And no one spoke of it. It was as dirty a secret as a back alley abortion in 1950. Everyone knew people were doing it but no one said it out loud. And I just don’t get WHY?

Yes, people are closed minded morons much of the time. They spew ugly judgments and jealousies in the form of words like “cheater” and “lazy”, but until you have walked a day in my 5 inch stilettos or made butt molds out of your excess abdominal skin like I have, I suggest you either do some research first, or sit your skinny ass down on the couch, have a cookie and shut the fuck up. Allow us to do what we have to do in order to get back just a small part of our lives and our dignity.

And as long as these timid and embarrassed voices are too afraid to tell the world how it really is to survive this war, I will speak loudly, proudly and unabashedly. You don’t have to understand it or appreciate it, read it or accept, just don’t judge it. That’s all we ask.

So unFLABulous

Ok, so I am all about personal accountability and learning from your mistakes, but really with the leftover skin after gastric bypass? I mean, REALLY? Ya know those stress balls made out of gelatin or mens testicles, or whatever that creepy, squishy material is? Picture that as my ass cheeks. All 6 of them. And you know how you look at a St Bernard and think, “Aw, his jowls are so cute I just want to squeeze them?” Well, that is exactly how you feel if you looked at my stomach. Ooooh, and you know how you used to try to fit 2 quarts of water into a 1 quart balloon when you were a kid and it would sag and then lay unbroken and useless on the ground after trying to throw it. You guessed it, my tits. Some might say it’s a small price to pay after having lost 180+ pounds. I say it’s about 20 pounds of what-the-fuck attached all over my disfigured body as a constant reminder of late night mini pizzas and entire bags of Doritos.

I’m not gonna lie here, I was a total self righteous ASSHOLE when I got my surgery. I was all “I’m not gonna have loose skin because I work out and follow the rules, plus I am all super awesome and my fat ass can defy gravity AND physics so suck on that flabby people!!”. And then, right around losing 150 pounds it happened. I woke up one morning looking like a Sharpei that is one vet visit from being put down. Things just….hung there. Like, “Um yeah, sorry to do this but we have NOWHERE to go so, yeah we are just gonna hang out here….sorry about that”. And I was all like “Really? 12 months of yoga, running, sweating, hiking, eating fat free, sugar free, high protein, low taste bullshit and this is what I get?” And my pants were all like “Hey, at least we are smaller and you don’t sweat in weird places anymore!”. Silver lining….tinged with sarcasm and bitterness. And smells strangely like popcorn.

Don’t get me wrong, I am so eternally grateful to the amazing Dr. O’Malley at Highland Hospital for giving me my life back. And I never did expect to look like I did when I was 18, but I also didn’t expect to look like I probably will at 80 either. In clothes, I rock. See?

But undressed I am a hot, flabby mess. I know I am not alone and there is a secret society out there that no one wants to admit membership to, where other women are undressing and looking like they are Body By Silly Putty but sometimes I feel very isolated in my disappointment. It’s like a giant conspiracy theory going on between the gastric bypass surgeons and the plastic surgeons. And it is what it is, as money makes the world go round, but in a utopian society aftercare would be a part of the process. There would be the gastric bypass and after you have been successful in losing the weight, there would be skin removal. And if one was covered by health insurance for medical reasons, the other should be covered for mental reasons. Because I look in the mirror and DO NOT see what everyone else sees. I still see the insecure fat girl who tells jokes and puts on an air of self confidence to avoid letting the world see how hurt she really is. I feel like I have worked so hard to get to this place and while I am proud of myself for accomplishing so much more than I ever gave myself credit for, I am also disappointed in the fact that I am left with this constant reminder of my past mistakes.

Most days, I am ok. Most days I put on a dress or an outfit and look in the mirror and think, “Wow girl, you did it. You actually pulled it off you crazy bitch!” And other days I think, “Just one more favor God. Just one more. I know it’s selfish and I know there are a million other way more important things in the world that need your attention, but please, just make me feel normal again.”

So, in short, yes, I am "skinny"…..sort of. And yes, I am grateful for the most part. And for the part that is a whiney, ungrateful little bitch who cries like a 5 year old who dropped her ice cream on the ground just as the ice cream truck pulled away, a glass of wine and a reality check usually shuts her the fuck up. But if anyone has an extra $20k lying around that they were just dying to get rid of, or if anyone knows of a good plastic surgeon (or one that performs free surgeries out of their basement with a rusty butter knife and a staple gun), feel free to send either gift my way. Please and thank you.

Just Relax(ative). Shit happens.

Instead of the usual TMI Thursdays, how about a WTF Wednesday to break up your week? You're down with that? Awesome. Let's roll, bitches.

So first and foremost, there have been many bodily changes that I have had to adjust to since gastric bypass. How and when to eat or drink. What foods upset my delicate balance (I know. Ha Ha, me...delicate). What underwear will suck in what is left of my gut while not giving me four buttcheeks. But the one thing I have not been able to get a handle on is my inability to....how should I say this mildly....drop a deuce on a regular basis (total pun!). For those of you who are ebonically challenged...I no longer have the ability to regularly:

-drop the Cosby kids off at the pool or

-make the prairie dog come out of the hole or

- pop a squat or

-leave a sacrifice for the porcelain Gods or

-make a caca

In laymens terms....I can't take a shit when I want to. At least not without the aid of a strong laxative and my husbands coffee. I don't know how many people will admit this out loud, but I have no internal filter so I will freely say that I enjoy a good, strong morning porcelain smackdown. I want to cleanse my colon on a daily basis so I don't have to walk around with my pants unbuttoned looking like a bloated Roseanne Barr.

I eat LOTS of fiber. I eat LOTS of fruit. I drink kind of a lot of water (even if only to flush the alcohol out), and I workout. I rarely indulge and I have done everything short of reaching my arm up elbow deep into my poop shoot to pull the shit out myself. The only thing that stops me is the tattoo next to my asshole that says "EXIT ONLY" in big black letters.

So on a weekly basis, I have to clear my schedule to clear my colon. I have to take a day off from life to suck back a couple of laxatives, find a couple of good magazines, and make sure the toilet seat is warm. As disgusting as that sounds, it feels sooooo good. To free my body of all that toxic buildup and not walk around looking like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day float is glorious and freeing. And I don't apologize for it.

And FYI to those who wish to attempt this vile form of excretive therapy, let me warn you....whether you are linking up to be BFF's with Ex-Lax or Dulcolax, they are all LIARS. If the box says "Gentle Overnight Relief" it basically means that if you take it and expect a solid 8 hours of sleep, you will be rudely awakened within 4-5 hours with cramps, the night sweats and you will prairie dog your laxative taking ass to the bathroom at record speed. You will find yourself projecting out of bed like something out of the Exorcist as you run down the hall in the dark while yanking your pants down around your ankles. Chances are your colon will be empty before you are even fully awake enough to realize what just happened.

My advice: take it in the morning and clear your schedule. Don't do ANYTHING that takes you more than 10 feet from the porcelain throne. Put your phone around your neck because you won't remember to grab it before the mad dash and remember to stick a bookmark in your favorite magazine. Because you will pay tribute more than once. Or twice. And don't wear thongs. Or white underwear. As a matter of fact, just wrap your ass in paper towels and call it a day.

The most important thing I can share with you is this....

After taking a laxative,

Don't trust a fart for 12-24 hours.

I'm just saying.

TMI and other things you never wanted to know about me...

I think it’s time to set the record straight and lay it all out there. People think they know me. They think they read my blog or laugh at my jokes and they “get” how quirky and ridiculous I can be. Luckily, most people find it to be part of my charm. And I hate to ruin this illusion that the universe has of me, but truth be told, I have issues. A lot of them.

So let this serve as an informative insight into the mind of the Flabby Ninja. Buckle up, put your trays in the upright and locked position and enjoy the ride.

~Everytime I am driving, I have a feeling that I am an extra in the movie 2012. I fear that at any minute the earth is going to open up and swallow me and my Volvo whole and we will be sucked into the center of the earth. The problem with this scenario is that I get stuck in an air pocket and don’t die right away. I am reduced to listening to AM radio and eating year old McDonald’s fries and ketchup packets my kids dropped under the back seat. I will have to drink my own urine for survival and eventually I will get bored and just…die.

~Whenever I am naked in front of a mirror, I like to cup my breasts and play a little game of “20 year old boobs….36 year old boobs” where I lift them up and remember what they looked like before I had kids and lost 165 pounds, and then sadly drop them a foot lower to where they are now.

~If I have to poop at work I would rather hold it in and run the risk of imploding because I have this thought that everyone will know what I am doing in there and they will judge me for it. I also fear that after I do poop I will unknowingly smell like backed up feces and Febreze air freshener for the rest of the day.

~I am a Google-Aholic. And, not because I have an innate need to be informed or because I am researching how long strep throat is contagious or how to hire a hit man that isn’t a cop so I don’t have to do 25 to life, but because I like to type in partial sentences and see what Google “suggests”.















See what I mean? Good times.

~Yoga makes me fart. Every. Single. Time.

~I used to be seriously grossed out by the thought of spiders crawling into my mouth while I slept. Now that I have had gastric bypass and struggle to get enough protein in my diet, I often wonder how much protein a Daddy Long Legs contains? If I have to unwittingly eat them, I may as well get something from it, right?

~I kind of enjoy farting and trying to see if it smells like anything I ate that day. It’s even better when it’s so bad that I try to leave the room and walk away from it. As if my ass and it’s stench won’t follow me, right?

~I hate when people touch my face. It makes me irrationally violent and chances are if you do it I will be tempted to stab you in the neck with a fork and spoon out your eyes. I do not want your urine tinged, nose picking, germ infested hands anywhere near my mouth. You’ve been warned.

~I talk to myself. A lot. I know this isn’t unusual but my internal voice sounds like a Southern Belle. She starts all conversations with “Hey ya’ll” and ends them with “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”. Maybe this is why I sometimes have the urge to tease my hair and wear lots of mascara.

~I HATE CLOWNS. They are descendants of Satan put on earth to torture and eventually destroy us. They are evil and creepy and I always envision them naked under their oversized polka dot costumes with a constant erection.

~Whenever I run outside, I always feel like I look like Phoebe in Central Park in that episode of Friends.

~Touching the fur of a large dog grosses me out. I love dogs and I think they are adorable, but every time I pet one my hands always feel dirty and flea-like afterwards.

~Sometimes I do things like dance around the house or make my “sexy face” when reading or watching TV because I think there are hidden cameras in my house and people are watching me.

~I don’t believe in the 5 second rule. Whether it touches the floor, the rug or the couch cushion, at some point someone’s foot, ass or vagina was in that spot.

Lastly, and most importantly….

~I love to swear, talk about sex, poop and vaginas. Something about it is very freeing to me. My internal filter is on the fritz so I am always amused when I say something that catches someone more filtered and less vulgar off guard. I take mental photos of their looks of shock, awe and disgust. I compartmentalize them and use them to make me laugh when I am having a bad day.

Still think you know me? What don’t I know about you?