I don’t know what the hell happened Friday but I had my first surgical WTF moment. I had a pretty amazing day before what I like to call “Attack of the Pouch”. I had a great full day of exercise, went through my closet and realized half of it is already too big, and sat down to a lovely dinner of tuna and refried beans. About a half hour later, I realized I was just short of reaching my protein goal for the day, so I had a glass of Skim milk with some sugar-free Hersheys syrup (which is totally on my “food do’s” list). About 20 minutes later, BOOM!!! It was like an all out assault on my gut that rendered me completely helpless, curled into a fetal position on the couch, crying like a little girl and Lamaze breathing. I swear I thought the end result of that immense pain would be me pushing out a 10 pound turd or a three headed alien. And it just wouldn’t friggin’ end!! It came in waves like a recurring tsunami. Every time it subsided and I could breathe again, it would come out of nowhere and devour my insides like a rabid dog with a dead raccoon in its sights.
I have no idea what brought this on. I have followed my diet to the letter, never cheating, never going off course. I measure and weigh and strain my food within an inch of its pathetic life, I take bite sized bites a few minutes apart like a Princess in Training, and I don’t drink 30 minutes before or after a meal. I mean, I am a rule follower for the first time ever, and this is my PUNISHMENT??
I am not a weak willed person, and I have a great tolerance for pain, but if someone asked me to murder their dog to get rid of my pain, I would have given it some serious consideration. Ok, may I wouldn’t have murdered the dog, but I probably would have kicked it and called it a name. And by kick, I mean gently push aside with my foot. Cause I’m a sucker for pups. And a pain pussy apparently. It sucked in ways that my past suckiness had not yet achieved.
I woke up with a pain hangover. It was a dull thudding reminder of the night before that started in my belly button and rose into my chest. I was afraid to eat. Or breathe. Or move. I didn’t want to risk going through that again. Tim spent some time looking up different kinds of pain from bariatric surgery and couldn’t find anything that matched my pain exactly. The only thing I can imagine it to be was “dumping syndrome” but my understanding was that this only comes from overeating or overindulging in food you shouldn’t be eating. And I did NOT do that. However, if that is at all what dumping syndrome feels like, you can be guaranteed, Bariatric Demon, that I will be skinny forever, because there is no chocolate chip cookie or frothy latte worth that kind of pain.
Because of this little episode from hell, I was put on workout hiatus Saturday and I must say, I DID NOT like it. Back in the day, I would have feigned an infected hangnail or imaginary PMS to get out of working out, but now I enjoy it and I have been banned. In my own house. And it sucks. I got up and reorganized the house and moved pictures around and put away winter things, thinking it would cure me of that which ails me – the need for speed. Well, the whole 3mph on the treadmill kind of speed, but still. It sat there and leered at me like a forbidden mistress and I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel it beneath me as I breathed heavy and sweated and got lost in the lust of the exercise of it all. Dirty treadmill sex, that is what this overweight exercise whore needed.
But like my love affair with all things chocolate, at least for that day, it was not to be. Because my body formed a mutiny attack on me, and I had to lie there and play dead for the day hoping it would sniff me, realize I’m wasn't moving and venture on.
I have no idea what brought this on. I have followed my diet to the letter, never cheating, never going off course. I measure and weigh and strain my food within an inch of its pathetic life, I take bite sized bites a few minutes apart like a Princess in Training, and I don’t drink 30 minutes before or after a meal. I mean, I am a rule follower for the first time ever, and this is my PUNISHMENT??
I am not a weak willed person, and I have a great tolerance for pain, but if someone asked me to murder their dog to get rid of my pain, I would have given it some serious consideration. Ok, may I wouldn’t have murdered the dog, but I probably would have kicked it and called it a name. And by kick, I mean gently push aside with my foot. Cause I’m a sucker for pups. And a pain pussy apparently. It sucked in ways that my past suckiness had not yet achieved.
I woke up with a pain hangover. It was a dull thudding reminder of the night before that started in my belly button and rose into my chest. I was afraid to eat. Or breathe. Or move. I didn’t want to risk going through that again. Tim spent some time looking up different kinds of pain from bariatric surgery and couldn’t find anything that matched my pain exactly. The only thing I can imagine it to be was “dumping syndrome” but my understanding was that this only comes from overeating or overindulging in food you shouldn’t be eating. And I did NOT do that. However, if that is at all what dumping syndrome feels like, you can be guaranteed, Bariatric Demon, that I will be skinny forever, because there is no chocolate chip cookie or frothy latte worth that kind of pain.
Because of this little episode from hell, I was put on workout hiatus Saturday and I must say, I DID NOT like it. Back in the day, I would have feigned an infected hangnail or imaginary PMS to get out of working out, but now I enjoy it and I have been banned. In my own house. And it sucks. I got up and reorganized the house and moved pictures around and put away winter things, thinking it would cure me of that which ails me – the need for speed. Well, the whole 3mph on the treadmill kind of speed, but still. It sat there and leered at me like a forbidden mistress and I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel it beneath me as I breathed heavy and sweated and got lost in the lust of the exercise of it all. Dirty treadmill sex, that is what this overweight exercise whore needed.
But like my love affair with all things chocolate, at least for that day, it was not to be. Because my body formed a mutiny attack on me, and I had to lie there and play dead for the day hoping it would sniff me, realize I’m wasn't moving and venture on.
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