Self-saboutage

Well, SPIT. I never thought I'd be prone to saboutaging myself, but doggoned if that's not exactly what I've caught myself doing. After working my way down to 163 lbs. from an operative day weight of 239, I thought I was set. On track. Staying the course. Steady as she blows. Runnin' for the roses.

What I didn't count on was the almost culture shock-ish feeling that came over me once I stopped needing plus sizes. Never did I imagine that I'd be anything less than thrilled once my size number stopped being proceded by an "x". Now, don't get me wrong. I am thrilled about it. More than thrilled. But I'm also a little unnerved. As my weight has changed, so has my body shape, the shape of my face, my feet. On at least one occasion I've been startled by my own reflection. Who is this person?

I spent so many years trying to like myself in spite of being fat, and while I do like myself (and, as vain it sounds, applaud myself), I sometimes have the feeling that I don't know myself anymore. As I gain control over what I eat, I gain control in other areas too, in what would normally be a win-win situation, in what has been a win-win situation, at least 'til now.

But now I sit here, wondering if I like this "new" me. The me that's less concerned with pleasing people than I used to be. The me who's a little tougher, a little less worried about what others think of me. The me who is learning that some dreams are meant to stay just that, dreams, and to not waste my efforts and my energy trying to change those things I have no power over.

Over the past two weeks, I've come to realize that I've set myself up for failure and backslidden from a healthier lifestyle, from the changes I've worked so hard to implement. It's time to jack myself up by the bootstraps and stop feeling sorry for myself for succeeding. Who ever heard of a such a thing anyhow, huh?

Plumber's butt

Yep. Plumber's butt. Or carpenter's crack, if that's your druthers. It's a new issue for me; certainly not one I've dealt with since I was, oh, about three years old.

Earlier this year I had to buy all new clothes, from the inside out. Yeah, I had to since I'd "undergrown" every single thing I'd worn last summer. Since the weight was coming off relatively slowly, I figured I'd get my money's worth out of everything I bought, maybe even wearing it next year.

Welp, that ain't gonna happen.

Now, it's a good problem to have, so don't think for a second that I'm complaining. But I'm down to two pairs of capris and one pair of jeans...and those have to be held up with a belt; an item I don't own 'cause fat people don't wear belts. Well, I didn't. With my short waist and round body I looked like a Weeble.

Today I went grocery shopping with one of my 9-year-old granddaughters, my diva darlin' Lilybell. Lilybell has a problem; her pants just won't stay up. Never have. Prolly never will. So there we went, up and down the aisles, both of us tugging up our pants every few steps. What a sight we must've been.

Today's weight: 164 lbs.

It's a good thing...

...when you close an account with a plus size clothing store because you don't need their sizes anymore. Is it vain to say I'm proud of myself?

Buh-bye Omar

The tentmaker, that is.

Today, I said a bittersweet farewell to plus size clothing. Heck, who am I foolin'? There was no bitter, not a'tall...it was sweet, sweet, sweet! I came thiiiiiiiis close to not even trying on those 14 jeans and that XL shirt (not women's X or 1X, just a plain ol' misses XL); I'm glad I didn't listen to myself or else I'd have missed one of the best milestones of my lap-band journey. Only someone who's walked a mile in my shoes can empathize with what it's taken to get to this point and just how momentous an occasion it is.

The fireworks from Fort Ogg aren't all in celebration of Independence Day.

Can I get an ai-man?

Ai-man and hallylooyah for the confirmation that yes, I AM the world's worst blogger. Would somebody please tell me where the days have slipped off to?

Since the last time I posted an update I've dealt with another round of ulcers (the bad), welcomed a new granddaughter to the family (the good), and got out of the exercise habit (the ugly). Yes, I know we lap-banders are supposed to exercise regularly, but knowin' ain't doin', and that's a problem area for me. Well, actually, it leads to multiple problems: the hips, the thighs, the belly, the boobays. From tip to toe actually. Bow to stern. North to south. From here to yonder, y'all.

Face it, when you hit the age of 50 you realize that no, the south never will rise again. That's when you get down on your knees and supine yourself in humility and awe, paying homage to the creators of Spanx and the Wonderbra.

I've reached the point where I look pretty good with clothes on, but fabric doesn't work up a good lather in the shower. So, yeah, it's time to get back on the exercise wagon, kicking, screaming, gnashing teeth, and whining all the way. And that's just getting downstairs to the exercise room.

The good news is that I'm now under 170; today's weight was 169.2, which means I'm only ("only" bwahahahahahahaaaaa!!!) 39.2 lbs. away from my goal weight.

The bad news is that if I dont' get these upper arms toned I won't have to worry about taking the car for my errands; I can just flap my arms and fly.

World's worst blogger

I am. I think. If not, I should be. Is there an award for that kind of thing? I'd like an award. For something.

These are the kinds of things I ponder as I sit here enjoying a Snackwell's devil's food cookie and a half cup of skim milk. Chocolate...manna from heaven.

I'm either very imaginative or bored. Of course, I prefer to believe I'm the former, but the correct answer is probably that I'm the latter. Which sucks because that makes me think I should be doing something productive. However, it's too gorgeous a day to worry about silly things like dusting or rearranging the living room furniture for the umpteen kazillionith time.

Anyhow, here I am, still slowly lap-banding my way to my goal weight. Sometimes the 50 pounds I have left to lose seem like they'll never leave, but then I'll stumble across a picture of me taken a year or more ago and voila! I feel proud of how far I've come. My gosh, but was I really that big? Yes, sadly I was.

Here's what's really neat: I've reached the point in my journey where, for the most part anyhow, I feel good about myself and my appearance. This spring found me shopping for an entirely new wardrobe, right down to the jammies, because I'd undergrown literally everything I owned. My wonderful hubby never grumbled, not a bit. He's as proud of me as I am, and bless him for it, but he loves seeing me all gussied up. Yes, "gussied". It's a southern thang.

I know we're not supposed to let our self-esteem get tangled up in our weight, but the truth of the matter is that it does. As I lose weight it becomes easier to treat myself. Yes, that moisturizer is expensive, but it works, and hey, I'm worth it. Oo la la, but those shoes are to die for, and you know what? I'm worth it. A short, spiky hairstyle I'd been daydreaming about becomes a reality and, who knew? but it looks good! And throw in some highlighs for good measure...I'm worth it.

Something occurred to me recently. I joined FaceBook and started hearing from people I'd gone to high school with, "back in the day". I realized that even then, even when I was young and slender, I never felt worth much of anything. So maybe it's not so much about the weight loss, this willingness to treat myself to those little extras. Maybe it's about the way losing weight makes me feel. In control. Self-sufficient. Aware. Capable. STRONG. Maybe not beautiful, not yet, but certainly attractive; at least, more attractive than I've ever felt, and that's in spite of the inevitable signs of aging, those wrinkles and sags and bags that makeup can't disguise and exercise can't conquer.

These may be small steps forward, but at least forward is the right way to go.