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.