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.

I think I've got a battery pack where my gall bladder used to be

Energizer batteries at that. By my second day postop I was feeling energy churning. I started decorating the living room for the holidays, cleaned the kitchen and the powder room, did two loads of laundry...and still had energy to spare. By the third day I was in overdrive, cleaning the dining room, master bedroom and bath, vacuuming...all the things I'd had to literally force myself to do for the past several months.

For at least a year I reported to my doctor that I was tired all the time. Exhausted. There were days when I would take two naps and still be sound asleep by 10:30 that night. I'd experience random bouts of a motion sickness-type nausea. At first it was contributed to my obesity and/or NSAIDs I was on for knee pain. Then it was due to recovering from lap-band surgery and after that it was because of the ulcer I'd had. Finally I started to think that maybe it was just plain ol' depression and made an appointment to see about increasing my anti-depressant. After all, we'd had sons in combat, family drama, worry over grandchildren. Depression made sense to me at that point, especially since all of my bloodwork was normal and there was nothing else to account for the symptoms I was having.

No disrespect to my regular doctor, but his not being available that day about a month and a half ago was a boon for me. Instead, I was scheduled to meet with his physician's assistant. Right away she gave had two suspects: gall bladder disease or another ulcer. Now, my doctor is a good one, but he's also the one who told me, when I asked, that it probably wouldn't do any good to go through allergy testing again since our bodies don't change in that regard. Yep, he was wrong about that too. As a result of my following up on my own, I recently found out that I have many, many allergies and was instantly started on allergy shots twice a week.

So, here's the dilemma that I faced. I was fat. Not only was I morbidly obese, but I was beginning to feel like a hypochondriac with my constant nausea and my every-two-months sinus infections. Because of my weight I hesitated to push for answers - somehow my weight translated into timidity . Simply put, I didn't feel I was worth putting the extra effort into and so didn't ask for or expect it from my medical provider. That's a mistake too many of us make.

As I've said before, taking control of my weight has empowered me in other areas, one of those being the care and wellbeing of me. I'm discovering my voice and learning to speak up for myself in different situations. I'm feeling better about spending money on myself for new clothes, quality skincare products, books and other fun things.

It's amazing how much of our sense of self worth can be tied up in the number shown on our bathroom scales. As Oprah once said, "My personality is not in my thighs." We agreed with her. Yet how hard was it for us to actually take that as our mantra and live by it? Pretty damned hard.

But one mistake I'll never make again is not listen to my body. Because honestly, I literally feel 10 years younger than I did just a week ago, and if I'd pushed, if I'd made my doctor listen to me and explore other options, then I could have felt this good weeks or even months ago.

Remember: WE ARE WORTH IT.

I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

Literally. I am. I want a white Christmas this year. No dangerous roads allowed, though; my DIL wants to host Christmas dinner and we want to be able to get there. I don't want that icky end-of-snow stuff either, when it's all gray and smooshy and plain ol' depressing looking. I want fresh, crunchy, blindingly white snow. The kind that eases and breathes over the hills and hollows, following terra firma terra formingly. The kind of snow that makes you forget your age and indulge in snowball fights and the creation of snow angels.

I enjoyed Thanksgiving. Three of our four children were here (the missing one having the valid excuse of being in Iraq) as were some of our grandchildren. We laughed. We cried. We fussed. We bickered. We worried. We fretted. We yakked. A lot. I mean...A. LOT.

Tomorrow I'll go in for surgery to have my gallbladder removed. Is it totally strange that I'm looking forward to it? I haven't felt good for two or three months, living in a constant state of morning/motion sickness that was finally attributed to gallstones. One of the not-so-good results of weight loss. But I anticipate that by this time next week I'll be up and at 'em, feeling Christmasy and goodwill-to-all-ish, wrapping presents to stack under the tree and reveling in the spirit-deep certainty that I am a blessed woman. In spite of all odds, I'm with my husband, the man I love more than life itself. We have our four children and the children they've given to us through their marriages and relationships (yes Janie, Jessica, Andy and John, I mean you guys) and our eleven, going on twelve absolutely perfect grandchildren. We have our beloved furbabies and a home we're happy and content in.

So, on this first day of December, I'll remember Christmases past in all their glory and with all their ghosts, fill my heart with hope for Christmas present, and dream of Christmas future, when all of our family can be together again in all its boisterous, stressful, anxiety-producing and love-filled nuttiness.

Ghoul Food

Why, oh why, did hallowe'en have to fall during an especially stressful time? Why? Why? Why? I can resist the lure of mini candy bars. Oh yes, you Butterfinger bar, you devil you. I see you beckoning to me. I can taste your crunchy orange center and almost feel it sticking to my teeth.

Baby Ruth? You're not a baby. Babies are innocent. You're the devil with your gooey peanut center wrapped in chocolate.

Snickers? Ha ha! I snicker in the face of your attempts to woo me.

But Tootsie Roll? Tootsie, you're my weakness. I can't resist your pull. I can sniff you out no matter how well hidden you are.

Damn you Tootsie Roll...daaaammmmnnn you *melodramatic fist-shaking, shirt-rending, hair-pulling, ground-pounding tantrum ensues).