My Constant Battle


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Obviously with weight loss surgery, comes struggles and battles. Battles such as, losing weight in general, learning to love yourself, making the right choices, not going to restaurants etc. Right now, my biggest battle is dealing with that dreadful question that every person asks me. Showing off my weight loss, and broadcasting it for the world to see, I am clearly asking for questions, and remarks etc, but sometimes, that one question just brings me down.

“How many pounds are you down?”. Why does everyone care about the number of pounds? To be honest, the number of pounds lost, is the least important part of the whole journey. We’re trained to think that the number lost is the most important part of a persons weight loss journey.  If you want to ask important questions, and receive positive replies from me, or anyone losing weight for that matter, you can ask questions like: “do you feel good about yourself?” , “are you happy?” , “do you notice a difference?”, other questions and comments about how great I look and how beautiful I am are really appreciated as well. While my weight loss number may not have changed in the last month, my pant size has decreased, and my confidence level has increased. The scale is an evil tool that really only helps in bringing you down. Why should we care about the number? What’s so important about it? If I’m getting on the scale, and notice that I’ve lost two pounds, I’m going to treat myself, because I’ve lost. Had I not known about this little two pound weight loss, I would have continued on my merry little way and not treat myself to any treats. I’ve gone from the morbidly obese category, to just plain obese. That is HUGE! That’s an accomplishment in itself.

I personally feel that whenever someone asks me how many pounds I lost, I get discouraged. In my mind I think, “only xxx pounds lost in 6 months?, that’s terrible, you could have done so much better”. But I know that when I look at pictures, and when I see myself in the mirror, it’s more than just the number. Muscle weighs more than fat, and if I’m going to the gym 4+ times a week, obviously my weight loss will be less than a person who wouldn’t be working out.

Maybe some people don’t know, maybe it doesn’t bother anyone, but personally I think that this “number” is really an unimportant part of the whole process. I am proud to say that I am happy where I am. I am proud with how far I’ve come, and I’m proud to say that I’ve met my goals. I may be taking my time, but at least I can proudly say that I haven’t gained a single pound in six months!

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6 months post op. Side shot.

I Feel Pretty


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I figured something out today, and again, it’s going to sound mucho cocky. I came to the realization that everything about me is amazing. I got the “fat genes” because I had everything else going for me. I had the looks, the personality, the humor,  the brains, and the whatever else is amazing that most people don’t get. I got the fat because I couldn’t have everything, right? Who would want to be friends with someone who had absolutely everything going for them? I sure as hell wouldn’t.

Along with the fat, came the lack of confidence. So I was lacking two things that the other kids already had. But whatever. I feel great now, and I’m so happy with  how far I’ve come.

On the confidence note, this morning I went to the gym, it was 7:00 am. (What the hell was I thinking? Had I absolutely lost my mind? Well, I lost that years ago, but whatevs, right?) Anyway, so even though it’s 7:00 am, I should still have even the tiniest bit of energy in my oh-so-large body, I look over at myself in the mirror at my sexy Zumba dance moves, and then look over to Bubby Yetta on my right. This bubby was moving in all sorts of ways imaginable, while I’m standing there on the side looking like a seizing squirrel doing the funky chicken. I don’t like to dance like a normal person because I’m always afraid that my belly rolls are going to pop out of my shirt and I’m actually going to look like something died in pants and I’m just moving in all sorts of stupid ways looking like a moron. Anyway, I immediately get this sudden burst of energy, after seeing this bubby. Well, it wasn’t exactly a burst of energy, it was more of an embarrassment thing, because I want to be dancing better than a 93 year old lady. But I shouldn’t hate, GO YETTA!

Anyway, my hard work paid off and I need a leg massage. Any takers?

I Was NOT Born To Dance


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Being a hefty kid, I never really liked to do anything… I was lazier than lazy, if there is such a thing. I didn’t like sports, or to move in any funky ways because I was clumsy in everything I did. I would walk into walls, trip on my feet, look aimlessly into space and ram into strangers everywhere I turned. Anyway, since I was getting chubbier by the day, when I was ten I guess, my mom thought it would be a good idea to enroll me in a dancing class with Rhoda-Clarice and Fanny Wood. Rhoda and Fanny were able to move in all fantastic ways while I would take just one step and hit someone in the face with my giant arms. My presence was always so large. Maybe it was because I was standing in between my two friends, and I was still one foot taller than them– combined. It wasn’t fair. I did not realize my own size and to this day, I can’t dance. Turns out dance class didn’t turn out well for me, as when they gave the diplomas, they put everyone ahead, and instead of holding me back a grade of dancers, they put me with the 5-6 year olds. Maybe that’s why I have no confidence with my dancing?

I went to Zumba last night, and Helga was in my brain thinking of excuses not to go to class. Marg kept asking me if everything was ok. I wish she wouldn’t have, because then I wouldn’t have had time to think of an excuse to get me out of class. HOWEVER, I finished the entire class, and I felt so good! I didn’t even go home and eat a cheeseburger, I ate healthy.

Sometimes I wish Beyoncé would come over and teach me how to dance like her. Damn that girl can moooooove.

The Gym Part II


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Listen, I’m all for going to the gym. Actually, not so much, but I’m all for positive attitude about going to the gym. Mine is perfectly located in between old people village and old people city, perfect right? Wrong! I go to my gym and take these classes with old ladies that are ten times more fit than me, and can move their bodies in Zumba that I never thought I would be able to. I thought joining would make me feel better, but these old bubbies just shut me down! I’m tired after the first dance- who am I kidding, I’m a liar, I’ve finished an entire bottle of water and exhausted after the warmup! Story of a fat plump girl. I think different people should attend different gyms. Meaning, there should be a gym for those fat folks, a gym for the stupid lanky looking kids that really aren’t fooling anyone by doing a 0 incline and a speed of 2, a gym for the athletic skinny people who are just there to look in the mirror and look at all the other athletic muscular skinny people and have muscular skinny people chats with each other, and then a gym for the oldies. It’s just so discouraging when I’m on the treadmill and I see this B!@#$ next to me having a jolly old time there just trotting away, no sweat, no messy hair, just a fun flowy run. FYI fun fit girl at the gym with no worries in the world— I hate you.