Archive for the ‘iPhone’ Category

I am not a scale person. Although I own a scale (second ever – the first one broke when I slid it across the kitchen floor last year), I do not stand on it six thousand times a day. Maybe two or three times a month.

Today I stood on it and it read I had lost 15lbs. I was SUPER STOKED. But…I had an inner child screaming: move the scale! move the scale! So…I moved the scale. Three inches.

Damn thing said I weighed 15lbs more than I did three inches earlier!

Never did I want to whip an object out of the window quite as desperately as I wanted to at 7:30 this morning.

I don’t know how other women do it. I read posts and stories online all the time about how so-and-so weighs three pounds more now than they did two hours ago; a few post what the scale reflects after they…um…you know…”go”; others on and off and on and off an on and off. Good God. I never hear about guys doing that…do guys do that??

So…I shoved the stupid, effing Square of Despair back in the corner next to the laundry bin and hopped in the shower (Gonna wash that scale right outta my hair). I usually feel better after a long hot shower. Wasn’t the case this morning, I was incredibly bothered by the entire episode – all three inches of it.

Then there’s the whole clothing issue. I’ve got one pair of jeans I wear on a regular basis, the others are too big. I can’t seem to get rid of them because…well…what if…(tends to play out like a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical). My friend, Anne, pointed out two weeks ago this particular pair of jeans were too big. I had a pair of jeans hidden in a drawer – well, actually I had TWO pair of hidden jeans. The second pair are skinny jeans. I can’t wear them in public. I just laugh and laugh and laugh. I pulled the non-skinny jeans.

I about died. I got one leg in and didn’t get the “we’re too tight, not going up” message, got the other leg in with the same result. After I got them up I stared at myself in the mirror, found a tank top and whipped out my iPhone.

This is when I started my weight loss journey:

When I Began

Before & After – 2 years apart

15 months apart

Somewhere across the country there’s a secret collective of post-op dairy farmers. They haven’t been clear on their target market, or the cost of their product to consumers when it officially hits store shelves. One thing is clear: confidential sources have revealed they’re milking it for all it is worth.

Ugh.

Piece of advice: if you fell off the post-op salad truck, STOP posting, ‘What do I DO???” all over the internet. If you are a weight loss surgery post op for any length of time (two seconds, two months, two years, two decades), you know what you are supposed to do…unless of course you were hit on the head with fried Twinkies. Then you could be suffering from WLSPOA (weight loss surgery post op amnesia).

To avoid becoming a POW, try the following steps:

1. Talk to someone. You have a primary care doctor, you have a surgeon, you have a nutritionist. If any of these professionals have mysteriously vanished out of your life (alien abduction?)…FIND SOMEONE NEW. If you’re unable to do so then my assumption would be you reside on an island in total solitude, which means you have no access to communications and will not read this anyway.

2. If you know you’re eating habits are bad, and you know you have consumed that which you probably are not supposed to (like a container of crispy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from Trader Joe’s), get over it. It’s summer. You can grow stuff. Even better, you can pay someone who grew it already.

3. If you have the phrase “I can’t afford to” flashing behind your eyelids in reference to item #2, hold your tongue. Chances are incredulously high you have, oh let’s see: all the cable channels, all the movie channels, a smart phone and a big ol’ plan.

I whine to a select few of my friends, none of whom give me one ounce of slack because they’ve been privy to my weight loss changes. I don’t complain online all that often. Usually I will talk to someone who puts me in my place. I also yell at people. Ask my friend Anne. I chased her bum back across the football field at boot camp a few weeks ago for short-cutting the track, later I made her do half leap frogs. My trainer gives me no slack at all-and it has nothing to do my picture he put on his car advertisement. It’s because he remembers when I was the fattest woman in the gym, how my stomach drug the ground during push ups, or how 40lbs made a world of difference in climbing 17 steps.

God, you have so much to celebrate. Don’t be a POW. Don’t focus on the prison and the chains…neither hold you anymore.

If that doesn’t encourage you, get stuck somewhere. I got wedged in that little space there between the bed and nightstand over the weekend to fix the carpet. I hadn’t laughed that hard at myself in a long, long time.

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