Would You Like A Little Cheese With This Whine??

It just plain sucks to be this fat.  (insert pout here)


My whole life I had gradually gained weight at a steady pace.  Last year I had lost 40lbs, and then put them back on (plus a bit more).  I haven't weighed in a looooooong time, but I'm noticing things like having trouble putting on my rings. Ugh. 

At one point last year in an attempt to encourage me to keep up the fight, my Mom presented me with a cardboard box filled with 37lbs of groceries to represent what I had lost at that point.  Let me tell you, I was shocked at how heavy it was!  Now I have put all of that back on, and every day I can honestly feel those extra pounds like never before.  Now factor into this that I am carrying over 230lbs of excess weight every day based on the BMI chart... I so very badly want to shed that extra weight - it is like carrying 10 car tires (or 1 wildebeest, or 2 cheerleaders...) everywhere I go!
Double ugh.

I've decided to write down some things that I hate about being this fat.  Here goes:

• I can't stand up in one place for any amount of time without leaning on something or shuffling from one foot to the other.
• I can't walk the length of myself without getting out of breath.
• My knees hurt.  My feet hurt.  My back hurts.
• I have to ask for special seating at restaurants or public places.
• I have to use seatbelt extenders when I fly and drive.
• I have to worry about things like "will I fit into my friend's car?"
• If I sleep more than 7 or 8 hours I wake up hurting and it is hard to get out of bed.
• My skin sometimes gets chafed so sore that it is hard to walk.
• I can only shop in 1 store in person. I long to be able to shop in a mall!
• I have a hard time finding shoes that fit.
• I have a hard time finding shoes that I can actually do up.
• Other people often look at me with disgust, not knowing that they don't need to because I do that to myself every time I look in the mirror.
• I have suffered at work, and have missed job opportunities because others assume things based on my physical appearance.
• I have been places (like a waiting room, a living room, and even once an entire restaurant) where I simply could not sit down because I could not fit in the chair.
• I have been places where I could not use the bathroom.
• Even sturdy and comfy furniture is not safe - I sadly broke a chair last year at a BBQ, right in the middle of 40 people. Oops - my bad.
• Other people assume they have to accommodate me.  My Mom often drops me off in front of a door and then goes to park the car (and I'm the one who should be walking!).

I REALLY hate that it seems to be becoming the norm to see more people afflicted like me  Obesity is a raging problem, let's face it folks! While I'd love to "fit in", I would rather that people would realise the road they are headed down - and turn the bus around before they get to this size.  As a kid in school I was always one of the biggest, and I felt isolated and alone a lot of the time.  Now when I drive by a school or playground, I see that many kids look like I did.  While it is really important for kids to love themselves and be confident at any size, I just wish that they could see the dangers that lie further down the road.

The good news: it is possible to change all of this - every single bit of it! 
I'm starting with me.  Maybe my efforts to change myself will touch someone else, and enable them to make changes too.  Rome wasn't built in a day, so I can't expect success overnight.

The truth is I have absolutely no need for 10 extra tires, 1 wildebeest, or 2 cheerleaders, so it is time to go about getting rid of them.

Suicide by Spork

I have an addiction I need to confess.  I'm just plain addicted to the TV show Intervention.  I love watching people undergo incredible life transformation all within the space of 60 minutes. 

I have often wished that I was a crack-whore. 

Yup, you just read that correctly.  Ok, maybe not so much the whore part - perhaps crack-hound is a better way to put it.

See, in my fantasy world that exists inside my tiny pea-brained noggin, at least a drug addict has to deal with substance abuse of a specific, illicit substance.  One that if you had to give it up, you would likely not encounter it at every single convenience store, restaurant, cupboard, and fridge, every day 3 times a day... you catch my drift?

But oh no - thus far in life I've had to deal with an affliction that cannot be dealt with by simpling avoiding one singular solitary substance.  The fact of the matter is that 3 times a day (if I remember to eat), every day, I'm faced with staring down the barrell of a loaded gun and trying to make better decisions.  And of course so far I have not done so well - by neglect equally as much as abuse.

I've often watched addicts on the show inject or snort hideous substances that will no doubt slowly ravage their bodies.  Their addictions are letting them commit suicide slowly by choosing the drug over life, and let's face it they don't really have much of a choice by the time they are truly hooked.

I have been committing suicide by spork... or spoon, or fork, or knife, or ladle, you catch my drift.  Every meal, every day... another dicey gamble to "stay on the wagon" and make the "right" choices.  My eating habits are letting me commit suicide slowly by neglecting the nutritional needs of my body and enabling a quicker end to my life.

My life, by the way, is one that I desperately want to live.  I have a fierce determination to see this through.  I have plans for me that I can't even visualize yet, and I have dreams that I have yet to dream. 

Shedding the horrid cloak of obesity is a neccessary step and not an option.  Maybe I can try to remind myself of this the next time I'm planning a meal (or find myself steering the car through a drive-thru).

Damn you cutlery.  I want to die when it is time, not at the hands of the instruments that are supposed to be tools to nourish my body!!!!

We Hope You Live To Be A Huuuuuundred....

I suppose one of the few good things about being a larger lady is that no one dare try to give you the bumps on your birthday.

This business of living is interesting, isn't it?  Sometimes I find myself thinking that life is sort of like a huge chess game where you make a move and then respond to what happens next.  Other times it feels like a random journey where anything can happen, just like when you pull the handle of a slot machine or roll the dice.  Interestingly enough, it seems that no matter how I figure it, I am responsible for a bit of what happens on the journey.  After the epic fail of my WW attempt I curled into the fetal position for a while and licked my wounds, and soothed myself the way I knew how to (you guessed it - with food). 

When it comes right down to it, I want to live.  I'd even elect to live to reach 100 (heck, even if I'm in a weight range that would be "bump-able", I doubt anyone would toss around a 100 year old lady!).  I don't want to observe life from the couch.  I don't want to miss anything else - not one single thing.  And yes, there it goes - the unending clang of my baby clock reminding me that time's a waistin'.  Le sigh.

So why am I committing suicide by knife and fork?  
I got to this size by a combination of factors.  As a very young child I fell in love with food - especially back then junk food.  I couldn't wait to get my allowance or chore money so I could run to the store (I'm not kidding - I actually would run) and get the ultimate treat; a bag of chips, a chocolate bar, and a can of pop.  Not to mention a bag of mixed candy from the heavenly candy buffet on the counter that beckoned to me like jewels in a display.  As I got older, food was the only way I knew how to soothe myself.  As an adult, I did absolutely nothing to care for myself nutritionally.  I skipped meals (and even drinks) left right and center which put my body through hell.  I avoided any sort of physical effort with a vengeance.  Let's face it, when you are already carrying around the extra weight of 1 wildebeest (or 2 cheerleaders), physical activity is less than pleasant.  All of these things combined led me to where I am right now, so fixing the problem will likely involve a process instead of a simple cure.

I hope I live to be a huuuuundred, so it's time to do something about it. 

Exit wildebeest, stage right...

All The News That's Fit to Blog...

As my first post "Numero Uno" pointed out - I had a previous blog on Weight Watchers online that was pretty popular.  (Um, FYI - if you have just randomly surfed here and didn't already know... I'm a fat chick looking for freedom... if you're looking for potato recipes then this is really the wrong blog.

Onward and upward.

A little background:  I joined WW in September of 2010.  By April 2011 I managed to shed 40lbs (yay me) and felt awesome.  As I began to add physical fitness to my daily living, I started to gain weight (yup - rebuilding muscle), but the fact is my poor little brain couldn't take the epic fail week after week.  Warning: you may want a little cheese with this whine:  I just didn't want to gain AT ALL, and I got pretty damned sick of having the receptionist bash her petite little eyelashes at me and ask me week after week if I was expecting a gain.

Expecting a gain, you say?  Moi?  Nope.  Truth is, I had been killing myself at the gym.  Doing real stoooopid things like ignoring the advice of the kind ladies at Curves who insisted I might do better if I paced myself.  I worked like a dog, and the scales went up.  I didn't care if it was muscle... I wanted it all to end.  So I gradually withdrew.  I lost all confidence in myself.  And despite my best intentions of holding it all together and getting back on track, I gained back the 40lbs plus.  I have abandoned ship off of the S.S. Weight Watchers, and am now pursuing surgical options a la vertical sleeve type.

I no longer feel awesome.  I feel like a sack of poo.  I'm morbidly obese (God I hate that term, but let's face it, "plus size" has no plus to it, and "super-size" ain't that super either).

There is another story here - a significant one.  I want to have a child.  I'm turning 39 tomorrow, and my baby clock is in full-force alarm mode (you know that alarm clock with the militant buzz...  one without a sleep setting? Yup, that's my reproductive organs clanging constantly to procreate NOW...)

So, in my quest to find myself, to find health, and to get preggers... I have realized that I need to blog just to sort out all of the cobwebs rattling around upstairs in my noggin. I also want to stay accountable to someone, even if it is just the random person who surfed here looking for potato recipes...

Stay safe out there, kids.

Numero Uno

I may not know a lot of things, but this much I know:

1. I miss blogging (had a pretty popular run on WW).
2. I miss living.

Order of the day?  Must blog and must live.

More to come...