Husband and I spent our honeymoon in Aruba, almost 6 years ago. You'll remember when I posted some pictures from that time in my life, wanting to “get back there” once again – both literally and figuratively.
On my Aruban honeymoon in 2005, I felt better about my body than I ever had (perhaps with the exception of those few months in college where I dabbled in veganism & anorexia and was both painfully thin [for me] and bitchier than a bachelorette without a rose).
In 2005, it wasn't hard work or dieting that got me down to that lovely size 10 – it was some crazy ass pills given to me by one of the first real “bariatric” doctors who Husband and I lovingly referred to as “the Mad Scientist”. Thanks to a bizarre combination of drugs that will remain nameless, I was able to starve myself, somewhat painlessly, down to an acceptable wedding dress size. I spent 5 months eating little more than grapes and fat free English muffins. I also spent five months feeling jittery, dry-mouthed and fearful because I knew that the minute I stopped taking these crazy pills, I'd probably gain back the weight I'd lost, plus more.
I'd been to enough Weight Watchers meetings to know that once one “goes off” of a diet, one is likely to gain back what they have lost, plus more – and also that “nothing tastes as good as thin feels! – unless it is homemade fettuccine Alfredo.
This past June, Husband and I were lucky enough to get back to Aruba, courtesy of my parents. Of course, this particular vacation was just a 'tad' different than the one in 2005. See, this time, we had a toddler. And you know what I say about vacations with a toddler: same shit, different location. It may be Aruba but we still have pee-pee accidents in the middle of lunch, are slaves to nap-time, need menus with chicken nuggets as an option and drink endless amounts of malt liquor.
In 2005 I spent evenings lounging in a luxurious hotel bathrobe, eating chocolate covered strawberries and drinking champagne:
In 2011 I spent evenings reading the The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the 800th time, and donning an old nightgown stained with pizza sauce and fingerpaints.
2005 found us on the beach sipping mixed drinks, listening to the waves:
2011 found us sipping water from sippy cups, listening to fights over sand toys:
2005:
2011:
You get the picture...calm vs. chaos.
The thing is, one thing was the same....MY WEIGHT. Yuppers. I weighed the same in Aruba 2005 that I did in Aruba 2011.
With age and childbirth my hips are a little wider, my hair a little grayer and my drinks are a little stronger.
But what's pretty cool is that all in all, the photos of my from 2005 and the photos of me from 2011 aren't all that different and I'm finally back where I wanna be. Only this time, it is for good.
2005:
My Confessions:
I have had a babysitter for more daytime hours than NOT this week and I STILL FEEL TIRED.
I've eaten an entire quarter pound bag of peanutbutter chocolate covered caramels. In my defense: “peanutbutter chocolate covered caramels”
I seriously do not believe that women who are breastfeeding their 2.5 year olds are “doing it for their kid”. So sue me – I'm not as 'liberal' as you thought.
I could NOT CARE LESS about that “Jackass guy” who has died. He needed a beard trim. And a conscious. And apparently a sponsor?
I've had three “cathartic cries” this week and I don't think I'm done.
I'm pretty sure that Ryan and Tatum O'Neal must have one of those weird/sick incestual parent-child relationships because otherwise WHY IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE INTERESTING?
I'm headed to Aruba tomorrow and I am not even bringing work out clothes. Why live a lie?
Hasta la vista peoples.
I recently purchased a dress that isn't black. For those of you who have been plus sized you know that this is a BIG DEAL. Black is slimming! Black hides the lumps! Once you go black, you don't go back! Oh wait...that's one of my other mottoes...
Anyway, I wanted you all to witness this weight loss milestone and I haven't posted any photos in awhile and I know you all need your fix so please enjoy:
On my way to my friend Kate's birthday party in my new Banana Republic dress
In my summer "mommy uniform"
Dear Binky Fairy,
I've always been kind of a no-nonsense, just make a decision and go with it kind of gal but I must admit, with regard to this binky removal process, I'm having second thoughts.
See, you promised that this process was going to be a 'feel-good' charity type of action. You know, Ruby and I were going to leave you the binkies so you could give them to “babies in need” and as a reward for our thoughtfulness, when you took the binkies, you were going to leave a present behind.
I think that maybe you even used the “ripping off a band-aid” metaphor.
The thing is, this whole process has been more a “removal of my toddler's eyebrow hairs, one-by-one, while making her sit perfectly still for more than 3 minutes and then eat raw broccoli, kind-of- experience”.
As a work-out-of-the-home mother (you ARE a mom, right?) I don't know if you fully appreciate the importance of the “afternoon nap”. Don't get me wrong, I know you have other challenges as a working mother – having to rouse your sleeping kids to get them to the sitter, trying to get all the cleaning done on the weekends, having a crappy commute, etc.-- but for a SAHM, the thing that screws up your day more than ANYTHING is when your kid won't take her damn nap. I mean, WHEN ELSE am I supposed to eat my bon-bons, watch GH and snort my prescription pain pills?
With regard to binky removal, you are the expert, I know: YES her bite is starting to look a little 'off'; YES she's getting MORE attached; YES I'm tired of going in her room at 2am, and having to sort through four blankies, 3,000 stuffed animals, two pillows and under the mattress, stubbing my toe on the foot of the bed, stepping on and cracking at least one board book and then and finally flooding the room with the overhead light only to find that said binky was stuck inside her pajama shirt the whole time. I get it. It HAS to be done.
I just don't know if you've considered that maybe this isn't a 'one-size-fits-all' kind of approach. See, my child is PERSISTENT. Extreme exhaustion is no match for her. And although I'm a former debate-team winner, even my most solid arguments don't sway a completely irrational toddler. Remember when she spent 45 minutes screaming in the car because I couldn't “pick me up!” while driving at 70 MPH down the highway? Toddlers are completely unreasonable!
And honestly, this whole thing is just tugging – no, more like yanking REALLY HARD – at my mama heart strings. I feel like I've taken away my child's best friend.
Last night, when I reminded her for the 100th time that you had come and taken the binkies away and that it was ok to be sad but that she is a big girl now, my insightful little girl looked at me and said “Its really hard, mommy” and then began to cry.
And, well, then I basically just liquefied into a giant puddle of guilty tears myself.
So, back to my original comment: I'm having second thoughts. I mean, ARE YOU SURE WE ARE READY FOR THIS? When Ruby was about 6 months old I literally tossed every “parenting” book I had into the trash. I didn't even want to lend them out to my friends because I believed that every single one of them was put on this Earth to make us feel like crap parents.
But this time, I feel like maybe I might need some additional guidance.
And since I know that you are really really busy with work and the kids and that husband of yours who "doesn't want to grow up" (I think his name is Peter?), I'm just going to request that you bring back the binkies and leave them on the porch.
I'll happily return the hideous white stuffed dog that looks like Paris Hilton gave it a make-over and we can call it even.
Seriously. Send back the binkies, you mean bitch.
Sincerely,
Sherry
I did it.
The unspeakable. The unthinkable. The thing that, as a contemporary suburban mom I've been fairly certain I wouldn't do.
I.Spanked.My.Child.
I can hear my own mother, a happy, educated, well-rounded woman, raised in the 1950s/60s, laughing aloud as she reads this. “Oh the DRAMA” she's saying! For her life and for mine – although not an every day occurance – spanking was pretty much, well, expected. Mom would say she's no worse for the wear and that I'm not either. My father would probably even go so far as to say that spanking is an ESSENTIAL part of child-rearing and damn the “experts”.
Full disclosure here – I was not breastfed, was left in a car while mom ran in for groceries, I ate non-organic blueberries and was allowed to ride my tricycle without a helmet so it IS quite possible that deep down, I hate my parents and I am a serial killer. Also, these are probably the reasons I got fat.
The 'why' that follows the “I spanked my child” statement is long, dramatic and quite frankly, unimportant. The significant part to know is that I DID spank out of frustration and not from a place of 'this is for your own good'. Ruby was not trying to run into a busy street or touch a hot stove for the 20th time in a row – the few whispered reasons that some brave (ashamed?) souls have given to me as explanations of when they 'would, perhaps, maybe' spank their child.
Not surprisngly for a girl that tweets, facebooks and blogs, I'm a member of a number of 'parenting' support websites. Dichotomies that pop up in child-rearing discussions on these boards would not suprise you. On everything from breastfeeding to pacifier use, mommies can get their panties in a bunch supporting their opinion. I've even seen full fledged ARGUMENTS about the importance and/or uslessness of COUPONING.
Personally, I'm much too hungover most Sunday mornings to be bothered clipping coupons so I don't participate in that discussion.
What I rarely see, even in the most open and honest parts of my mommy community, is even the slightest mention of spanking used as a child rearing tool. Spanking isn't even a 'hot topic' because, well, it's just not DISCUSSED. Its like the giant elephant in the room with a red handprint on its ass.
If you were to poll my upper-middle class neighborhood, community playgroups, the local Gymboree, you'd likely find that if anyone DOES spank, they don't ADMIT to it for goodness sake.
These same women will swap anti-anxiety medication suggestions, brazilian waxing mishaps, “Deceptively Delicious” recipes and even used snot rags for little noses – but stories of spanking? Um.. NOT.A.CHANCE. Its the forbidden. Its the taboo. Its judgement.
Like most new moms, I did a lot of judging before I became a parent. There was a laundry list of things I'd never do and an even longer list of things I WOULD do. Clean the binky by SUCKING THE DIRT OFF?! Letting my baby “cry it out”?! Feed her formula?! Let her eat FRUIT SNACKS?! Uh-uh. No way. Not this mommy. Suffice to say, those particular philosophies went right out the window about the time I looked over to see my 2 year old playing with a “dangerous” plastic bag, sitting on a recalled toy and realizing she'd been entertaining HERSELF for 10 WHOLE MINUTES and so, naturally, I gave her ANOTHER plastic bag.
Like I hear my mom and her mom and her mom before her snickering over my 1am diatribe of confusion and guilt over ONE SPANK, I also hear the clicks of the “unfriend,” the “unfollow” and the “uninvited” that I WILL – mark my words – I WILL receive after having admitted that I spanked and that I'm not 100% certain that I will 'never do it again'. I will be judged.
As moms today, we're all carrying around these little secrets lest we be judged. We don't want to tell that our 4.5 year old still isn't potty trained, that we served Kraft mac & cheese for the 8th night in a row because we're too tired of the fight, we sometimes use the television as a babysitter and actually DON'T hate Dora, we fight in front of our kids, we leave them in the car to get the dry cleaning, we spank.
I'm scared of being judged and I think most moms are too. What's really unsettling for me though is that I think the hardest jury to sway, the harshest judge in the county is the one that's on the bench inside of me. She's throwing the book at me for every.single.mistake.
The crappy part about this is that all parenting seems to be, from my perspective, is one mistake, one stumble after another, in the hopes we stumble into something good.
I was in Hallmark around Mother's Day and found this card that said “Behind every great kid is a parent who thinks they're fucking it up”.
Hallmark greeting cards are usually spot-on so I can only hope that little Ruby turns out to be a 'great kid'. God knows I'm constantly fucking it up.
I have the surefire solution to making your goal weight in a matter of days: get admitted to the hospital, strapped to an IV and consume nothing but clear liquids. Heck, sometimes you don't even want the sweet taste of WATER when the insides of your body feel like they are trying hacksaw their way to the OUTSIDE a la Alien with Sigourney Weaver. Or a la Spaceballs, wherein those insides then dance upon your colon donning a tophat and cane.
Now, no need to worry your pretty little heads, dear readers. I have simply been diagnosed with an old lady disease called Diverticulitis. Basically, stuff gets stuck to the insides of my colon and makes parts of it swell, pop and infect the rest of my body! Now there's some light evening reading for ya! It is a condition controlled through diet and isn't nearly as serious as it sounds. I'm just really REALLY young for such a condition, apparently.
Basically, my colon has decided it is 72 years old and doesn't like me to eat nuts, seeds or popcorn. I've also recently taken to calling everyone “dearie” and sit six inches closer to the steering wheel when I drive.
Now, this is just one of the many reasons I've been missing in the blogosphere but I'm feeling an upswing of inspiration and hope to be more present in the upcoming months.
Nonetheless, here are some awesome NSVs that I've experienced in my absence and would be remiss in not sharing them with you all:
while at a park birthday party for a 3 year old, a friend of mine comes over to say, and I quote: “When we pulled into the parking lot an looked over, I thought “Barbie” (as in, Ken & Barbie?!) was pushing Ruby on the swing”. Now, I won't remind you or myself that this particular friend is partially blind and wasn't wearing her glasses that day. Let's just focus on how she thought I looked like BARBIE—of course, I actually HAVE a butt crack and only stand on my tippy toes to reach the poptarts from the pantry shelves -- but otherwise, I forsee me being the next Barbie doll inspiration: “Weight Loss Surgery Barbie! Less stretch marks! Press her port and she PBs! Now with her own bottle of bariatric vitamins! Inspiration for obese little girls everywhere!”
Whilst folding a basket of laundry this week, I picked up a pair of my own shorts and thought aloud, “now WHO'S SHORTS ARE THESE?!” These shorts looked WAY too small for me and way too big for my 2.5 year old so I was certain that Husband was getting some on the sly with some hot tiny chick. I was being my usual calm, collected self – as you know I ALWAYS am – when I realized, “HEY! Those are MY shorts!” Again, let's not focus on how these particular shorts have that magical 'stretchy' material in them and shrink upon each washing.
Most of the time, intravenous fluids, using a barf basin and eating orange jello doesn't exactly conjur up the 'sexy' in us. But when the umpteenth medical professional stands there mouth agape and says “YOU had weight loss surgery? Really? You look so...normal” well, it brings out the Paris Hilton in me. Although, its hard to get your 'strut' on when you're attached to a beeping machine via your arm veins and hopped up on morphine. Also, let's try to forget about the fact that most of these nurses and the GI doctors spend most of their time looking at poop and butts and focus on the fact that even THEY couldn't tell I'd had WLS. That's hot.
Finally, and probably most significant for me, is that last night, for Hubby's birthday dinner, I slipped right into the dress I wore for our wedding rehearsal dinner! This dress is a size 12 and I only wore it once but held onto it because I loved it so dearly and felt certain that SOMEDAY it would fit again. Six long years later, the DRESS FIT. Let us not mention the super-sucker panties that had to accompany said dress this go-round. It still fits and damn if I didn't look as good as I did six years ago – minus the wrinkly old lady colon.
Sadly, despite all these great NSVs and the help of a starvation diet and erupting colon, when I reintroduced solid food and homemade cake-pops I bounced back up to 3 pounds over goal weight. Sigh.
So, this is my update.
And lest you walk away from the blog post forgetting the reigning, inspirational theme, I will remind you of it, once again: poopy exploding colons.
You're welcome.
A year post-band-surgery has come and gone (March 19th was my “bandiversary”) and I haven't marked the occasion with a blog entry. I've been so busy with traveling, parenting and eating Easter candy a month early, that this milestone has barely registered as a significant occasion in my mind.
That said, I wanted to offer some year-out 'stats' to my readers as I know that when I first started traveling the weight loss surgery route I was constantly seeking out others' statistics to give myself something concrete to relate to and hope for.
Ironically, what I've learned is that the gastric band journey is different for every person and although it is inspiring to see how far others have come, it can also be discouraging when you don't necessarily meet the same criteria, in the same amount of time post-surgery as someone else.
What I want to impart to those of you first starting on this journey is that there is no 'standard' for what to expect with weight loss surgery. I'm one person with one body type. My history is different than yours. My motivation is different than yours. My relationship with food is not like yours and, what I've also found, is that chances are, my metabolism SUCKS WAAAAYYYYY worse than yours. Seriously. It does. It sucks big ones.
There are inspirational bandsters out there who have said much wiser things on and about their bandiversaries than I could EVER say so I'm going to leave the pontification and fist-pump worthy words to them:
Catherine55: This one-year period was always going to be over today, but by being banded at the start of it, I was able to use the time to do a lot of things to make my life better.
Amy W: I have lost this weight...Because I knew I could and I would. When [my doctor] told me that the band does not work for everyone, I made a choice that I would not be one of those people.
Joey: I feel entirely different and pretty much the same all at once. Different because, well, because sooo much has changed! I eat differently, move differently, but sometimes I still think the same. I often still feel fat. Like so many of you have said, the brain has to play catch up with the body. The band is definitely among the best decisions I have ever made!
Angie: It is hard to say how much this surgery and losing weight has changed my life. In many ways I have not changed at all, and in others, I am becoming the person who I always hoped I could be. I am accomplishing the thing I knew I never could, and doing that is beyond empowering. I am more settled in myself, I can let my whole self just exist and not worry quite as much as to what I’m projecting.
Gilly: Its a year later...its life-changing. Smell ya later.
There are many, many other inspirational bandsters out there. Many of them are YOU. The ones I've quoted are just a teeny smattering of the banded ladies and gentlemen who have touched my life and helped me through my first year with their words, photos and stories.
As for me, well, here I am:
- 63 pounds lighter
- Size 12/14 from Size 20/22
- BMI of 26.2 from BMI of 35.7
Inches Lost From:
- Waist: 10
- Hips: 10
- Around Chest: 9
- Under Breasts: 7
- Each Thigh: 4
- Each Bicep: 4
- Each Calf: 2.5
- Each Wrist: .75
I lost, on average 1.2 pounds per week. Its not much, really. In fact, there were months where I counted Weight Watchers points and lost quite a bit more. The difference this time is that I've kept it off and I can honestly say I haven't had to 'diet' in a way that I felt was restrictive, difficult or discouraging. This isn't to say having a band is 'easy', it just makes the difficult choices easier.
I'm working on a vlog as there is so much more I want to say about where I am in this weight loss journey but even I, wordsmith extraordinaire, cannot seem to get it to come out right on paper. So stay tuned.
In the meantime, feast your eyes on the changes herewith. Yep. Photos of me in a swimsuit. You're welcome, America.
February 2010, September 2010, March 2011
June 2010, March 2011
Today.
There are two Rubys in my life that are causing me giant heartburn. Heartburn so intense and so firey that sometimes the only thing that can squelch it is one (or seven) vanilla buttercream filled chocolate easter egg.
As a child, the only time I could find such sinful goodness was around Easter. There were about two blissful weeks of being able to walk into any Walgreens, any CVS, any grocery store, any gas station! in the country and pick up a Cadbury cream egg (or seven).
Luckily, the great marketing minds at Russel Stover and the like have figured out that most Americans are willing to eat Easter candy ALL YEAR LONG if you'll let us. Our willingness to stuff our faces with cream filled, pastel colored chocolate and fluffy corn syrup got someone over there at the candy factory a GIANT RAISE. He or she figured out that you can shape that chocolate shit into ANYTHING: a heart at Valentine's day, a Santa at Christmas, a pumpkin at Halloween, a flag on the freakin' fourth of July. If there was an adult diaper-shaped chocolate cream candy for Grandparents day, I'd eat it (or seven).
Its chocolate, its creamy in the middle and its under .99 cents. Put it in the bag next to my diet coke please.
Even though the only spirituality I can muster up during this season is a silent prayer for afternoons warm enough to shove my kid outside of the house, I thank Jesus every day for Lindt, Cadbury and even the ever-waxy Hershey's for shoving little bits of goodness into bunny shaped packages.
So Ruby number one is only two years old but has already learned that the easiest way to send your mother on an express train to crazy town is to do/say/want the EXACT OPPOSITE of what your mommy wants/says/suggests. For example, “Ruby, let's go upstairs and play.” “No mommy! Downstairs to play!” “Ok, Ruby, let's play downstairs then.” “No mommy! UPSTAIRS!” – all accompanied by dramatic wailing and gnashing of two-year-old molars.
I tried to suggest we scream, yell, disobey and otherwise act insane in the hopes she would instead choose to sit quietly and obey, but psychological warfare does nothing to the minds of determined 2 year olds. You may as well be trying to make Palestine and Israel shake hands and be friends: they just ain't gonna come 'round.
This particular Ruby-incited heartburn is dulled a teeny bit by frequent sips of vodka martinis and long, hot, locked-door baths. Sometimes she protests this concoction but I insist that what's good for the mommy goose is even better for the baby goose.
The other Ruby causing me gastro-distress is the one that you have probably seen lurking about on various talk-shows. She has red hair, lots of gay male friends, a sickeningly sweet southern accent and is a seemingly perfect candidate for weight loss surgery.
I keep running into this Ruby while watching mindless television to help me dull the ache that the other Ruby is causing me. But this woman who makes me want to cry in sympathy and roll my eyes at the same time is causing me heartburn that no Maalox can cure.
Simply: WHY HAS THIS WOMAN NOT HAD WEIGHT LOSS SURGERY? WHY?!!!
So far, every time I've seen her, she mentions that she's put on some of the weight she lost from last season. Namely, 60 pounds. Namely, 15% of the 400 pounds she's lost. Now, if she didn't care about this weight gain, well, frankly, I wouldn't care either. I sincerely believe that if someone is happy being obese, that is their call. I don't believe that 'deep down' they aren't happy or 'deep down' they want to be skinny. On the subject of weight and weight management, I take people at their word because, honestly, I wouldn't want someone second guessing my comfort level with my own body.
But she comes right out and says she's “ashamed”. She says she wants to “get back on track”. And she says she is a “food addict”. She actually has a link on her Web site to the 12 steps food addicts should take. She sees a counselor, a nutritionist. She has trainers and cooks and supportive friends and has done ALL the things that I (and most of you) have done to 'fix' what's broken in our relationships with food. And she's still losing the battle.
So why not call in the reinforcements, already? Why not GET SURGERY? She's already doing the work that you have to do when you have the Lap Band but she's just needs some additional HELP. Help that no trainers, counselors, foodies or network sponsors are able to give. The badge of courage that she (and seemingly the rest of the former fatties in the press) gets from NOT having weight loss surgery is invisible. The badge of courage is invisible because it is covered in the blood, sweat and tears of working SO hard for something that you just can't do by yourself.
She's just sitting there being beautiful and funny and full of life and personal insight and most of all, being dumb.
She's rubbing those two sticks together SO FREAKIN' HARD and the fire keeps dying out. So why hasn't anyone handed her a lighter already? She's earned it. She deserves it.
I willingly admit that I have not seen the season premiere that aired yesterday but I promise that I'm going to download it and watch it this week, if for no other reason than it will give me an air-tight defense as to why I caved and ate Cadbury egg number eight.
A photo of Ruby #1. Post-vodka martini.
Lately, I've not been able to 'see it'. My weight loss, that is.
Everywhere I go, people comment on how thin I'm looking, how “tiny” I am.
I assume all of these humans have glaucoma or one of those mental disorders where you only see things the way you want to see them – kind of the way my mother-in-law views my husband, her son, who has never done anything wrong or imperfect. Ever.
Anyway, the only thing “tiny” about me is my left pinky toenail. The right pinky toenail is strangely over sized.
And while I do get excited to put on my size 12 jeans most mornings – pause for emphasis ----------- SIZE 12 jeans! – when I look at photos, I still see a fat girl.
This is definitely not unique to me or any other woman who loses a significant amount of weight – or Portia de Rossi who wrote a great book about being fat. Because she once was fat. Her thighs JIGGLED, people! And don't even try to tell me that it isn't traumatic to be a beautiful Australian model/actress who drowns her sorrows by eating an ENTIRE Snickers bar – THE WHOLE THING – and then can't fit into a size 6 dress during a fitting for a Revlon commerical. Because it is totally devastating. And because you can't possibly know what it is like to go up TWO WHOLE SIZES in one year and then be told you're fat by important people. And you can't know the shame of not being able to fit into cute designer clothes or eat in secret or not be able to control yourself around food.
Oh. Wait a minute....
As usual, I digress. So I don't see a thin girl in the mirror. Hell, I BARELY see a thinner girl.
What I DO see is basically the same crap I've always seen: a fat, floppy stomach, stretch marks and chicken legs.
When does the self-degradation finally end? Because here I am, a measly 15 pounds from a weight I thought would finally turn my mirror into a magic one where I looked like a less annoying, smaller-arsed version of a blonde Kardashian (What? You don't see that either? I swear I can be JUST as annoying and my sex tapes are AWESOME). Instead I just see a big belly with too many creases and a few gray hairs in my eyebrows -- weird, I know.
Is your mirror a magic one yet? If it is, or if you believe one exists for you, please let me know in which aisle of Bed Bath and Beyond I can find one.
Because unlike Portia I don't have a stable full of horses or a hot,rich & famous, 50 year old girlfriend to help me realize that I can be vegan with a personal chef and personal trainer and FINALLY be happy with the way I look.
I hate lying. Unless, of course, the lying is to spare someone's feelings, or serves a greater humanitarian purpose or makes you seem more awesomer. Or thinner. Or richer. Or funnier. Or right. Then I'm all for lying. But mostly, I hate lying.
Which is why the last four days have been particularly difficult for me.
Husband, Ruby and I took a trip to Ohio to visit my father, stepmother and this side of the family this past weekend. I love my dad's family. Dad's the oldest of 9 kids who each have about 9 kids who each have about 9 kids and all of these relatives live within about a 5 mile radius of one another. It makes for a great Thanksgiving Day football game, charades marathon and rousing game of “guess how we're related?!”
We're of German-Catholic stock on that side, which means we're all tall, big boned, large breasted and smell of sauerkraut and beer. We only wear lederhosen on special occasions and Lisel, Gretel and Marta do a fine rendition of “Edelweiss” after they've downed a few Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier. Clearly, we also believe that Jesus hates birth control, but He loves a good Pilsner.
Like most families, our get-togethers usually revolve around food and chit chat and often, a game of Texas Hold 'em that leaves at least three family members not talking to each other for a week and one family member $15 richer (Jesus is also ok with moderate, unlicensed gaming as long Pope is getting his cut).
What makes our family unique, however, is that, whilst eating our third chili cheese dog and reaching for that second iced brownie, we are usually chit-chatting about diets.
At any given time you could throw a dart in the room and hit a person on a diet. Our family is the Baskin Robbins of diets. You can't throw a stick without hitting a low-carber, a Atkinsonian, a South Beach resident, a Weight Watchers Lifetimer, Special K Challenger or a Jenny Craigonite. But most of us are still fat.
We talk a good talk, walk a good walk for a few weeks and yet, inevitably, we gain back what we lost during our Slim Fast phase, plus, plus, plus. We're our own research group. Send over the AMA! Send the CDC! Send Richard Simmons! We've tried it all, we've reported back, and guess what? The diets didn't work. We're still fat.
I remember being a senior in college, fighting the freshman 35 for the tenth time and looking over at one of my high school age cousins. She was thin, almost skinny! She wore tight jeans that showed off her cute tanned, belly-ringed stomach and I swear I thought to myself: “She better live it up because knowing our genes, her days in THOSE jeans are LIMITED”. Sadly, I was right and I don't think she's even touched a bikini since her second year of college. She too, is overweight now.
The weekend was great in so many ways. Ruby got to play with her third cousins – or first cousins once removed – or hillbilly siblings – whatever you want to call it. The husband got to eat his own weight in chili-dogs, and I got to witness the relationship between my parents and my child blossom.
But before we edge into the land of sentimentality, let me be frank. The best part of this trip was having all my relatives comment on how awesome I look. None of them (not even my dad) know about the band and here's where I start to cross the 'lying' threshold.
As my family are all diet connoisseurs, they wanted to know “my secret”. “How did I do it? Which diet am I on? How long have I been 'dieting'? How many enemas do you have to get?”
Like other banded friends out there, I pulled out the standard answer for the WLS patient on the DL: “I eat less and move more”.
Technically, this is all true. Technically, this is not a lie. Technically, FOX News is “news”.
Technically I feel like a big fat liar. Without the “fat” part.
Where the wicket gets particularly sticky is that I have two aunts in their fifties who had gastric bypass about 7 or 8 years ago. Although they both lost significant amount of weight (and look & feel amazing), they are still far from the 'normal' BMI range. They don't really 'work' their surgery but they've been successful at going from 'morbidly obese' to just 'overweight'.
They're both happy. They feel they've come 'far enough'. They eat fast food for about one meal a day. They drink lots of non-diet soda. They've thrown their calorie counters to the wind. They don't exercise. AT ALL. They also smoke heavily. And one of them DOESN'T WEAR HER SEATBELT! EVER!
I can safely say these two aunts of mine don't live very healthily. But in THEIR minds, they've won. And maybe that's all that matters. Maybe some people don't need to have a 'normal' BMI or make the right food choices most of the time or get healthy in mind and body to consider themselves a victor. Maybe they just need to lose the weight and be less fat than they were before.
I just couldn't bring myself to tell them or anyone else in the family about my band because I'm not sure that we're on the same type of journey. They feel 'done' and although I share their sarcastic wit, their long legs, their remarkable laughs, this is where our genes part ways:
I don't feel done. I'm still in battle. Its not full on war but the safety is still off my gun and I'm still watching for land mines. I don't know that I'll be at peace with my weight loss struggles until I've changed all aspects of my relationship with food. I'm hoping that Leona will forever be my 'front line defense' and so far, she's working pretty well, but there is a heck of a lot of other work that needs to happen in the head region of this body before I'll feel confident saying “I'm done” and “I've been victorious!”
Maybe once I'm there and feeling like I've won the war against fat, against food, against my own genetics, I'll also be ready to share all my 'secrets'.
A recent photo for your viewing pleasure...52 pounds down
We're cute
I'm stuck.
Figuratively. Literally. Emotionally, even. Stuck.
Can't come up with a good blog topic. Can't get the words out. Can't get the healthy food down very well. Can't get the weight down. Stuck.
Some moments I cleanse the stuck with chocolate but mostly I've been using exercise as catharsis. This is a good thing, I know. But it's not new to me. I've had a few 'stuck' moments in my life where I've turned to compulsive exercise to help me work out the kinks.
The issue, this time, with all my gym rattyness – besides the fact that I turn to Jersey Shore when I'm on the treadmill and find myself nodding in agreement with the occasional Snooki-ism – is that the work outs don't seem to be turning into weight loss. Instead they seem to turn me into a carb-seeking missile which in turn makes me feel bloated, gross and guilty which in turn makes me head back to the gym at full force.
Its a viscious cycle.. Not unlike the “romance” between Sammi “Sweetheart” and Ronnie “Roids”. Frustration, tears, sweaty tight clothing and lots and lots of f-bombs.
I'll be back in touch once I get off this hamster wheel. Right now I gotta GTL.
My apologies, dear readers, for my absence from the blogging community, lately. As you all well know, the business of the holiday season isn't to be taken lightly.
From shopping and wrapping to drinking and puking, well, it doesn't leave much time for personal reflection now, does it? Unless of course that reflection is the one you see of yourself in the rippling water of the toilet at 1am after your friend's annual Christmas party – and then, well that reflection is certainly not worth mentioning, much less commenting on.
In fact, I haven't been doing much of the “this time last year” reflection at all. I've always kind of been a forward thinker. I like to dwell on what COULD happen (good and bad) , rather than on what already happened.
But the other day I was trolling a friends' facebook page, and came across a couple of photos of me that made me so sad:
I'm the big one without a blacked out face
These were taken at my friend Kate's Christmas party last year. I'm sad looking at these photos because I'm probably at my heaviest but what made me get teary-eyed is that I remember thinking I looked SO GOOD that night.
I'd purchased a really adorable silver and gold strapless top from Lane Bryant (because I couldn't find any cute holiday tops to fit me in the regular stores) and wore it with some black pants that had an ELASTIC waist. Let that sink in. ELASTIC WAIST.
Even though I KNEW I was at my heaviest weight ever, I still thought I looked pretty hot. And my sweet husband. My sweet, dear, husband! Well, he TOLD me I looked beautiful. In fact, he he probably even tried to seduce me that night because, well, he is just awesome --- and deprived --- and probably drunk. But anyway, the man knows how to make a hefty girl feel loved.
Then some friends posted this photo the other day and I smiled:
I'm the one who isn't a ghost
Because I look at it and I think I look pretty good. And not too fat. And because when my husband told me I looked beautiful, I believed him. Even if he was drunk.
However, in my very humble opinion, you can't really get a good idea of EXACTLY how I looked at that party a couple of weeks ago so I decided to get dressed up all over again, in my SIZE 14 DRESS THAT I HAVE HAD FOR 7 YEARS and give you a picture you can really worship:
And, even if you are drunk and deprived, you don't need to tell me I look great because, for once, I already know!
I didn't notice this until 5 or 6 years ago when a colleague of mine pointed it out (and mocked me relentlessly) but I routinely use the phrase “Oh, for cryin' out loud!” You know, like, I'm in the check out line at the Piggly Wiggly to buy some milk and Pringles and after waiting 25 minutes for the blue hair in front of me to get out all her coupons and argue with the cashier about whether she can use the .25 cents off Charmin coupon for both bath tissue AND ass wipes or just the tissue and then its finally my turn and the register runs out of ticker tape and the manager has to be called over to replace it because the cashier is a “New Team Member!” and then the manager decides to use this as a 'learning experience' for said “New Team Member!”? That's when I pull out the “Oh for cryin' out loud!”
Now, for those of you who haven't met me or read my profile information, that probably leads you to believe that I am a 75 year old South Jersey grandmother who tells dirty jokes and shakes her fist at bad drivers. Or that I'm Joy Behar.
Unfortunately, you'd have assumed incorrectly. I'm just a dorky 33 year old who complains frequently and loudly enough to SEEM like a 75 year old. By the way, my knees are popping like CRAZY today. Must be a storm coming.
But you see, its not my fault that I say “Oh, for cryin' out loud” or “For Pete's sake!” or “You get married so you have someone to kill the bugs”. I INHERITED these phrases. They're family mottoes! Sometimes we cross-stitch them on pillows.
And maybe its the fact that the holidays are upon us or the fact that my 89 year old grandmother recently came to visit, but lately, I've been thinking a lot about habits and rituals and what I've inherited versus what is 'all me.'
For instance, I bite my fingernails. Yes, it is a nasty habit and probably means I'm a nervous person or need constant oral stimulation (tee hee) or maybe it means I like my nails short. Or that I'm a serial killer.
No one else in my family bites their nails. Not my sister, my mother, my grandmother or my father. They all have lustrous, painted (daddy likes Rockette Red), beautiful nails and have no shame showing their hands to even the most judgmental of Vietnamese manicurists.
Also, I HAVE to sing along to every song that comes on the radio. I simply CANNOT carry on a discussion if there is a song playing in the background that I know the words to (which means there isn't much talking in my car. Unless, of course, we're on the Smooth Jazz station, in which case, we're talking about my impending funeral because I'm about to throw myself out of the moving car). Much of my family is like this. We WILL shush you if you choose to interrupt us during our renditions of any Carpenters' song.
Anyway, while my grandmother and mom were here last week, I took notice of their body types and eating habits. Neither one of them has ever been fat nor have they ever really been skinny. They are both average, pear-shaped, white women who complain mostly about their thighs being a tad jiggly and asking if things "make their butts look big" but in reality, they look like just about every other American woman walking the streets. My sister, lucky girl, inherited that particular shape while I, on the other hand, am a different fruit altogether.
Call it apple, call it top heavy, call it Kathy Bates – I'm basically your average Granny Smith sitting on a couple of Popsicle sticks. Pour some caramel on me and you've got a sought-after State Fair treat. I carry all my extra weight right around my middle, the unhealthiest place to carry extra weight. Also pretty terrible in terms of finding jeans that don't make you look like like one of the Tweedle Dee or Dum twins. This, along with my love for cop show dramas and poop humor, I inherited from my father.
With regard to eating habits, well, I can tell you that I've never ever seen mom or grandma 'binge' on anything other than a sale at T.J.Maxx. Mom's usually on a 'diet' and at any given time you can find a chewy, fake-peanutbuttery, 100 calorie treat at the bottom of her purse. I've seen her turn down homemade cookies with a flip of the hand and claim that she just “can't get enough” of something as mouth-watering as celery sticks with fat free ranch dressing.
Grandma on the other hand, usually drinks ½ a can of regular Coca-Cola at lunch and cooks with Crisco regularly. Although she recently started working out so as to 'watch her figure,' on our recent trip to Starbucks, when our frowny faced barrista asked Grandma if she “wanted whip on her white chocolate mocha” Grandma looked genuinely perplexed when she answered “Well, OF COURSE!”
Although, she, and I, looked equally perplexed when the designer velvet track suit clad soccer mom behind us ordered a “grande half-caf, triple shot, half syrup, gingerbread soy latte”.
See, Grandma simply doesn't see a point in ordering a white chocolate mocha and then butchering it with skim milk and denying herself whipped cream. Why? Because Grandma only gets a Starbucks coffee treat TWICE A YEAR.
Bottom line here people, I inherited the worst of both my mom and grandma's worlds. I basically spent the last 27 years of my life binging on diet food and then turning around and treating myself to more of it for choosing 'wisely' and not eating the skin off of ONE piece of fried chicken.
By the by, Snackwell's Devil's Food low-fat cookies are only low-fat if you eat ONE of them. A box of those cookies will NOT make you thinner.
So, to sum it up, I got fat because of what I inherited and I got fat because of the choices I made. There's really no sure way to know which came first, the fatty or the Olestra.
What I do know, now, is that thanks in a HUGE part to my Lap Band, I'm finally able to take the best and healthiest bits from Grandma's eating habits and Mom's eating habits and come out the other end a thinner, happier and healthier person.
I don't know if I inherited this ability to take control of my life and make it better or if it is something I learned, and it really doesn't matter, I guess. I'm just glad I'm finally able to do it.
Grandma showed me how to make her famous pie crust. LOTS of Crisco
Then she showed me how to make her amazing fried chicken. MORE CRISCO!
I had about 3/4 of a piece, WITH the skin. Just the right amount and YUMMY!
Grandma, Mom and the Little Girl who I hope only inherits the best parts of all of us.
So, I have this friend....
Don't you just LOVE when stories start out that way? In high school such a phrase was often followed by: “who is having sex with her boyfriend and needs to get on birth control but she can't tell her mom and doesn't know where to go to get it” which was then followed by YOUR mom narrowing her eyes at you, getting a little sweaty on the forehead. Which was then followed by you cocking your snotty teenage hip to the side whilst responding “NO! REALLY! Its my FRIEND! Not ME! I SWEAR, MOM!”
Anyway – I have this friend, we'll call her Olive Oil. She's skinny. Really skinny. Always has been, always will be. And she's beautiful. And a whole bunch of other things that are wonderful and lovely and covetous. Like, she never fails to give people the benefit of the doubt. And she doesn't like to gossip. What is UP with that?
You already hate her, don't you?
Here, hate her some more: She once bitched and moaned to me about how she was sad that after birthing two kids she could no longer fit into her size 2 jeans. SIZE TWO. This conversation happened while we were eating our Panera Bread lunches – my salad (dressing on the side!) and her foccacia bread sandwich (extra cheese on the side!) and NON-DIET Coke. She DID get some salad too, that day though. In her lap.
Then I took off my size 20s and wrapped her skinny butt in them and stuck her in the trunk of my car. It was all done with love though.
Anyway, we've known each other for a long time. She's seen me at my heaviest, she's seen me at my skinniest. She's seen me happy with my body and hating my body. What she's never seen me as though, is NOT on a diet.
She's been with me to Walgreens when I was spending my allowance on Metabolife. She's eaten my Everything Bagel after I'd taken off the turkey and cheese while doing Atkins. She's scrunched up her nose at my Slim Fast and tasted a bite or two (and spit them out) of my Jenny Craig turkey and rice soup. She's listened while I've calculated the amount of Weight Watchers points in my chicken fajitas and wondered aloud how I fit in all the exercise I do. After school I'd eat carrot sticks and she'd have McDonalds.
Somehow, amidst all of my dieting and her NOT dieting, I continued to get fatter and she continued to get skinnier. In the abbreviated words of our deteriorating youth: WTF?
So, Olive Oil has been having some issues with feeling dizzy and disoriented and lethargic. She's not yet seen a doctor but she thinks she's has issues with her blood sugar. Her hypothesis was that she had started doing some exercise but had not upped her caloric intake enough to account for the amount of exercise she is doing. Her current solution? Stop exercising.
I suggested EATING MORE, because, well, for a fat girl, that's as instinctual as buying the black one because its most slimming. Elliptical for 30 minutes = a night of eating buttercream frosting out of the can. IT'S MATH PEOPLE.
Then she said something so horrific, so foreign, so unbelievable, I ALMOST put down the miniature Snickers bar I was licking. She said: “BUT SOMETIMES I'M JUST NOT HUNGRY.”
Stop the press! My skinny friend DOESN'T LIKE TO EAT WHEN SHE'S NOT HUNGRY?!
“Are you sure?” I asked? “What about just ½ a cheese stick or maybe a handful of nuts? M&Ms? A Whopper Jr.? I mean, you're skinny, C'MON! Live it up!”
But she insisted. She doesn't like to eat when she's not hungry. Not even a little.
And for the first time in my life, I kinda 'get it'. I'm not totally 'there' yet but thanks to Leona, I'm starting to understand what its like to have a normal relationship with food. I can't say that I don't pop a chocolate or potato chip every now and then, even though I'm full from lunch. And sometimes just seeing that its 6pm makes me hear dinner bells. But they aren't ringing that loudly and sometimes I'm able to shut them out as I would a Michael Bolton song on an elevator.
Every fat girl knows that 'only eating when you are hungry' isn't some giant secret that the skinny girls are keeping from us. We know its common sense. It is just that, for whatever reason, we've been ignoring that instinct for so long that the sense isn't so common.
After 27 years of doing it, eating when you aren't hungry isn't just a bad habit, it's inherent.
They say “you learn something new every day.” What they don't tell you is how hard it is to UNLEARN something you didn't want to know how to do in the first place.
Me & Olive Oil in 1995. She made brownies for our road trip but I couldn't eat them since I was on a diet.
Also, yes, her waist was and is, smaller than my bicep.
Camille's post regarding whether or not to tell her mother about her Lap Band got me thinking about the 'support' that I've received from friends and family since deciding to go forward with the gastric band and the LACK of support that so many of my other banded blogger friends have had with regard to their weight loss surgery (WLS).
I don't have the energy to get all philosophical about it but I wanted to share a quick story that I think pretty much sums up how friends and family SHOULD act regarding a person's decision to have WLS.
Last weekend I, Kate, and some of our other mommy friends went to the mountains for some “relax and recharge” time away from husbands and kids. Hot tub, wine and massage. Need I say more?
Kate and I have been very open with our mommy group about our band surgeries. Partly because we spend so much time together between playgroups, mommy's night outs, birthday parties and family events it would be hard to keep such a secret from them. And partly because honestly, they are all such amazing women and have been supportive in every facet of each other's lives that we felt 'safe' with them.
Well, on the drive up to the mountains, Kate, Shannon and I were all in one car. We were talking about potty training, tantrums and other toddler challenges and kind of out of nowhere Shannon says “I am just so proud of both of you girls and the progress you've made with your weight loss. You both look so good”.
She didn't quantify it with comments about us having had surgery to help us or question whether we'll be able to 'keep it off'. She just did what a friend should do: support us through our journey.
So, not only is Shannon a great friend, she's also a wise woman because damn if we DON'T look good.
See for yourself:
Kate is in the center
In the couple of weeks since I've been gone from the blogosphere I've enjoyed such things as hot tubs, wine, pumpkin patches, girls weekend away, wine, a massage by a hippy mountain man that repeated the phrase “relax and restore” about 37 times in the course of 90 minutes, wine, and of course, vodka.
Yet, each of these events, with great stories accompanying, have taken a back seat in my brain since watching this vlog by the crazy yet inspiring Amy W., and her blog posts that followed.
Typically I prefer to be the star in my blog but such an even as eating an entire hamburger WITH BUN, whilst sporting a Lap-Band, trumps my self-centeredness and it simply must be addressed.
See, I'm feeling a bit like you feel after someone you know has experienced something tragic—like a car accident, or the loss of a loved one or your skirt tucked into the back of your pantyhose: What if it was me?!
I try not to be too judgmental (at least not to anyone's face) and so I'm withholding my judgment for Amy's cardinal banded sin. And it seems like she's received enough spankings from her followers to warrant her a plaque in the S&M hall of fame. Instead I find myself biting my fingernails with worry, furrowing my un-botoxed brow and looking at burgers, bagels and doughnuts in an entirely different with mixture of horror and longing.
See, hearing that my inspiration has successfully gone where no bandster has gone before has done a number on me.
Call me naive but I seriously thought that eating burgers with buns, untoasted loxed and creamed cheesed bagels, Panera's Chicken Caesar Sandwiches were feats that were simply not possible with banded restriction.
Now, if you have followed my banded history you know that it took me F.O.R.E.V.E.R. to get any resemblance of restriction in my band. But once I got some (at about 7 ccs in a 10 cc band) Leona put the “kabash” on just about every food I've mentioned above. She simply stops it in its tracks.
While I recognize that everyone is different and perhaps Amy's ability to conquer this burger-beast is a one-off, I live in fear.
Regardless of how much research we did prior to getting our bands, regardless of how mentally and emotionally ready we were for such step, getting the band did require us to take a leap of faith. The gastric band, in the world of medical procedures, is relatively new. There aren't exactly thousands of well known bandsters who have had their band longer than a few years and are out there sharing their stories.
How do I know I won't tap out my band and be without restriction forever? How do I know that this amazing feeling of fullness and satisfaction that I get now after eating a small amount of food won't disappear someday even with a filled band?
Although each day I am finding new ways to analyze my relationship with food and with feeling/being fat, I haven't conquered it yet. I'm not yet free.
I still NEED MY BAND TO DO ITS JOB.
While I hope that I can be buried with my band, a thin, healthy woman, a part of me also hopes that if for some reason Leona and I had to part ways, I would still be able to maintain a healthy relationship with food and my weight.
I'm using this band as a tool, not as a cure.
My paranoia, however, is that Leona is going to crap out on me before I'm ready to make my way into remission.
Normally, relaxation comes at a price.
In my neck of the woods a pedicure is $35, a evening of cocktails with the girls is $50 and a Swedish massage is $70 (“happy endings” are extra – unless you have a gift certificate).
And six days on a Caribbean island, my 2-year old in the safe, albeit cookie-filled hands of her grandparents wasn't cheap either. We paid off the vacation monetarily but I'm paying a much higher price via sugar withdrawal induced tantrums, 6 a.m. wake-up calls and acoustic bombardment torture in the form of an alien life form known simply as “The Wiggles”.
Seriously, if they'd wanted to get Noriega out a few days sooner, than they should have played Captain Feathersword reciting the Declaration of Independence over and over again instead of the Howard Stern show: “Ahoy there me hearties! We hold these here truths to be self evident. Oooh hoo!”
Side bar: Did you know that the U.S. Military has used NEIL DIAMOND to torture prisoners at Guantanamo Bay? NEIL DIAMOND?! Who doesn't like “Sweet Caroline”?! That's like saying you feel “tortured” by having to watch puppies and kittens playing with a ball of yarn. No wonder they aren't getting any information out of those guys about where the heck Osama Bin Laden is hiding. Great. I now have to wonder if 'waterboarding' is actually just a day in a jacuzzi.
All these minor annoyances aside, vacation was wonderful. Lots of sleeping, lots of swimming, lots of reading, lots of drinks made with two shots of liquor and names like “Sandals Sunset”, “Orange Bliss”, “No Pressure” and “Knock You On Your Ass So Hard You Have To Take Two Naps In One Day.” I think that last one has tequila in it... and vodka...and rum...and Vicodin.
One thing there was NOT lots of, however, was eating. Our resort was an 'all inclusive' which, translated, means “fat people like it here”. Buffets abound at Sandals' resorts. And when the buffets are closed? No pressure, no problem my brotha! A burger and fries from the seaside bar awaits you!
In the past, just being near all this food, all the time, would have made me eat. I could have finished off lunch and still been signaling my cabana boy to bring me a large order of onion rings with an ice cream sundae on the side.
It was strange being constantly surrounded by food and yet NOT EATING. What was strangely familiar however, was being surrounded by fruity drinks and using the phrase “Sure, I'll have another! Put whipped cream in it this time!” So all in all, balance was achieved.
All this said, pina coladas and strawberry daquiris are sliders so even though I stayed the course with eating, I came home two pounds up due to the alcohol imbibing. Lucky for me Sandals does not have an all-you-can-eat-soft-serve-ice-cream-bar (although I complained loudly to several different resort employees about not being able to 'get my ice cream on') or it would be worse.
But here I am, 4 days post-vacation and those two pounds have disappeared so once again, I'm most thankful to my Lap Band.
Husband and I went on vacation but thank jeebus Leona doesn't take holidays. I hired that bitch to be a workaholic and as expected, she's exceeding expectations.
In a cabana right before my second drink of the day
After my second drink of the day
