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Good news:  my primary care doctor says that I only have another fifteen pounds to go until I am in a whole new category.   What category is that, you ask?  It's the one where my weight does not pose an adverse risk to my health.  This is why I did this, in the first place, and when I reach that goal - I am gonna be a pretty happy girl.  I've worked pretty hard for this.  As she put it, "The rest is just for fun."  Awesome. 

At work (where people analyze the fit of clothing for a living every day, and where therefore it is pointed out to me daily that all my clothes are too big) everyone keeps guessing that I am a size smaller than I am.  Which I guess is awesome?  Cause I'm happy to look and feel smaller - still a new sensation for me.  I have "wear a dress to work" as one of my goals for the summer.  It's embarrassing how terrifying I find this prospect (people I know - looking at my legs!  On purpose!) but then, I'm a daredevil. :)

Today I need new pants, since I've again reached the pants-fall-down stage, which is kinda no good, especially at work, though really there's no good time for pants to fall down.  Also, I need new jeans again.  (Eek.)  Why can;t I find some magic to make my clothes shrink with me?

Yesterday I discovered this:  that when you're thinner, and you do sit-ups, you can actually see your individual ab muscles contracting, which makes everything a whole hell of a lot easier!  I did not know this, though almost certainly you already did.

I went to kickboxing yesterday (not really kickboxing - more another step class with some kicking and punching thrown in) and did not die, even though I was the only "beginner" level person among a class of regulars who are all intermediate.  The one thing I cannot do is rapid foot work - never could.  I am not light and bouncy enough; I am solid and earth-bound.  Maybe someday this will be different, but I doubt it.

Lately, my state of mind has been happy/guilty.  Always both, at the same time.

The thing is, I live in this bizarre bubble right now.  I work in an industry that is based in looks.  This doesn't bother me, since I love fashion and I can give you reasons why fashion is a mirror of culture and politics and feminism and lots of other bigger and important things, but the truth of it is that it is based in appearance, and those appearances are generally better if your weight is closer to its ideal, and in the case of high fashion, if your weight is lower than ideal.

People at work tell me how amazing I look every single day.  Every day, I go to work, and I am told I am pretty, I seem taller, you can see my pretty features so well now, I look great in my clothes, and by the way, is everyone else saying this, too?  And with one exception, yes, everyone else is.

The exception is my boss, who shocked me once, a year ago, by telling me he thought I was really beautiful, when I was fat, and has not mentioned my looks since.  I confess:  I love him for this.

The thing is?  I love, love, love the attention.  I love being told, in great detail, why someone thinks I am pretty.  I love being congratulated for my hard work with the personal trainer, and getting questioned about what my nutritionist says, and oh by the way, tell me again how pretty I am?  I wish everyone got to go to work and be told how great they are, and how wonderful they look, because guys, it's so great. 

I don't believe a word of it, of course.  I look in the mirror, and on good days, I think...well, maybe.  I look OK.  I look better, certainly.  I still look fat.  I have nice hair.  My eyes are a pretty color.  The rest?  I see the loose skin, (oh, god, my underarms, the horror; the roll at my waist)  I feel like someone wearing a suit a size too large, I see the fat that still needs to go away, and I feel like my nose looks wider the smaller I get.  I feel, essentially, not that pretty, not good enough, and still miles, miles to go before I sleep.  And still, I am terrified of regaining it all back, or waking up from it like a dream.  I feel like there is a second, unspoken part of the sentences everyone is saying to me, that I LOOK PRETTY, REALLY GREAT in comparison to where you were before, because damn, you were a really unattractive fat girl. 

I seem to have body dysmorphia in reverse?  Because I did think I was pretty-ish when I was fatter.  I guess I didn't think about it much at all, really, but I did think I was at least ok.  And now that I'm getting smaller, I feel...not good enough.  Not different enough.  Better, yes.  Healthier, and for that I am grateful.  I used to see photos of myself, and be surprised - hey! - I am fat!  I didn't feel THAT fat.  Surprise!  And now I see photos and I think...am I still so fat?  I thought, maybe, I had gotten smaller.  I guess not.  I feel small, tiny.  I look at my clothes and they seem miniature.  Not so.

I feel like I am betraying my former fat self by being so happy about the compliments.  My first thought last weekend, when I saw how incredibly good looking my date was, was "Wow, he's really sexy.  He would never have agreed to go out with me if I was still fatter.  I wonder if I am pretty enough for him, even now?"  And then I hate myself for thinking this way, because I am a fucking feminist, and because that is so terrible.  And yet, it is also true, so what am I to make of that?

Happy that I am losing weight.  Guilty, because my brain has not caught up and I do not feel different, and I should be feeling so different, right?  Happy, because I look better.  Guilty, because so not good enough, not yet.  Happy, because I am dating, and attractive, and can fit in cute clothes.  Guilty, because shouldn't I be more indignant, shouldn't I be deserving of love and cute clothes at any weight?  If I wear the clothes, if I date the boys, am I denying my past self?  Should I carry a photo of me, fat, around everywhere, and make people look at it, and judge them for their reaction? 

The gym is getting so much easier.  I make it hard; I push myself, but there is so much less of me to move around, and I don;t get injured, and I can take a step class and not die of a heart attack.  I have lost 75 pounds, and that is the size of a rather large child.  I am almost, almost, not the fattest person in my gym classes any more.  One more size, I think, and I'll be there.  I used to kill myself in class, be the kickboxing CHAMPION, amazing at pilates, because I refused to be the fat girl who gave up, who bailed out first, who had to break for water an extra time, and everyone else would think "At least I am not like her; will never be like her."  Except sometimes, I would have to stop anyway.  The day I am not the fattest?  I will be so relieved, to pass that torch.

I used to have a friend who would tell me, "You are cute, but not hot.  Hot means that you are in great shape, and you are fat, so you are just cute."  I guess that's how I felt - cute, never hot.  Inferior to all who were both.  Hoping to be forgiven for my un-hotness.  D did a good job, too, of reinforcing this - I might be ok looking, enough to date for six years, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, to make too much of it, because frankly, we all know you're not good enough.  And I wonder, at what point do I attain hotness?  At what point am I good enough?  And who gets to draw the line, to set the standard? 

I'm about halfway through my weight loss, I think, if I work hard and make it all happen.  I would like to lose enough to be able to know what it feels like to be, technically, medically speaking, not overweight.  I am curious what it looks like, on me.  What will I think of me, then?  What will everyone else think?  I hope it makes me happy.  And I hope I find a way to feel less guilty, over time.

one of my lovelier coworkers at the fax machine five minutes ago:  "So, are you on some crazy special diet, or are you just not eating?" 

Um, awesome.  Also, none of your business.  Also, no.

I'm spending a LOT of time talking about my body with people one would not usually reference one's naked body and changes therein.  Compliments are nice - I really can't be told I'm pretty too often, since I too often feel unpretty.  But there's a serious downside to it, too, and it can get on my nerves.

Also?  The larger women at my office are starting to get a little angry and resentful of me.  They thought of me as one of them; losing 20 pounds was all well and good, but this is seriously threatening my cred as someone with a weight problem (note:  I completely still think of myself as someone with a weight problem, and will always struggle with it no matter what happens.)  I have been called "skinny bitch" more than once AT WORK, and some people are having a bit of difficulty hiding their resentment toward me.  They ask me frustrated questions, usually of the "have you discovered the magic thinness fountain?" variety, and when I discuss my personal trainer or my nutritionist (I have discussed the surgery with only a select few I trust, because again, not their business) they tune me out and get cross. 

So, I'm too fat to be accepted by anyone thinner than me, and too thin to be accepted by anyone who weighs more than me.  Hmmm.  Thank goodness I'm not cringingly insecure, eh?

I bought something that I normally would think of as the anti-me: a small, white sundress.  This also required buying white cotton underwear, because I owned none of that, either.  I will be wearing both in the Caribbean next week.

I am officially the size I was at the very beginning of college.  Happy 1995 everybody!  

My office chair hurts more now when I sit here all day because my ass has less padding.  This is rather unexpected. 

My weight loss is weird and inconsistent.  I'll go, like, three weeks at the same weight, until I get worried that the loss has stopped or I'm not doing the right things (hello, Easter chocolate, my nemesis), and then I'll shed a whole bunch really fast, followed by another plateau.  It's because my body is trying desperately to hang onto every ounce it can, as it has always done, for as long as possible, then gives up the ghost when it's just not possible any more.  As a result I can do what I did this weekend and literally walk into work Monday five pounds lighter than I was on Friday.  Sometimes people notice, and I convince them that it's their lying eyes deceiving them.  It's very bizarre. 

It was bound to happen - I went down a boob size.  Down one cup size and 1.5 band sizes.  I own one bra that fits, which I expect will shortly become a small problem.

Yeah, I've lost 65 pounds (more if I weigh myself in the morning...so clearly, I ALWAYS weigh myself in the morning.)  It's officially, to me, a ton of weight.  I am also, unofficially, at the halfway point in my weight loss process.  I'd like to lose 70 more pounds.  I have no idea if I will be able to or not.

I haven't been posting as much because there isn't much to say.  I'm in the fun part right now.  I like the amount of food I can eat (about 5 ounces at a time, or 5 cubic inches of stuff), I like that my energy is back and I work out tons and it makes me feel strong.  I like that all day, every day, people tell me I'm pretty and that I look awesome.  I like that my weight is still going down pretty effortlessly as long as I take the vitamins and eat the right stuff and work out and don't fuck up.  This is, as they say, the honeymoon period.

This period will end.  Every pound will get harder to shed than the last.  The next 70 pounds will not be so easy as the first 70.  It will not happen so fast, or so well.  It might take a year.  It might take 2 years.  It will be hard to motivate, because fuck, personal training is expensive, and chocolate is pretty awesome, and can't we just stay in bed, and eat chocolate, and be happy?  Sadly, no.

So, I'm making a plan.  When I lose all the weight, and have my ducks in a row, I'm buying an apartment.  A new big-ass thing to own and stress over and think about and suck up my money, but will also be a grown-up thing and will make me officially a New Yorker in a new way.  I will be able to stop worrying that I will get priced out of the neighborhood I adore in a few years.  It will be great.  And scary.

So I have a year (or two) to improve my credit  and learn everything there is to know about house buying, New York real estate, and how not to turn into some financial problem that causes Bear Sterns to go under. 

I am on vacation at the end of next week, and you know what that means?  It means I get to start drinking again.  That makes me feel more like a proper adult, too, cause I likes me some wine with a good dinner (also whiskey.  and vodka.  And tequila now and again.)

Ok, I've said it before, but it bears repeating.  I've lost about 55 pounds.  Depending on what time of day I weight myself, maybe closer to 60.  I should be thin, right?  Little teeny?  It seems unbelievable that some people still see me as fat, because look how freaking far I have come.  And yet, there we are.  Miles to go before I sleep.

I got a great compliment at the gym today.  My trainer Larry said to me, "You know what I like about you, Kelly?  You really work.  You work really hard.  You probably had a long day, a hard day, but you come in and you work."  It made me feel SO GOOD, because I really do try, man.  I really want my time to matter.

We did sprints for the first time today.  I had no idea I could run!  I can run fast!  Not for very long, but he said that the (little, skinny, cute) girl before me had a harder time than I did at the high speeds.  My legs are killing me now, but I ran fast, and I maintained control, and didn;t die or fall off or anything!  I had no idea that was something I could do, and I feel strong.







Me after the gym, wet hair, no makeup.  Everything I have on is a size too big on me, but whatevs.  They make me happy.

Just as I walked into the gym the other day, looking for my trainer so we could commence with the ass-kicking he hands me three times a week, I noticed a guy lying on one of those sit-up thingies but not doing sit ups, just hanging out, with another guy by his side.  He saw me, and did the slow clap.  You know the one I mean.  The sarcastic, making-fun-of-you. overdramatic movie slow clap.  He got louder and louder and tried to get his friend to join him.

I was floored.  And confused.  What was he trying to say?  That I was too fat to be in a gym?  That is was GOOD I was in a gym, because I was fat?  That I looked ugly?   The many insults my mind conjured were probably far worse, and cleverer, than the ones intended, and they were many.

I walked over to fill my water bottle and tried to understand why I was feeling like I wanted to cry.  I always feel particularly vulnerable at the gym.  You have to wear cotton casual clothes and sneakers, and I don;t do ultra-casual, so I feel weird.  Plus, I'm physically tired and drained or preparing to be, so I feel weak.  During the rest of my week I feel good about my progress, proud and get complimented.  At the gym, I am aware of how far, how very very far I have to go.  My head is as its most inactive as I focus on my physical self, which is the opposite of my normal state.  Had this guy yelled at me in the street, I'd have cut him down right back and never given it a second thought.  But at the gym, I was mortified and couldn;t get my usual bounce back.

I debated whether to say anything to the trainer and realized that if I did I'd cry in front of him, and I'd rather not, thank you.  But the feeling of emptiness and sadness and weirdness wouldn't go away, so I eventually told his assistant when she asked me how I was doing.  Being thin and gorgeous, she was even more confused than I, and I had to turn away and change the subject to avoid tearing up, so the moment passed and we started our routine. 

I thinks he eventually told Larry, my trainer, during a break, because toward the end of the hour he made a speech about not letting others get us down and finding inner strength and so forth.  And I wanted to, I did.  I wanted to get angry and think FUCK YEAH I'LL SHOW YOU and reclaim my power, but instead I looked at my lap and tried to disappear.  And all I could think was, now?  Really?  I lose 60 pounds, go through all this, work really hard, am clearly going to a gym, and NOW I get the fat jokes, the put-downs, that I've only very very rarely gotten in the past?  I wanted to find that dude and confront him and ask him what he meant by what he did, and what he was thinking, and did he understand how far I'd already come, and oh by the way, fuck him.  But he disappeared right after it happened, since I think he saw something in my face that was different from what he'd been expecting.  He'd meant to knock me down, put me in my place, reassure me that I'd never be worthy of being there, was lesser than everyone else around us, and should probably do everyone a favor by disappearing.  He didn't expect to see that I was human, and hurt, so he got up and left his post, lounging around on the workout equipment.

I don't understand.

For the first time in my entire life, someone this morning referred to my hips as "little."  I am beside myself.  I've had men literally run across a parking lot to comment on my hip size (NOT to say that they were little, mind.  Hips are some guys' thing, so, you know, happy to oblige?) so this sort of throws my own self-assessment into some question. 

The reason is that I'm wearing smaller pants, pants that fit me.  Smaller me.  So, yeah.  It seems the smaller you get, the less reliable women's clothing sizing gets, so my perception is all over the place.  At the Gap or the like, I'm down three or more sizes, but then I'll try on something designer at work where vanity sizing doesn't apply and I'm size quadrillion, so then I feel like I have miles to go before I sleep. 

Yesterday I tried on almost every piece of clothing I own (until I got sick to death of it) to see what still fit me, what doesn't fit me yet (apparently I purchased many things on sight that never fit, were way off, and got hidden in the backs of various closets.  Then I did some memory-wipe of the whole experience, because I swear I've never seen this shit before) and what I really can't get away with wearing any more because they've become ginormous on me.  My mother keeps telling me to sell my too-big clothes on eBay to make money for more clothes.  Thus far I've been giving them away to other people to have had the surgery and are now my old size, because we are all struggling with the same clothing issues and I feel them, you know?  Also considering donating my suits to those charities that collect for homeless women who are interviewing for jobs, because that issue's gotta be a bear, and my suits are cute.

My personal trainer continues to kick my ass all over town, three times a week.  I'm recovering more quickly now, feeling less like I've been mauled by a bear for two days afterward, which is helpful, though I'm usually still so tired after that I need a bath and a nap, which is crazy. 

My mom asked me the other day what the hardest part of this has been, and honestly...I couldn't think of much.  yeah, getting food stuck is awful, remembering to take vitamins three times a day is kinda hard some days, and my ongoing terror of loose skin issues (I swear to god I stare at my boobs in the mirror every day and assess) and losing my hair keep me honest, but I am aware that I've been really, really lucky.  My insurance covered this, so I didn't pay 20K on my own like some people have to, I avoided all major surgery complications, I'm not having residual food addiction/emotional eating/other head issues that some, if not most, surgery patients experience, and I don;t find it hard to drink water/eat protein/avoid carbs, etc., which many others have.  Mostly, I feel pretty good.  The hardest thing, really, is that I feel socially out of the loop with a lot of people because I all but vanished for three months, and somehow when you stop calling people and organizing dinners and hanging out randomly, it can get kinda awkward to start up again, so I feel like I don't see people as often as I'd like even though I'm now fully functional.  I started remedying that this weekend a little - hopefully will continue doing so.

OK, so let's talk about the downside of this surgery.  I had a rough day Wednesday last week. 

Bad things can happen in either of two situations:  either eating too much, more than my wee little stomach can handle, or getting something stuck in the stoma - basically food gets stopped up, like hair in a drain, in the opening from from the stomach to the intestines.  This is what happened Wednesday.

I made good choices, got a lunch I've had bunches of times before - shredded turkey, little avocado, little tomato.  Turkey, for some reason, totally was having none of it.  So stomach goes into overdrive, trying various ways to expel the blockage.  It does this two ways - creating slime to lubricate the blockage through, and if that fails, making you hurl. 

So I throw up in the bathroom for a little bit, until I realize that rapidly losing 50 pounds, then getting caught puking in the ladies room, is a really good way to start rumors that you have an eating disorder, so I hide in my office and throw up in the trash can for a while instead.  It seemed...more subtle.  Discreet, even.  I got dizzy and suddenly couldn't stand up anymore, so just as well.  After an hour or so, puking every ten minutes or so rhythmically then clutching my head, I finally decided to pack it in and surrender.  I had my friend walk me out to a cab, then threw up in a bag all the way home while the cabbie told me stories about HE wasn't feeling well (DO NOT WANT) and then got home and started throwing up so hard I almost passed out.  Fun!

So, there you have it.  Weight loss surgery?  Totally the easy way out!  Tell your friends.  Ok, honestly, still totally worth it, and I've been careful, so this has only happened to me twice (this specifically - I've had other issues).  But that's the way it goes sometimes.

That said?  I hit 51 pounds down this weekend.  Will do photos soon.