Fuck Christmas, And Fuck Duck Dynasty

On Weight Watchers, you're allowed 49 weekly Points to use at your discretion so you can supplement your daily Points allowance. This week, I not only blew through those 49 Points before the week was half over--I also went over those Points by 84 Points.

EIGHTY FOUR POINTS.

84.

Fuck.

I get 33 Points per day. (33x7)+49+84= 364. So I've had 364 Points this week.

That's the same as 91 Cadbury Cream Eggs. Or 5.7 gallons of marinara sauce. Or over 7 and a half pounds of grated cheddar.

Gross.

I blame Christmas. I mean, okay, I truthfully blame myself and my weakness and my emotional overeating and my utter lack of willpower. But I do blame Christmas too. Why does it have to be so delicious? Why does everything have to look so tempting and be so easy to grab? And why do I have to put up with my family, mostly my father, while still struggling to push aside all of the hurt feelings and shitty self esteem they left me with after high school?

This Duck Dynasty business has left me feeling really sad because my dad, who claims to love me and who seems to also really love my girlfriend of eight years, is so vigorously opposed to A&E firing the dude. I've written here and there about what a dick my dad is, so my dad supporting a bigot and failing to consider my feelings is definitely not shocking. But it is sad. It hurts when I see friends on Facebook posting pictures rallying against A&E's awesome decision to fire Phil, and it hurts even more to hear my dad saying shit like, "This is great because the pendulum will start to swing the other way now. The right people are going to start taking back the country, and Obama will go back to the ghetto where he belongs." My dad's total ignorance of government and morality aside, it just feels so wrong to have a father essentially telling his daughter, "Hey, I'm so glad that we're going to continue to deny you equal rights, and hopefully we'll be able to take away your rights completely! Oh yeah, and you're definitely going to hell! Sorry-not-sorry!"

My dad isn't even religious. I've read more of the bible than him. He went to Catholic school so he pretty much just hates God now, and he's never ever expressed any concern about my soul. So why does he care if my girlfriend and I get married? Seriously, my parents like her more than they like me. Why would he want us kept apart? And why does he care so much if some semi-scripted 'reality' tv star lost his job after making totally asinine and cruel and ignorant and intolerant statements to fucking GQ? Really? Why?

 

But talking to him is pointless. I can't even begin the debate because as soon as he starts in, I already feel defeated and close to tears. I start thinking about how many times I thought about killing myself. How many times I came close. He doesn't know about any of it. I think about how truly surprised I was to find I had made it out of high school without slitting my wrists. I think about sitting in my bathroom with the cold blade of my favorite scissors pressed against my vein, debating with myself if my parents would be more disappointed in me for being a lesbian or for committing suicide. I think about the fear and shame I felt before I came out, and the fear I still feel sometimes just holding my girlfriend's hand in the 'wrong' environments. I think about the confusion I felt when I first realized that I liked girls and the terror I felt knowing it was 'wrong' to feel that way.

I think about these things and I can't have a rational conversation with him because it's not rational at all. People are making remarks, right or wrong, that are making young people want to kill themselves rather than live in a world that hates them. Why is that okay? Why wouldn't any rational person want to stop those words from being broadcast to young people who are still trying to understand their sexuality?

So on top of the normal stressful family Christmas, I also got to shield myself all day from Duck Dynasty conversations. Instead, I steered myself to the dessert table to ate until all I could think about was how full my stomach was. I tracked everything I ate, but I didn't even try to moderate myself. I was in a FUCKITALL mood and just didn't care. Now, of course, I'm still stressed and I'm feeling even more anxious about having Christmas dinner tomorrow with my dad and my great uncle who is even more of a bigot than my dad. But on top of all that, I'm also just sick with regret at how much I ate, and disappointment in myself.

Still, even though I want to say Fuck Christmas, I don't really mean it. I love Christmas, I love my dad (way deep down where it's hard to see sometimes), and I'm proud of myself for how far I've come. As long as I get over this pity party and make it through the next 24 hours, I can regroup, lose the Christmas fat, and put all of this behind me.

Fatty Fatty Two By Four

I'm having a fat day.

Make that a fat week.

You know how some girls have bad hair days? Well, my hair is frizzy and I hate it 90% of the time, so every day is basically a bad hair day. And until the past few months, I was always aware of my fat so EVERY day was a fat day too.

Things started changing, ever so slowly. I went from constantly thinking about my size to finally, after so many years of morbid obesity, allowing myself to concentrate on my life instead of my fat. I have fat days, but not single fucking day is a fat day. Not all of my thoughts revolve around being fat. I've been able to go to antique malls and actually shop, instead of spending my time in there carefully squeezing between shelves of glassware and praying that I don't knock over a $500 vase with my gut. I went to the mall and strolled into Victoria's Secret without flushing with the embarrassment of knowing every salesperson was wondering why someone my size was in their tiny store. Last week, I wore a pair of underwear that kept rolling down and I could feel my stomach hanging out when I sat down, but that annoying and uncomfortable day made me realize that I used to feel like that EVERY day. So things have been pretty awesome.

Now, unfortunately, I'm having a fat day and with good reason. I'm getting fatter. Plus, I'm in a rough spot. I'm so close to my next goal of being under 200 pounds, and I'm also right on top of Christmas and New Year's, two gluttonous holidays. Maybe not for everyone, but my sweet tooth really makes Christmas intolerable while trying to lose weight.

Can't...stop...eating...

Everyone around me knows I'm on Weight Watchers and that I've lost close to 100 pounds since last August, so people for the most part have been great about not tempting me with treats. My coworkers and family also know that I am utterly powerless around sweets, so they've even made an effort to have fruit and veggies around, and I offer to bring healthy sides to pitch-ins and family dinners. Still, there's really no avoiding sweets. One of my employees brought a bag of candy--mini Snickers, mini Twix, Hershey Kisses, Rolos, etc. I started off with one piece, then another, and before I knew it...the whole fucking bag was gone by noon today. Less than four hours and I inhaled 12 Points worth of candy.

Then I came home and my mom dropped by. She brought me some peanut butter balls (which most people call Buckeyes) and I ate two of them, followed by a fresh chocolate chip cookie. I meant to leave one for my girlfriend but...nope. I ate them all. Eight more Points down.

This week, I'm really ashamed to admit that I've gone over my weekly Points by THIRTY. Seriously. 3-0. I had Olive Garden one day, a pumpkin roll another day, more cookies and candy than I usually eat in a month. It's been delicious but terrible.

My consolation is that I am at least tracking, and tracking honestly. When I step on the scale next, I'll know exactly where each added pound came from. Then I can turn it around, hopefully.

I need to start working on my New Years Resolutions, but right now I'm just trying to make it to New Year's without fucking up all the progress I made in 2013.

So yeah, I'm having a fat day. A fat week. I've gained three pounds since my Wednesday weigh-in, and I'm still plowing through food like a ravenous goat. But at least it's a fat day now, and not a fat life. I've made some progress, even if it doesn't feel like much.

Back On Track

After several weeks of exceeding my Weight Watchers Points (like, by 50 Points! That's like just eating an entire pie, with toppings!) I finally managed to stay mostly within my allotment for the week. Okay, to be honest, I counted two hours of walking yesterday just so I wouldn't go over, even though my 'walking' was really taking an extremely slow shuffling tour of a Masonic temple with some elderly people, one of whom was wearing a prosthetic leg, so I probably shouldn't have counted this as exercise. But anyway, I stayed close to my Points and it paid off.

Down 3.2 pounds this week! That brings me to 208.8 pounds, down 95.2 from 304 pounds. Slowly but surely, right? I'm getting pretty close to losing 100 pounds, which is pretty awesome for me. Also, while I was at weigh-in, I saw someone who I haven't seen in a year or so and she was amazed at how much I've lost. It's so incredible to have people tell me how great I look! That's something you just don't hear much when you're over 300 pounds.

So even though I'm sitting here with a half-eaten plate of Christmas cookies on my desk, I still feel like I'm back on track. I'm trimming back, counting the Points of everything I eat, and trying to stick to my daily Weight Watchers goals. It's not easy with so much holiday cheer being passed around in the form of calorie-laden treats, but I'm getting much better at saying NO. "No, thanks! That looks great but I'm on Weight Watchers." It was embarrassing last year. Really, at close to 300 pounds (I was making some progress by Christmas last year) I felt like people were laughing at me when I said I was on a diet. I could almost hear them thinking "Sure, this bitch is dieting! I bet she steals cookies when our backs are turned and eats them in the bathroom." But now that I can see so much progress, I feel a little proud to tell people I'm sticking with Weight Watchers and passing on the treats.

I still eat what I want, but my Planned Indulgences list is working wonders for me. I still plan to splurge on some eggnog, one of those Hershey Kiss cookies, a Christmas Snickers when I get my stocking, and the full meal on Christmas Day. But knowing that I'm going to eat that delicious shit soon makes it SO much easier to say "No, thanks!" to the sugar cookies, chocolate covered pretzels, and candied nuts I see every day now.

I'm still hoping to lose a few more pounds before the end of the year, mostly because my work gives us gift cards if we work out enough or lose enough weight to earn one. I'm close but not quite there, and I could really use a $50 Target shopping spree!

As long as Christmas doesn't derail my Weight Watchers train, I should be down a few pounds by New Year's!

Dying Without Dignity

My grandma might be dying.

She's in the ICU with carbon monoxide poisoning. She's been virtually unresponsive for several days. The doctors are talking tracheotomy or breathing tube, life support, and saying she will never be well again. I'm not sure if she's going to make it.

One of the things that makes me sick is that, if she does end up not making it, one of her last memories will be of EIGHT nurses crowded around her, rolling their eyes, struggling to lift her to make her more comfortable, enduring their disgust and exasperation, while she cries out for them to stop because she's scared and in pain and having EIGHT nurses hovering over her is stressful and humiliating.

I've written about my grandmother and her weight struggles before. My grandma weighed around 460 pounds the last time she was in the hospital. This time, they said she's gained at least 50 pounds of water weight in the past few months, so I'm positive she is over 500 pounds now.

Which is huge. Truly. But, when you think about it, 300 pounds is really pretty far along on the way to 500. I can't judge her for weighing 500 pounds, when I was over 300 and growing steadily. I can see how easy it would be to give in and add a few pounds, year by year, until you finally realize you're 500 pounds. So, like I said, I'm definitely not judging her.

But I CAN judge the hospital staff for making her feel so fucking miserable about it. She's barely conscious right now but when she does wake up, it's because these disgusted nurses are shoving her around like she's a cow carcass. When she woke up long enough to complain about her discomfort in the position she was in, they brought in a CRANE. It was this lift machine that they use for bariatric patients where they strap you in to this harness and hook you into this crane to wench you up above the bed and settle you back in. Picture the thing they used in Free Willy to get the whale to the beach. That's what they tried to use on my grandma.

I've had my own really uncomfortable and shame-inducing experiences with hospital staff. So has my mom. The indignity of those tiny gowns, the grunts and groans of staff members heaving you from one bed to another, the shame knowing that you won't fit into the machines they need to shove you into, the humiliation of hearing "We can't get a good reading because there's too much fat in the way."

It was terrible for me. I still have nightmares about it. It makes me physically ill that my mom went through it. But now that my grandmother might take her last breath at any minute, it's a real, visceral pain I feel thinking of the shame and humiliation Meme has felt before she'll soon slip away.

My grandfather is devastated. He has spent the last decades of his life caring for my grandmother. Leading her to the bathroom and wiping her when she's done, showering her and brushing her hair because her arms are so heavy she can't keep them up long, lifting her stomach to pat her down with baby powder to avoid getting those fat-girl yeast infections. He's devoted 24 hours a day to her care, and now he's blaming himself for not being able to protect her from this. From dying. From indignity.

It's so hard to know that my grandmother is dying. It's much harder to know that she's dying without dignity. All I can do is work hard now to avoid the same fate myself, but what can I do for her? I feel so powerless, and so sad.

Feeling Like a Failure

It's the holidays.

I have to keep reminding myself of that. Well, actually, other people keep reminding me of that. Especially since my weigh in today. I gained 2.4 pounds since last week. Now I'm back up to 212 pounds. That's a big difference from the 304 pounds I started at, but also a far cry from where I wanted to be by now.

Seriously, though, Weight Watchers is making me start to hate the holidays. As much as I love getting into the Christmas spirit, I find it hard to separate the awesomeness of the season from the awesome treats that are around every corner. Gingerbread cookies, eggnog milkshakes, peppermint mochas, red and green Rice Krispy treats, Christmas tree-shaped Snickers, festive M&Ms, white chocolate Oreos, cupcakes with sprinkles...not to mention the beautiful buffets of cheeseballs, crackers, nachos, finger sandwiches, creamy dips, warm casseroles...it's enough to make me go fucking crazy.

Being a food addict (which, lets face it, I totally am) around the holidays is TOUGH, man. I mean, really tough. And it's so easy to indulge. You know, like, it's Christmas. It's once a year. Might as well have that white chocolate shake and finish it off with some cinnamon sugar cookies, right?

And I am really bad at succumbing to peer pressure. I've been so strong all year, but now I have people offering me treats and candy with the unintentionally evil, "Oh, you've done so well, you deserve this!" Or, "It's Christmas--time to reward yourself!"

It's obviously not doing good things for me.

On top of all the food, the weather here SUCKS so going outside for anything is a nightmare. I have resigned myself to the fact that I am just not good at pushing myself to get on the treadmill. So instead, I've been hibernating. My cardiac rehab therapy sessions are over, so instead of spending an hour at the hospital working out three times a week, I instead go home and start snacking until I decide on supper.

Plus, I've really fallen out of the habit of tracking my daily "Healthy Checks" on the Weight Watchers app. That whole eight glasses of water/three servings of dairy/five servings of fruit an veggies/two servings of healthy oils has been LONG GONE for me. Instead of eating an apple in the afternoon, I have a cookie. Instead of snacking on cherry tomatoes, I eat Chex Mix.

So today, I'm recommitting. I have a glass of water at my desk (for the first time in a couple months, really). I have two servings of veggies with my lunch. And I'm actually tracking it all. I've just come too far to ruin it all now, so I'm going back to the basics.

I felt terrible last Christmas, but I somehow made it through and kept losing weight, despite the food traps along the way.

Hopefully next week I'll be back under 210 pounds. That would be a nice Christmas present to myself. Much better than another glass of eggnog (okay, maybe not MUCH better, but definitely preferable in the long run!).

Gobble, Gobble

No matter how much weight I lose, I am still a fat girl at heart.

I think I always will be.

31 years of overeating can't be reversed by one year of Weight Watchers. Sure, I undid a lot of damage. I shed almost 100 pounds. I've learned portion control and built healthy eating habits.

But my brain is the brain of a fat girl. Nothing reinforces that more than food-centered events like Thanksgiving.

This year, like last year, I spent the few weeks leading up to Thanksgiving slowly panicking about food. What I would eat, how much I would eat, how much I would gain from eating. I pre-tracked my food in the Weight Watchers app and kept going back to balance out my Points. "Okay, maybe I can change the serving of mashed potatoes to a half serving so I can increase my dinner roll from a half to a full...and maybe I can only have a quarter of a slice of pumpkin pie (haha, yeah right, a quarter of a slice) so I can have a teaspoon of real butter instead of a spray butter..."

I had to eat twice again this year, once at my parents' and once at my girlfriend's family's. I must have gone into the WW app 25 times to change what I planned to eat. Luckily, the pre-tracking kind of worked for me. I knew what I could and couldn't have, and I didn't end up freaking out at the end of the day after accidentally going over my Points. I'm also aware now of just how much my family influences me to overeat, and I swallowed a couple Xanax to help cope with all of the food and emotional landmines my parents put in front of me. I came armed with a fruit salad I whipped up, made entirely of fresh fruit (pomegranate, pineapple, cranberries, apple, lime juice) topped with stevia and some pumpkin pie spice. Zero Points, so I had something to snack on whenever the cream puffs and cheese ball started calling my name. I felt really prepared.

I did face a somewhat unexpected hurdle, however: some CRAZY intense guilt over eating so much. Even though I tracked and knew exactly what I was eating, and I'd planned it all so meticulously, I still just felt incredibly gross and guilty for eating as much as I did. I was stuffed. Really stuffed. My family thinks it's funny that a vegetarian can get so full at a meat-centric feast, but I completely gorged myself. I was careful to be realistic about measuring my food and eyeballing what I couldn't measure, but even eating the small portions didn't make me feel better. After my meal, I felt the same sort of shame that I used to feel as a child after touching myself...like, dirty and embarrassed and ashamed and worried that my palms would grow hair. Or, well, in this case worried that I would gain 10 pounds overnight (which does totally happen to me, as scientifically impossible as that may seem).

Really, it was a terrible, sickening, and stomach-churning guilt. Maybe some of the churning was from the four deviled eggs I ate, or the mound of green bean casserole, but most of it was from a very uncomfortable inner monologue that went something like, "Gross. Why are you eating all of this? Ugh, why is it so so delicious? Seriously though, what are you doing? You're going to derail and defeat yourself. You've been making progress and here you go, throwing it all away from some toasted marshmallows baked on top of sweet potatoes...mmm sweet potatoes...stop it! Stop eating! Oh but it's so good..." I started to feel a little crazy and obsessive by the end of the day. And as I predicted, I still gained about five pounds this morning. And, naturally, that weight gain justified my shame and guilt, so now I feel even worse about eating so much.

That didn't stop me from bringing home some leftovers, though, or from polishing off the pecan tassies before I even went to bed last night (and subsequently using up the very last of my weekly Points allowance only ONE DAY into my Weight Watchers week...meaning I won't get more weekly Points until next Wednesday...). This food shaming is a new development for me, and I hate it. I hate it almost as much as I hate being hungry all the time.

But I'm still truckin' along. I'm too close to being under 200 pounds to even think about quitting. I may still be a fat girl inside but, on the outside, that fat girl is melting away, slowly but surely.

Keep On Keepin' On

I am now officially smaller than I have been in my entire adult life.

I weighed in at my Weight Watchers At Work meeting today and was down 5 pounds for the week...which brings me down to 209.2 pounds. UNDER 210 POUNDS!

Total lost? 94.8 pounds.

That's, like...unimaginable. I weighed 304 pounds last August. Now, I'm literally smaller than I was in high school. I'm sitting here in size 17 skinny jeans, knee high boots, and a size 14 vest. WHAT?!

I'm still having trouble feeling like I'm that much smaller, though. I mean, I feel amazing, but I think that's like 75% having a heart valve that actually works and 25% being smaller.

But it doesn't matter. I AM losing weight, and everyone around me is commenting on it, and it's awesome.

When I entered my new weight into my Weight Watchers app, it let me know that I actually hit the last goal I set. I've been resetting my goal by 10 or 15 pounds at a time because, seriously, having a goal of losing 100+ pounds at the beginning would have just overwhelmed me and I would have quit this shit a year ago. So my latest goal was 210 pounds, which was a big deal for me because I can't remember ever being under 210 pounds since middle school I think.

Forced to reset my goal, I went with around 10 pounds less than my current weight. I SET MY GOAL AT 199 POUNDS. That's just...I mean, you can't understand if you haven't been there, but that's just fucking mindblowing. Not only am I actually aiming for less than 200 pounds...but it's attainable! Like, within 10 pounds! I couldn't help the tears forming in my eyes. After spending basically a lifetime weighing more than 200 pounds (which is such a shameful, stigmatized thing for a woman), I am now within sight of 199 pounds.

Fucking incredible. 

Lesbian Pants

I had a few nice moments today.

I was on a fun work trip to reward our top performers and saw quite a few colleagues from other departments--many of them haven't seen me in months, so I was delighted (and a little embarrassed) to find myself complimented throughout the day. Everyone was amazed at how healthy I look, both from the weight loss and from the heart surgery. Instead of hanging out at the snack table guiltily devouring cookies and pumpkin pie cheesecake, I talked to people about hiking, camping, bicycling, and basically being a normal adult. It was pretty awesome!

I also was really happy to be able to get on and off of the bus without feeling like I was squeezing down the aisles and hitting people's elbows with my stomach and ass. What a difference.

Plus, when I went on this same trip last year, I could barely walk around. I was so fatigued and winded from the heart and breathing problems that even walking from the bus to my table inside was difficult. This year, I couldn't wait to do more. We played paintball last year and, although it was totally totally fun and I really really love shooting at people, I ended up having an asthma attack merely walking out to the starting line. I spent the entire game last year wheezing and desperately hiding behind a wall while my face mask fogged up with my heavy breathing. I had to sit out the second game, and barely survived the third. This year...totally opposite! I was active, I ran behind targets, and I (along with my assistant manager) ended up winning against three guys! I'm a really good shot, and being able to scamper around the game site this year gave me much better vantage points from which to totally demolish the guys! I did get hit in the face (thank goodness for masks) but it was still awesome.

But one of the greatest things was my pants. I've had this pair of camouflage pants for years and years. I call them my lesbian pants. I wore them in college when I was going through my militant phase, and they always make me feel cool. They're baggy camo cargo pants that hung low on my hips, and they're so worn that the bottom few inches have torn away. They're splattered with paint and starting to get little holes, but I love them and used to wear them all the time. When I finally gained enough weight that I couldn't wear them, I kept them in my closet hoping that one day I could put them on again. Last year, I had only been on Weight Watchers for three months when I went paintballing but I decided to try on the pants...and they fit! They were tight, but I could wear them and felt like a badass again.

I wanted to wear them again this year because, well, I don't exactly have many paintball clothes nowadays and what's better for paintballing than camouflage? So I put them on this morning and they were TOO BIG! They hung down on my hips like they used to, and maybe even a little more. I wore them anyway with a tank top, long sleeved shirt, fleece vest, and hoodie (it was cold and I wanted lots of layers in case I got hit). I ended up having to keep one hand on my waistband the entire time I was paintballing because my pants kept slipping off! Like, my pants are literally FALLING OFF OF ME. That is so amazing. Pants that a year ago I was celebrating fitting into are now too big!

I'm sure I can find some way to repurpose the pants, but I don't think I can wear them again--at least not without a belt! What an awesome feeling.

Abs of Jelly

It's so awesome to be able to dress my age again. I mean, I'm only 31. I felt like a gross old lady every time I went to work wearing yoga pants (knowing very well that I was NOT going to practice any yoga) and Crocs and cardigans. I spent almost two years in tent dresses and flip flops all summer, then "dress" sweats and baggy sweaters all winter.

This is my first real Fall since so long ago. I can wear real jeans again, and cute, form-fitting sweaters, with fitted jackets and knee-high riding boots. It's amazing.

But as much as I'm loving the ability to wear jeans, I am still facing the problem I've had for years: my Gonzo-nose stomach. Even though I'm smaller now, I'm still virtually the same shape. I have the same lumps and flab, and my stomach is still big and soft. It hangs down (the ultra-embarrassing, often unspoken of, dreaded pannus ::shudder::). It bulges out. And, hardest to conceal, it pooches out right above my bellybutton. If I wear jeans that come to my bellybutton or below, it doesn't matter if they fit me or even if they're too big: my stomach roll sticks out over my pants.

My only solution is to wear pants that come above my bellybutton. Like, mom jeans that come up high and act as a girdle, or maternity-type pants that unfold to form a flat surface up my torso. I do have some Spanx but, let's face it, I'm not putting that much effort into beautifying myself for work. And I have those slimming camisoles that keep everything smooth, but they roll up sometimes and they're just not very comfortable pushing down on my healing heart surgery scars.

While I continue to fight my own battle of the bulge using my wardrobe as a weapon, I'm also fighting on another front: from the inside. I saw some people posting challenges on Facebook and decided to try one. Then...I decided to try another. Now I'm doing two different month long ab challenges, and...I'm secretly loving it!

The first one is the 30 Day Plank Challenge:

The 30 Day Plank Challenge will send your core strength through the roof!
Day 1 - 20 seconds
Day 2 - 20 seconds
Day 3 - 30 seconds
Day 4 - 30 seconds
Day 5 - 40 seconds
Day 6 - REST
Day 7 - 45 seconds
Day 8 - 45 seconds
Day 9 - 60 seconds
Day 10 - 60 seconds
Day 11 - 60 seconds
Day 12 - 90 seconds
Day 13 - REST
Day 14 - 90 seconds
Day 15 - 90 seconds
Day 16 - 120 seconds
Day 17 - 120 seconds
Day 18 - 150 seconds
Day 19 - REST
Day 20 - 150 seconds
Day 21 - 150 seconds
Day 22 - 180 seconds
Day 23 - 180 seconds
Day 24 - 210 seconds
Day 25 - 210 seconds
Day 26 - REST
Day 27 - 240 seconds
Day 28 - 240 seconds
Day 29 - 270 seconds
Day 30 - PLANK FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE!!

It was incredibly difficult at first, since I haven't really ever planked before. I mean, I was shaking and gasping and I didn't think I was going to make it. (To be clear, this is not that cheesy Instagram/Twitter planking thing, where I go balance myself, like, on the railing at Niagara Falls while my girlfriend takes a photo and hopes I don't fall off and die.) Now, on day 7, it's still hard. And every few days it's going to get harder. But my abs feel great, and I feel like I'm actually accomplishing something each day!

The second one is the 24 Day Abs-So-Tightly Right Challenge. This one involves crunches, which aren't so bad, along with leg raises, which was apparently completely impossible for me to do. I tried. I swear I did. But I just can't lift both legs at once. They're pretty big legs, but I still feel like I should be able to lift them. When I try, though, my back starts to arch and then my tailbone grinds into the ground (which is probably not good for my temporarily dormant pilonidal cyst) and I just can't get them to raise off the ground no matter how hard I strain. Instead, I'm making up for it by doing single leg raises, one leg at a time, and I've added side leg lifts because that's what my mom always did when I was little and it just seems like something that should be included in a workout. This challenge also asks you to plank, but I figure I have that covered in the first challenge.

I already feel like I can feel a bit of definition when I put my hands on my hips. And when I roll over on my side, I feel like a little less belly settles down in front of me. I gained weight during my last two weigh-ins, but I do feel stronger and my abs are seriously sore. Something must be working. Maybe by the end of the month, I'll be able to wear pants that don't come up to my armpits.

Little Miss Know-It-All

Let me make this clear: I am NOT done losing weight. I have a LONG way to go before I am a healthy weight. I'm still obese according to the BMI charts (and, really, according to any charts). I'm not at the end of my journey.

Okay?

Yet recently, I've found myself thinking more and more about what other people are eating. Judging them. One of my best friends announced that she's going to see a doctor about bariatric surgery this week, and my grandmother is going at the end of the month (that's more understandable). I have made my feelings about surgery pretty clear, so of course I told my friend to try eating right, I pointed out what she's doing wrong, I urged her to join Weight Watchers before going under the knife. I kept nagging her about having unnecessary surgery instead of doing things the 'right' way.

And even worse, I have actually considered giving virtual strangers advice about losing weight.

That makes me feel so shitty.

91 pounds ago, I would have died if someone, even someone close to me, started talking to me about weight loss. I would have been so pissed. Like, who are they to judge me? But now I feel like a weight loss expert, as dumb as that sounds, and I have to fight the urge to pass my experience on to others.

There's a new girl at work who looks like I did a year ago. Probably right around 300 pounds, pretty and smart and mostly well-dressed. But I see her coming in wearing Crocs and pajama pants (which is totally what I wore before I started losing weight--Crocs, which I justified by the fact that they were actually "cute" for Crocs, because my feet hurt from hauling around 300+ pounds, and pajama pants because they stretch soooo much that I never had to think about what size I was.). And when I see that, I want to stop her and point out my knee-high wedge boots (yes, my calves are small enough for the first time EVER than I can wear wide knee-high boots) and my skinny jeans (finally small enough again to wear real blue jeans) and my cute sweater and tell her, "Girl, throw out those damn Crocs, come with me to Weight Watchers, and this time next year you'll have knee-high boots too."

Don't worry. I'm not a total psycho. I would never ever ever actually say that. But like I said, the urge is there.

I heard that early this year, Jennifer Hudson ran into Adele backstage at the Grammy's. J-Hud congratulated the lovely and amazingly talented Adele on her Grammy wins, and then said, "I used to be heavy just like you and gosh, Weight Watchers saved my life! I can hook you up."

OH MY GOD. I don't know how Adele resisted the impulse to clock that bitch upside her head. How dare Jennifer take an incredible moment in Adele's life and jerk her back to reality by talking about her weight? I tried to imagine something like that happening, like getting a promotion at work and having someone say, "Way to go! Now, maybe you should lose some weight and you can get another promotion!" I would just...I would die. I would pass out from rage. So rude and thoughtless and arrogant and...just so many things. Ugh.

But.....well...after losing 91 pounds, I can sort of...almost...see Jennifer's point. She knows what it's like. She knows how it feels to be in front of a crowd, thinking of nothing but how many eyes are on your stomach. She knows what it means to be happy but constantly conscious of your body. I mean, maybe Adele is really confident and maybe she really is happy with herself like she says in interviews, and maybe she really is 165 pounds like she claims (lolololol!!! seriously?!) and maybe all of the fat jokes and snide remarks really, truly don't bother her. Unlikely, but maybe.

The point isn't how Adele took the comments, though. The point is that Jennifer Hudson was so insanely blind to how her comments would be perceived. I mean, even if I think about saying stuff like that, I never would. I know how hurtful those kinds of seemingly helpful comments can be.

Random story: when I was young, like I think my freshman year of high school, 15 years old, I got an envelope in the mail one day. I was so excited--I never got mail, and it wasn't my birthday, and the postmark said California! I tore into it and my stomach dropped. It was an article cut from a newspaper talking about how some woman had lost a lot of weight by dieting and exercising. There was something written on the clipping, but I honestly seem to have blocked it out. I can't remember what it said. Something like, "There's always hope" or similar. I was so embarrassed, and my mom was standing there demanding to see what it was. I handed it to her and burst into tears. I scoured the article, the envelope, the handwriting, everything for some sign of who could have sent it. I didn't know anyone from California. I still have no idea who could have sent that to me. I always wondered if it was my dad maybe, sent to someone else to send to me from Cali. I don't know. All I know is that 15 years later, I can still feel that nauseating shame that hit me when I saw the article. So much embarrassment and hurt and anger. What a cruel thing to send to a child. It obviously didn't do any good anyway.

So I'll just keep watching the girl at work while she chows down on leftover Halloween candy and I'll silently judge her, hoping all the while that my weight loss eventually inspires her to give it a shot. Because even though I would never try to convince someone to lose weight, I do know what it's like to be her size and I know how incredible I feel now, and I really want to share that with someone.