A Large Salad Please

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Counting down to the 11th of November, the day I go under the knife, the most drastic exclamation that I have got to embrace eating to live instead of living to eat. 

I will look forward to my croutons on a salad instead of my ice cream in a ladle.

Gastric sleeve surgery will give me the kick start I am looking for to lose weight. 

I leave the quantifying of weight loss to the skinny people. I expect to shed at least the equivalent of a 4th grader in the first few months. 

This is how much weight I eventually want to lose:

1. I can cross my legs under a table.
2. I can throw on a pair of jeans.
3. I don't dread living rooms with deep cushiony sofas.
4. I hope to run into an ex boyfriend.
5. I can wear panty hose more than once.
6. I can wear horizontal stripes (!)
7. I don't break beach chairs.
8. I wear a belt as an accessory.
9. I wear clunky shoes and still look thin.
10. My butt crack does not contine up my back.

And so on and so forth. 

Hmmm. Flesh out (pun intended) the story behind each  of the above and I've got a damn good best seller on my hands....

For now, this is me not eating the brownies my daughter smelled up the kitchen with.

I'll let you know if they survive the night. 

"Houston, We Have a Problem" or Chapter 3 in my Journey to Lose Weight

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October 4th 2015, 12:49. 
Houston, come in. We have a problem.

111.10 kilos buck naked. Maximum payload exceded. Requesting go-ahead for emergency protocol.

*** Copy, Voyager. Commence emergency protocol***

Roger, Houston. Preparations commencing to shed excess. Commencing ice cream drain-off.

***Roger, Voyager. Rocky Road relocated to Milky Way. Continue. Over***

Copy. Commencing Carb ejection. 

***Copy, Voyager. Got that on radar. Re-directing carbs to training camps for safe use. Over.***

Roger, Houston. Emergency Protocol completed. Ice Cream and Carbs ejected. Taking over controls. Overriding auto-pilot. 

***Negative on that Voyager. ***

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Houston.Repeat. ice cream and carbs ejected, we can handle it from here. Relinquish controls. Over.

***Negative. Voyager. You can't handle shit. One minute without ice cream and carbs and you think you are safe. Confirm final weight and will consider relinquishing the vessel to your control. Over"

Shit, Houston. Over.

***Houston will continue monitoring your payload, Voyager. Over and Out."

Affirmative Houston. Thanks for watching my back. Over and Out.
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I wish I had a dozen thin tied men watching monitors 24/7, protecting me from myself.

For lack of that, I have a doctor who is about to cut away part of my stomach and a team of cheer leaders rooting for my victory over temptation. 

Maybe they will all be proud of me and eventually I will be proud of myself. 

"I Bought a Scale" - or Chapter 2 in My Journey to Lose Weight

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Swing band hour on the radio. Muted trumpets and a nice breeze  as evening turns to night. Imagine my surroundings in black and white, and it's almost enough to put me in a good mood, certainly a melancholy one (baby). Walk into a pleasant apartment after 12 hours at work and I almost wished I still smoked. I would open a bottle of wine but would have to throw it out before I had any one else to share it with. I briefly consider polishing off the bottle myself but know this atmosphere won't keep for too long

I'm getting hungry and I know there is a frozen pizza in the freezer. Shit. There goes the mood. 

In that flitting moment when I remember the pizza, my own personal Romantic Comedy morphs into a B Horror movie.  

In the former, I live in the upper east side and am bored, seeking a simpler life in Vermont. In the latter, I'm changing into a boll wevil frantically seeking a cotton plantation in the bronx.

Back to reality and I am congratulating myself for buying a scale.
When I take it out of the car kudos will really be in order.

I have to wean myself off sweets and carbonated beverages prior to my gastric sleeve surgery. 

I will. I always rise to the occasion, no matter how far down I start. 

Pretty soon my hugs will have to come from people instead of food.

But for now a pizza yearns for attention.

"Such a Pretty Face" or Chapter 1 in my Journey to Lose Weight

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Don't tell anyone, but I'm planning bariatric surgery. 

Don't bother:  "relating to or specializing in the treatment of obesity" The Merriam-Webster Dictionary 

Apparently, "needs to loose a little weight but doesn't she have a pretty face?" has given way to "oh look! she can't cross her legs but doesn't her hair look great?"

Well, I still think I'm pretty, even if the health system here labels me morbidly obese. 

Seriously? The cutoff seems quite arbitrary.  I don't care if my BMI has PMS, OCD and visits the DMV,  I may not be thin, but I am not on death's doorstep. 

Or maybe I'm not seeing myself as I should. I always considered myself an intelligent self-aware individual, but my confidence was shaken a few weeks ago when I discovered that I am no longer 5'4".

***** Cut to an image of my Great Aunt Anna -- all 4 feet of her - bustling around her Philly landmark restaurant, the Ambassador. "Mommy, why is she so short?" "Old people shrink, honey." 

So at 5'2" and ba-da-ba-bum pounds, I passed the requisite committees, medical tests and interviews which will entitle me to invite someone to cut away part of my stomach.

 But only after a diet meant to reduce the fat on my liver so that he can find it.

One of the specialists who has to agree to bariatric surgery in Israel is a psychiatrist. For better or worse, I have a psychiatrist who knows me for years. He is convinced that I am "fit to stand trial", that I understand the issues, that I have realistic expectations and that I will be so much happier in life if I can get back to the thin version of me.  


I really do believe that I have realistic expectations. With that established, I'm ready to go.

But first I have to  tell someone there is a conference room at work with chairs that have gotten narrower over the years. 

At Least I Never Changed My Status on Facebook

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I am so pissed at Hollywood. 

Apparently, a sad ex-lover never shows up at your door dissheveled and morose.
His friends don't call you to tell you he is a broken man.
And you don't get a do-over.  

After a reasonable amount of wallowing, I (YET AGAIN (wtf)) pulled myself up and brushed myself off. 

No world catastrophes when I took him off Speed Dial, although the weather did suddenly get super stormy.

Despite my last entry, I still hadn't added him to my emergency numbers. 
I must have sensed already that "Call in Case of Emergency" will be perpetually relegated to my children and first ex-husband. 

I suspect that somewhere deep inside, my equilibrium is set to status Single because I never changed my status on Facebook.

Imagine the quantum physics of a changed Facebook status back to single. 

• The tide might never ebb.
• The Salmon might stay downstream.
• Cumulonimbus clouds might never dissipate.
• Candian Geese might Winter in Buffalo.
• Vesuvius might bury Pompeii.

I am already responsibile for two wars in the Middle East which coincided with my divorces. I don't think I could handle any more responsibility.

So, for now, there you have it. This blog is not obsolete yet.