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.