A-B-C-D-DD

So, last Saturday Mz. KT and I visited Nordstroms for quality binding, er bonding, time. When Oprah tells you to get fitted for a bra, damnit, you do it. Right?

Before we actually talked to a store associate, we wandered through the land of lifted, separated and downright torturous instrument of cleavage. I have to tell you that some of those contraptions are freakin' ridiculously hilarious. Of course, we mocked them. Because, after all, what self-respecting woman would really wear something like this?

We agreed that only ugly chicks who want to think they're pretty would strap this thing on their boobs. Pretty women wouldn't even bother with a bra like this because they know they don't need it. But I digress.

So this lovely woman ushered us into the fitting room, whipped out her clothe tape measurer and wrapped it snuggly around my chest, pronouncing "38!"

Huh?!? Yep. 38.

After sizing up each side of my bosom, she stretched the tape measurer from the base of my left breast to the sadly downward-pointing nipple and exclaimed, "Double D."

No freakin' way was I a double D. Pre-op I was wearing a 48D. Then a 46D. Then a 44C. Finally, a 42 C as of late June. 38DD? Hell, no! I protested her error and explained about the rapid weightloss, the shrinking boobs, the sagging skin, blah, blah, blah. But she insisted she was right and convinced me to at least try one. Sure, whatever.

So her lovely assistant, Gordita, the 10-year-old, 25-pound Russian princess measuring a statuesque 7 feet tall served me with bra after bra after bra, all in an astonishing 38DD. And damn if everyone didn't fit!

Mz KT has just as much luck as me. Ninety minutes later we each walked out with simply detailed, utterly uplifting bras.


Who the hell needs plastic surgery when your breasts can look this good in a 38DD bra?

Go ahead, you can touch them.

Belated Celebration

I was in Des Plaines, IL this Friday for work, so at the end of the day I headed into Chicago for some quality time with my blog siblings, Mark and Katie.

Mark's birthday is the day before mine and Katie surprised us Saturday night with an impromptu birthday celebration after dinner out.

Suddenly, Katie appeared with flaming nipples on a plate, a unique presentation (to say the least) of decadent low-carb gooey chocolate cake.

Mark and I were delighted with our personal slabs of birthday heaven, each one carefully decorated with fresh raspberries. I ate half of the 3" square before the sweetness became too much.

But that wasn't all...we each received touching cards from Mz KT, specially selected for us.

Birthday princess for Mark...


And cutie pie for me.

Could it get any better? YES! Because inside each card was a coupon good for a day at Great America next summer, gastric bypass appropriate food and beverages included!


We were all quite happy to be together again.

The night was young...the day was long...and I need to unpack the digital camera so I can share the brawful experience Mz KT and I had at Nordstroms, as well as the depraved birthday celebration that followed the cake inhalation. Believe me, the pictures will be worth the wait!

Moving on...Moving in

I spent last night in the apartment. Tonight it's back at the house. And I guess that's why I was such a raving lunatic in yesterday's post about the poor fat kid and his parents.

I felt so out of sorts watching that show and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. But tonight, I get it.

I didn't want to be in that apartment. I wanted to be at the house. With Rose. Just like I had already moved out of the house in my head a few months ago, I've already mentally and emotionally moved out of the apartment.

I knew a couple weeks ago that I wanted to start to bring this separation to an end. And I knew that the end was a reconciliation. Once I set my mind on that, the ball hasn't stopped rolling.

We've agreed that I'll keep the apartment until the end of September, the end of my lease. But it's hard going back there. I don't want that separation anymore. I don't want nights to myself.

I've had enough time and space and freedom to think all I want about the transitions of my life in the last year. I pretty much know where I'm going with this whole weightloss thing. I know how to get there. I've got tools. I've got resources. I've got support. Now I just need my partner back, day in and day out.

The other night Rose suggested I start to bring some things back to the house if I want. It was like when we first started dating and she cleared a drawer in her dresser for me. Sweet, tentative, loaded with implications. Last night I packed up some things. Tonight they're tucked away in the house, back where they were in March.

The things are back, or will be soon. And I'll be physically living here again, full-time, in a matter of weeks. I just wonder if it will go back to the way it was between us. I want that comfortableness and familiarity, minus the complacency. I want it just like before, only very different. Just like me.

What the @(*#&*&?

I'm watching this show on Discovery Health about a 16 year old boy who's having gastric bypass surgery. The narrator says "his doctor has performed dozens of these surgeries." What the heck? That could be 24. That could be 124. Dozens? That's supposed to be reassuring? I suppose if you're getting your surgery for free because your whiny-ass parents called the media because they had insurance issues and couldn't afford the "$80,000" surgery, you'd let anyone rework your innards. And $80,000? Guess I'm lucky because my surgery was around $27,000 total.

Why does this bother me so much? I don't know. Maybe because his mother makes it sound like it's a mystery why the kid's so fat. I think us fatties know. WE EAT. WE EAT A LOT. Personal responsibility, folks. Personal responsibility.

I'll take responsibility for ballooning up to my pre-op weight. Sure, I didn't eat in front of people. Why would I?

God, I feel really mean and hate this stupid show. Why is that? What's pissing me off so much about this?Argh.

WHAT A BLAST!

My skinny ass fit in every single ride at Six Flags Great America! After the first three rides, I stopped even wondering if the buns of flab were going to squeeze into the molded seats or the tummy of lard was going to squish beneath the bars. I was a lean, mean, middle-aged, thrill-seeking machine!

By far, my favorite ride was Superman. It was the only ride where I wondered if the mechanism was really going to hold me in place. But once that initial ascent was complete and I was zooming down, face first toward the earth, I didn't care. It felt like I was soaring through the sky, utterly weightless and completely free.

A couple times during the day I caught myself jumping with glee at the incredible freedom I felt simply experiencing ANYTHING I wanted to at the park with NO physical or endurance limitations placed on me. I felt like I was 12 years old again and completely invincible.

A few times I even got all teary-eyed and choked up with emotion. This day-trip was the single most rewarding experience I've had post-op in that it is the one event that so clearly defined the differences in my life between now and then.

Last year in July I would have lasted exactly 20 minutes before I "had" to sit down. And after a day of walking (my pedometer recorded 12,183 steps at the park on Friday), I would have been tired, achy and immobile for the next 48 hours. This July I don't think I ever stopped to rest and the next day the only ache I felt was from the crappy-ass hotel bed.

The coolest part of the day was the final ride. When I hopped onto Superman for another run around 7 p.m., I wasn't planning on it being the last go for the day. But the line was short and I was riding solo, so I opted for the brief wait for the front row. There were 3 groups of people ahead of me for the 4-seat row. The first group had only 3 riders. So, polite person that I am, I asked the others if they'd mind if I went ahead. No problem. The group of 3 teens--oh, maybe all of 16 years old--didn't even FLINCH that they had to share the ride with me. In fact, they thought it was cool that I was riding by myself.

So the ride takes off and I've got a grin as wide as the Mississippi plastered on my face. We hit the top and then swoop down that first decline and I swear I felt my old skin shimmy off my body and the lightest wings spread out. Nothing in front of me but swirly ground and shiny sky and a world of wonderful possibilities. When that ride of a lifetime came to an end, I could have sworn there'd be tears of joy on my face. The wind must have wiped them away. That sense of freedom and joy and personal accomplishment felt more solid than the ground under my feet did when I stepped out of my seat.

And that's why it was the last ride of the day. I couldn't bear to let that feeling end and no other ride was ever going to do the same thing for me.

Starting lighting the candles...

I'm off for my birthday weekend. I'll be celebrating the big day tomorrow--my last official birthday--at Great America. Thanks to KT for the subversive water idea.

Mr. Six Flags Freak send his regards, too. I better come back to a LOT of birthday wishes. I'll put the paypal link up on Saturday night.

Crossing my fingers

I think the scale is moving.

If I wasn't such a scale ho and didn't step on it everytime there's one in eyesight, it would probably be easier to tell if it's moving.

But I swear, it's moving. And in the downward direction.

And with just 2 days to go until my Six Flags Great America Adventure, the future's even brighter. First, 12 hours of gut-wrenching, puke-inducing, exhilarating fun. Second, plenty of shitty, overpriced food I won't buy. The combination means WEIGHT LOSS.

That brings me to my semi-rant for the day. Why the hell can't you take your own damn water into places? I'm not paying $3 for water that's lukewarm. I think I'm going to get one of those medical bracelets to wear and tell them that I need my bottle of water for perpetual consumption or I will DIE. Do you think it will work? I'll let you know on Sunday.

Who's that girl?

Now when people look at my license, they only see the me I am today. It's weird, but I feel like I'm leaving behind a part of my identity. Kind of like wiping out the big Jen and sending her packing. I'm a little sad about that. Afterall, that's who I've been for the past 39 years. I've always been the fat girl. Just not anymore.

Plateau

It was bound to happen at some point: a major plateau in the downward spiral of my weightloss.

I've weighed the same weight, give or take a pound or two up and down, for 3 weeks. And right now I'm on the upside of that low point.










The surprising thing is that I'm not really freaking out about it. I suppose it's because my body looks thinner than it ever has before and my clothes continue to grow bigger.

Unfortunately, though, it doesn't look like I'm going to hit my next landmark weight as I had hoped in time for my new driver's license on Friday. I so wanted my weight to be under a certain point.

And then there's the whole moral dilemma: do I put down my current weight or put down the weight I want to be? Not that there's anything wrong with my current weight. I've never had a driver's license that read under 195, and even that was a lie when I was 16. So there's nothing to be ashamed of. But I wonder if I were to fudge the pounds a bit, say, just 5 or 7 fewer, would it make me work harder to lose them? Maybe. I don't know.

I've hardly had to work at all the last 10 months to lose weight. I suppose the honeymoon may soon be coming to an end. Stop complaining, right? Get off your ass and exercise or something. Just don't put another flippin' cracker in the former pie hole!

Diamonds on the souls of my shoes

I wiggled my ass yesterday with 4,000 people around me.

We saw Paul Simon at Summerfest last night. I always look forward to concerts, but have this horrible feeling of dread at the same time. I am afraid of disappointment. I've been to enough concerts by enough big names and have been thoroughly let down by the shows. I walk out feeling like I'd have been better off listing to their latest $14.99 CD for a couple hours rather than spending upwards of $75 for a decent seat.

But this concert was no where near a disappointment. He sounded marvelous. His band was unbelievable. He played for 2 hours nonstop. And every song was dead on.

I love going to concerts and hearing a well known song played. And last night it was like standing in the presence of a god. He strummed through Mrs. Robinson and jammed through Me & Julio, and I felt like I had this privilege to hear it live.

I know, I'm gushing. But this guy is a freakin' legend and it was worth the $60 ticket. Yes, ONLY $60 and that included admission to the festival.

So, yes, I did shake my ass and didn't care who saw it. Watching people parade back and forth in entirely size and age inappropriate clothing made me realize that I ain't too shabby myself. I think I'd confidently put myself smack dab in the middle of normal.

And this morning not a bone in my body hurts from the miles of walking and hours of standing. Summer of '06 is gonna ROCK!