All About Even
So, apart from the fact that my hair is still escaping from my scalp, which is freaking me out, life is pretty good here in the Chicagoland 'burbs. After 41 years and 9 months of tumult, I might be ready to say things are evening out in my life.
For example, I weighed in on Saturday at 183.25 pounds, down 67.75 pounds from my apex, and 3 pounds from last week. I have no real idea how this happened, since I did everything the same, and I am not expecting my period for a while. I'll take it, though. Twice in the last week, I've remarked about my weight loss to people, and they were both surprised that I still wanted to lose more. "You look normal," they both said. One of them was a Weight Watchers receptionist. That was pretty cool.
It was also about the only odd thing that happened this week, apart from my incessant head-shed. I'm pretty sure my body is punishing me for all the weeks of food deprivation, and it will take me some time to gain its favor back. I continue to push the proteins, even topping out above 100 grams today. My goal is 125, but considering I had been eating around 50 per day in the Disorder Days, I'm pretty happy about my progress. Still, my body is clearly pissed at me, and so I must amend before I can a-mend.
It's so great to be eating more and still losing at the same rate. I did not expect that, believe me. I did a thousand incantations of 'I will not freak at the scale, I will not freak at the scale," in anticipation of a major slowdown in my weight loss, because I was SURE that I'd have a couple of less-than-a-pound losses and go back to starving. And in truth, I did skip my snacks on Friday night, which I probably should not have done, but sometimes we old crones just don't learn our lessons. I should go take a shower right now and see all the brown hair in the drain. That ought to be proof enough that I can never skip another meal. Anyway, I'm down 3 pounds this week, and I'm eating much better, and I'm no longer in a constant state of hunger.
In the interim, I continue to try on my jewelry to see what fits. The last qualifier for any ring is my left ring finger. It was a size 6 when I was normal, and it ballooned up to a 9.5 or a 10 at my heaviest. Over the last 67.75 pounds, my fingers shrink and my ring size drops along with it. About 2 weeks ago, I managed to get my size 7 ring on to the left hand. I had a little bit of fat-finger going on around the band, but I got it on without sticking my hand into the freezer, and without using lubricant of any kind, so it counts.
I have a mother's ring, a beautiful emerald and diamond job that X bought for me when I was pregnant. It's a size 6, and I've never been able to wear it on my ring finger, and there for a while, I couldn't wear it on my pinky. But this week, during the cold snap, I slid that baby right down my ring finger. I didn't keep it on for fear my skin would wrap around the band and refuse to let go, but there it was. The next day I wore the ring to work. I wore it all day in recycled, overheated office space, and when I got home that night, it slid off, just like a regular ring ought to. I'm back to a standard size 6 ring. My slender, tapered fingers have returned. Now, if only I could stop chewing the nails down to the bone....Well, one goal at a time.
Next, I slithered into a pair of size 10 jeans this week. Size 10! Remember, I still think they're cutting things larger than in my Jordache youth, but still, they went on comfortably, and I even managed to bend over and crouch down without pain. Of course, I later learned than any percentage of spandex counts as a stretch, and those were 1%, so I'm back to searching for pure denim. I think in the final analysis, I'm a 10 or even an 8 in a stretch, a 12-ish in 100% denim, and a 14 in low-rise. I had a fascinating conversation with a cocktail waitress on Saturday night. She was wearing her jeans in the fashionable 'just above the pubic bone' way, and I'm pretty sure that her t'shirt was a former nighshirt of Ebeneezer Scrooge's, it was so long. Still, it gave her a whole long torso, lithe look, and when I asked her about sizing, she admitted that her pubic-rise jeans were 3 sizes larger than her 'regular size', since of course women are larger around the hips. Okay! I hadn't even thought of that.
In truth, I don't think I can face buying size 14s, even if it makes sense to do so. I'm still a little jiggly in the tummy and I'm not about to build a collection of Scrooge-wear just so I can button my pants below my hip sockets. That will have to wait. When I'm a 6, I'll gladly buy size 10 low-rise. Maybe then, I'll even have the tummy to support them.
AND THEN....
In a daring Saturday morning move, I pulled out my Size 8 100% denim tall girl jeans and tried them on. I wore these jeans regularly when I was of normal body weight, and this summer, when I was at my peak, I could barely get them on above the knee. I had cried for an hour after that, and it had taken me the better part of a day to work up the courage to do it. I didn't want to try those jeans on back then. I knew they'd be way too small, and I knew it would humiliate me to try lifting them over my heft. But since I've been down the slimming road before, and since I always regret not having a Starting Point with measurements or clothing fits, I resolved to give myself one this time. Like I said, these drawers cleared my knees by about an inch, and that was it.
I nearly fell over trying them on, since I was so unstable on my fat feet that I couldn't really bend over to pull them, and of course those jeans weren't about to tug up over my thighs. So I marked the place in permanent ink on my brain and put them away, wondering if perhaps it was forever. That was June 5.
About a month ago, I had them up to my butt. They couldn't clear even my flounder-like bottom, though frankly I was pretty happy about having them up that high. I can wear these jeans-barely, at 170 pounds. It isn't until 160 that I can wear them anytime. So, a month ago when I was 190, I hadn't expected more than I got. Those jeans were climbing, but they weren't ready to summit yet. Heck, I hadn't even made Camp 4. But the oxygen levels were decreasing and I felt that giddiness of success climbing into my legs.
Well, yesterday I hauled them out again. I got a pair of those Size 10 fashion-retarded painters on me in a fair-and-square Stage 3, and I couldn't resist the temptation to try on those sexy 8s. I yanked them off the hanger, took a deep, dry-mouth gulp at the skinny legs, and slid them on over my feet.
Stage 1!
I can't close them, even while lying down and holding my breath. I have about an inch to go, even in that position, but man, it is really close. It'll be about 170 pounds when I can do Stage 2 with them, and probably 165 before I can go Stage 3. But, in thinking that 170 is just 13 pounds away-maybe another month or two, and that I can get those jeans up and over my hips, and that the octopus that is my stomach is hanging out of the fly and gasping for breath, it's about to be caged in those beauties. All hail the even sizes! I'm on my way to an 8. I'm not in goal jeans yet, but I can see them from here. Let me tell you, it is looking mighty fine.
I promise some sharp-tongued commentary on the weekend. I saw a polka band, did the Gem Show with Howard and lost my temper with a bank teller, and all need/deserve telling. Plus, I have my PowerPoint presentation tomorrow, and that should feed my sarcastic fingers for a while. But for now, I'm happy to be happy, and content to let the Stressor come and eat at me a while. I'll be too busying buzzing over my nearly-figure 8 shape to notice.
Of course, I'm going to look dang stupid wearing size 8 black sexy-jeans and a crop top, sporting the latest in the Female Comb-over, but hey, life ain't ever perfect.
A the E(ven)
For example, I weighed in on Saturday at 183.25 pounds, down 67.75 pounds from my apex, and 3 pounds from last week. I have no real idea how this happened, since I did everything the same, and I am not expecting my period for a while. I'll take it, though. Twice in the last week, I've remarked about my weight loss to people, and they were both surprised that I still wanted to lose more. "You look normal," they both said. One of them was a Weight Watchers receptionist. That was pretty cool.
It was also about the only odd thing that happened this week, apart from my incessant head-shed. I'm pretty sure my body is punishing me for all the weeks of food deprivation, and it will take me some time to gain its favor back. I continue to push the proteins, even topping out above 100 grams today. My goal is 125, but considering I had been eating around 50 per day in the Disorder Days, I'm pretty happy about my progress. Still, my body is clearly pissed at me, and so I must amend before I can a-mend.
It's so great to be eating more and still losing at the same rate. I did not expect that, believe me. I did a thousand incantations of 'I will not freak at the scale, I will not freak at the scale," in anticipation of a major slowdown in my weight loss, because I was SURE that I'd have a couple of less-than-a-pound losses and go back to starving. And in truth, I did skip my snacks on Friday night, which I probably should not have done, but sometimes we old crones just don't learn our lessons. I should go take a shower right now and see all the brown hair in the drain. That ought to be proof enough that I can never skip another meal. Anyway, I'm down 3 pounds this week, and I'm eating much better, and I'm no longer in a constant state of hunger.
In the interim, I continue to try on my jewelry to see what fits. The last qualifier for any ring is my left ring finger. It was a size 6 when I was normal, and it ballooned up to a 9.5 or a 10 at my heaviest. Over the last 67.75 pounds, my fingers shrink and my ring size drops along with it. About 2 weeks ago, I managed to get my size 7 ring on to the left hand. I had a little bit of fat-finger going on around the band, but I got it on without sticking my hand into the freezer, and without using lubricant of any kind, so it counts.
I have a mother's ring, a beautiful emerald and diamond job that X bought for me when I was pregnant. It's a size 6, and I've never been able to wear it on my ring finger, and there for a while, I couldn't wear it on my pinky. But this week, during the cold snap, I slid that baby right down my ring finger. I didn't keep it on for fear my skin would wrap around the band and refuse to let go, but there it was. The next day I wore the ring to work. I wore it all day in recycled, overheated office space, and when I got home that night, it slid off, just like a regular ring ought to. I'm back to a standard size 6 ring. My slender, tapered fingers have returned. Now, if only I could stop chewing the nails down to the bone....Well, one goal at a time.
Next, I slithered into a pair of size 10 jeans this week. Size 10! Remember, I still think they're cutting things larger than in my Jordache youth, but still, they went on comfortably, and I even managed to bend over and crouch down without pain. Of course, I later learned than any percentage of spandex counts as a stretch, and those were 1%, so I'm back to searching for pure denim. I think in the final analysis, I'm a 10 or even an 8 in a stretch, a 12-ish in 100% denim, and a 14 in low-rise. I had a fascinating conversation with a cocktail waitress on Saturday night. She was wearing her jeans in the fashionable 'just above the pubic bone' way, and I'm pretty sure that her t'shirt was a former nighshirt of Ebeneezer Scrooge's, it was so long. Still, it gave her a whole long torso, lithe look, and when I asked her about sizing, she admitted that her pubic-rise jeans were 3 sizes larger than her 'regular size', since of course women are larger around the hips. Okay! I hadn't even thought of that.
In truth, I don't think I can face buying size 14s, even if it makes sense to do so. I'm still a little jiggly in the tummy and I'm not about to build a collection of Scrooge-wear just so I can button my pants below my hip sockets. That will have to wait. When I'm a 6, I'll gladly buy size 10 low-rise. Maybe then, I'll even have the tummy to support them.
AND THEN....
In a daring Saturday morning move, I pulled out my Size 8 100% denim tall girl jeans and tried them on. I wore these jeans regularly when I was of normal body weight, and this summer, when I was at my peak, I could barely get them on above the knee. I had cried for an hour after that, and it had taken me the better part of a day to work up the courage to do it. I didn't want to try those jeans on back then. I knew they'd be way too small, and I knew it would humiliate me to try lifting them over my heft. But since I've been down the slimming road before, and since I always regret not having a Starting Point with measurements or clothing fits, I resolved to give myself one this time. Like I said, these drawers cleared my knees by about an inch, and that was it.
I nearly fell over trying them on, since I was so unstable on my fat feet that I couldn't really bend over to pull them, and of course those jeans weren't about to tug up over my thighs. So I marked the place in permanent ink on my brain and put them away, wondering if perhaps it was forever. That was June 5.
About a month ago, I had them up to my butt. They couldn't clear even my flounder-like bottom, though frankly I was pretty happy about having them up that high. I can wear these jeans-barely, at 170 pounds. It isn't until 160 that I can wear them anytime. So, a month ago when I was 190, I hadn't expected more than I got. Those jeans were climbing, but they weren't ready to summit yet. Heck, I hadn't even made Camp 4. But the oxygen levels were decreasing and I felt that giddiness of success climbing into my legs.
Well, yesterday I hauled them out again. I got a pair of those Size 10 fashion-retarded painters on me in a fair-and-square Stage 3, and I couldn't resist the temptation to try on those sexy 8s. I yanked them off the hanger, took a deep, dry-mouth gulp at the skinny legs, and slid them on over my feet.
Stage 1!
I can't close them, even while lying down and holding my breath. I have about an inch to go, even in that position, but man, it is really close. It'll be about 170 pounds when I can do Stage 2 with them, and probably 165 before I can go Stage 3. But, in thinking that 170 is just 13 pounds away-maybe another month or two, and that I can get those jeans up and over my hips, and that the octopus that is my stomach is hanging out of the fly and gasping for breath, it's about to be caged in those beauties. All hail the even sizes! I'm on my way to an 8. I'm not in goal jeans yet, but I can see them from here. Let me tell you, it is looking mighty fine.
I promise some sharp-tongued commentary on the weekend. I saw a polka band, did the Gem Show with Howard and lost my temper with a bank teller, and all need/deserve telling. Plus, I have my PowerPoint presentation tomorrow, and that should feed my sarcastic fingers for a while. But for now, I'm happy to be happy, and content to let the Stressor come and eat at me a while. I'll be too busying buzzing over my nearly-figure 8 shape to notice.
Of course, I'm going to look dang stupid wearing size 8 black sexy-jeans and a crop top, sporting the latest in the Female Comb-over, but hey, life ain't ever perfect.
A the E(ven)
posted by Former Fat Girl Gone Skinny | 6:54 PM
2 Comments:
Your mountain climbing analogy made me smile. I'm s oproud and pleased for Howard and it sounds like you are doing beautifully as well.
Bravo!
- Howard's pal Lee in Portland
(Y'all come see us sometime!)
Thank you, Lee!
I'm sure we'll be out there eventually. I'm all over the Pac-NW, and the whole idea that you don't have to shovel rain, like you do with snow. :)
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