Earning My Stripes

photo: mine

No matter how old I get, I'll always love fun socks.  I have rainbow colored toe socks, socks with holiday themes, and among others, the striped socks to the left.

Other than their fun stripes, they might seem pretty innocuous to most people.  After all, they're just socks.  Given their source, there are probably thousands upon thousands of pairs just like them.

But not to me.

Since 2011, I had been completing at least two 5K races per year.  One of those races was in March of 2014.

I had convinced my mother and two friends to do the race with me.  A fun 5K where they threw powered paint at you?  A gorgeous path through downtown Nashville and lots of photo ops with these three amazing women?  ABSOLUTELY!

As the day broke, it was bitterly cold and raining.  We stopped for coffee on our way to the starting line and the debate about if we really wanted to do it raged. After much deliberation, we decided it wouldn't be that bad, it'll be fun, the race will be done before we know it!

Yeah, right.  We got there early, meaning we had to stand out in the driving rain, near freezing temperature, and blustery wind as the race start approached.

Thankfully, there was a booth set up for the purchasing of extra items.  As my legs were really the coldest part of me, I was seeking something to layer to get some of the feeling back in them.  I saw the socks, and I desired them at once!

I unrolled them and tried to pull them on.  The top of my socks are woven with the race name, making the top of the sock tighter than normal.  I wore them through the race, nearly cringing because of how tight they were.  By the time the race was over, I had deep grooves in my calves from the top of the socks.

After the race, the socks were washed and put away.  They were seriously uncomfortable.  Beyond that, they made me sad.  My mom had bought them for me at the race, and it was hard for me to feel like I wasn't putting her gift to good use.

A few days ago, I noticed that the socks were on my bedside table.  I don't remember putting them there.  I'm not sure if the little one pulled them out from some hidden hidey hole in my room...but they looked like a challenge.  I decided to take the challenge.

photo: mine

As I slid them up, I was just shocked.  No hesitation, no difficulty, no groovy calves (at least not due to the socks).

My brain hasn't yet caught up with my physical changes.  Like my trip to Universal, I'm still waiting for someone to tell me I don't fit, I can't do it, I'm still too large.

The only one telling me that?  Me.

But only sometimes.  Little by little, my brain is catching up with my body.  It's not longer the thing that holds me back.  It's not longer the thing that keeps me from playing, running, cuddling...

Living.

They might be a pair of socks to anyone else, but they're a badge for me.  They're a symbol of success.  They're a badge of honor.

They're my stripes.  And I earned Every. Single. One. 

Perception

"Don't be afraid of the X in front of that L, honey."

-Angelina Santiago

I detest shopping.  I always have.  When your clothes are twice as expensive as the rest, clearance means you're paying a smaller person's full price, and your selection is limited, there's not much joy to be had in shopping.  Add in that I am tall with an above average shoe size and shopping for myself is a miserable experience.

Or rather, was a miserable experience. 

At my heaviest, there were 5 or 6 X's in front of that L.  My selection was limited to items with glitter splayed across the chest amid motifs of flowers not found in nature.  Why yes, please, I'd love to look like a sparkly couch.  That's been my desire:  to have my girth not hidden but designed to catch attention as far as the eye can see. 

Since the surgery, I haven't really noticed my clothes changing.  It almost always has to be pointed out to me.  It's not until I bend over and nearly lose my pants that I think maybe these ARE a little big now.

You see, I'm still that lady.  Mentally, I am still the owner of those X's.  They follow me around like a prison sentence.  My perception is that I need them.  They are comforting.  They cover my shape, they keep attention at bay, and no one laughs if I think I'm invisible.

The reality is that I WASN'T invisible at 380 pounds.  The extra weight didn't protect me or provide a barrier, it made me more visible.  It drew attention like a magnet:  nearly all of it negative.  Stares, smirks, whispers, full out demeaning comments from those brave enough to just berate me out loud; I've been subjected to it all.

I was fully prepared for it to happen again.

You see, we just recently returned from vacation.  I had to walk into one of my biggest fears:  a theme park.  About three years ago (in the midst of my first round of weight loss), I got stuck.  I thought I'd lost enough to ride a ride at a fair.  Not so much.  I had to wiggle myself out of a swinging seat in front of what felt like a million people. 

As I stood in line with my rollercoaster buddy (AKA, my son), I could feel that anxiety welling up.  What if I don't fit?  What if I have to get right back up in front of all these people? What if I disappoint him?

With a 45 minute wait to the front of the line and plenty of people smaller than me to look at, I just KNEW there was no way I was going to be able to ride.  At the end of the wait, I sat down.  Pulled the lap bar across me...and heard the buzz that indicated it was locked.

It. Was. Locked.

I. Fit.

No stares.  No smirks.  No whispers.  Just me, my son, 167 feet, and 65 MPH of pure triumph.  I was able to ride on everything I wanted.  It was amazing.

On the way back, we stopped for a little shopping.  I know I need new work clothes, and I'm trying to space out purchases as much as possible to not have to buy repeatedly.  I held an XXL up to me, thinking it might be a little snug.  My mom's response?

"That's too big."

And she was right. All the tops I purchased now only have one X in front of that L.   Another top, with a more formed style, was purchased for when I could fit it later. 

It. Fits.

So that's the current focus:  working to change my perception of what fits.  Not just in clothing, but in size.  I'm not the scared girl who needs to hide behind food to be comfortable.  I no longer have to fear that I won't fit, because I fit me.  I fit my family.  I fit in this world exactly as I'm meant to fit. 

Yes, it's going to continue to change.  I know (sort of) that I'm going to eventually lose the X in front of that L. 

But for now:

It. Fits.

In For A Penny, To Lose A Few Pounds

photo via livescience.com

Over a year ago, I started down this path.  My journey was derailed for the best and cutest reason.  As my daughter hit six months old, the continued concern of how long I'd have my health reared its ugly head.

Would I be able to keep up with two children?  How do I find the energy to meet both their needs?

The answer brought me back to the need to lose weight.  I had tried to capitalize on the weight lost after E's birth, only to find that my hormone changes had made losing weight a struggle.  I tracked my eating, reduced my carbs, began walking.

In four weeks time, I'd taken off a whopping three pounds.  Not exactly setting the world on fire.

So, A and I revisited the idea of bariatric surgery.  Since I'd taken precautions to prevent another surprise bundle (ahem), I was confident that we could just pick up where we left off.

There were a few steps to complete that were the same:  psych eval, support group, pre-op class, revisit with nutritionist and surgeon.  I had decided to switch to the other doctor in the office who performs the surgery, based on word of mouth.  It was a good choice.  Dr. R is a Christian man, married, who has struggled with infertility.   He is kind and compassionate, and he has a clear desire to help his patients.

There was one change I wasn't anticipating.

In the year since I had surgery, my insurance company changed requirements.  Where they previously required a letter of medical necessity, they now wanted six consecutive months of documented attempts at controlling weight.    I completely get why.  This is NOT a decision to be taken lightly.

Knowing that is one thing.  Realizing you could be so close and yet possibly so far was another.  

My stomach sank with that news.  I had been working on it for over six months, but I wasn't sure it was documented. Here's where my postpartum anxiety actually came in handy.  Due to medicine changes, I had checked in with my OBGYN almost every month since E was born...the exception was April.

My surgeon set a goal of a 20 pound weight loss and a follow up appointment.  I was given "the book" for how to eat and sent on my way to wait and see if I could get the approval for surgery.

As I was leaving, I asked if I could move my appointment up if I lost the 20 pounds faster than 6 weeks.

The nurse simply smiled and handed me the appointment card.


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Disclaimer:  this is MY journey and is in no was a substitution for advise from your own physician.  I definitely recommend research and discussing options with your doctor.   Don't just take it from a lady on the internet :)