I'm going to blow more sunshine up your ass. Yes, I am.

In the spirit of something ( I don't know what), I'm echoing my "good day" post from Friday.
Today wasn't spectacular, really. Kind of rainy and shitty, to be honest. However, I felt pretty relaxed. Yesterday's beating from the Asian probably had something to do with this. I wish I knew his name, but as he was not wearing a name tag, I cannot give him his proper praise (and potential customers) on the magical intarwebs. I'll ask next time. I can see it now...
"Hey Mr Massage Guy, what's your name so I can tell all my imaginary internet friends (especially those in my area) about your skills in the arts of accupressure and massaging the ouchies away?"
"You can sit, now."
"Alrighty, then."
Whatever the reasons for my good disposition, today I was thinking about this whole weight loss (again) thing.
Ten (10!) years ago in May, I hit "rock bottom" where my body was concerned and I started the journey to "cut the fat."
Getting a little quotation mark happy today, I see...
At any rate, it involved a complete change in how I relate to food. Or rather, how I approached my way of relating to food. I knew I had a dysfunction. My mother went to Overeaters Anonymous meetings when I was maybe 12 or 13 (?). I'd say she "tried" OA, but I'm not sure how much effort was actually put forth (that whole inertia thing seems to be genetic). I was spending a lot of time in my own head, and since I really don't remember when it was, I may have also begun my indentured servitude to my high school's marching band directors by then.
What I DO know is that she came home with all kinds of information about compulsive overeating. I now had a name for my weird eating style and knew from then on that regardless of what mom did or didn't do with OA, I was one of those people. In all fairness, back then, I'm guessing they didn't really cater to kids. I imagine their clientele consisted mainly of middle aged women who started putting on weight in adulthood, often after childbearing. So I tucked the information away, knowing that I was abnormal, but having no clue what the fuck to do about it. Except eat, of course.
So when I was 24, I looked like a GIANT easter egg in my (now) brother-in-law's wedding, topping out at what I'd like to call my "fighting weight." Because as much as I could cut a bitch, or like to say it, anyway, I really WAS much more likely to (verbally) fight back then. And I was over 250 lbs. I have a foggy memory of being at the vagina doctor and weighing in at 254 lbs. So yes, 250++ . This story is getting a little depressing, no? It's okay. I'm setting up the back story. Bear with me.
So after hearing once more, this time from my (now) husband's aunt, how my mother-in-law to be blamed my lack of success getting into medical school on my weight and ONLY my weight (LOVE HER!), and knowing I looked like an Easter egg at that wedding, I gave in.
Side note: The wedding colors were silver and lavender. So I really DID look Easter-y. And Humpty Dumpty-esque.
So I started "group therapy" to address my dysfunctional eating, learning some useful coping skills along the way. By the time I got married 3 years later, I was less than 130 lbs. I still looked fat to me. In fact, I refused to wear a sleeveless wedding dress because of my fat flappy arms. My arms weren't nearly what they are at this very moment, but genetics are a bitch and that bitch blessed the women of my family with abnormally proportioned fat upper arms. I recently saw a picture of myself from my cousin's wedding about a year prior to my own wedding and thought, hmmm I really WAS thin. Those arms were still unpleasant, but not horrible. Not as bad as I thought they looked.

You still reading?

Here's where the happy part starts. I told you it would come eventually. That's what she said.

SOOOOO.....

Obviously, things didn't stick with me mentally the way they could have, or I wouldn't be the fatass I am at this moment. My mental health is 95% responsible for my weight. I'll toss 5% to genetics, but more for addicitive tendencies and my peculiar shape, than the fat itself.
Now, I am less fat than I was a week ago, and last week I was less fat than the week before that. So yay! I never made it back to 250 land, thank God. But as the Wii Fit says when I step on it (still), "That's obese!" Then I bitch-slap her. In my head.
I'm only 5'2 (and 3/4," dammit), so I should not ever weigh more than 135. And that's if I'm truly big-boned (which I doubt). Clearly I have a bit of work ahead of me. And while I am daunted when I think of it in terms of a deadline (for example, the family vacation slated for the first week of July would be swell if I could be down another 40, but I'm not counting on it. It's a bit unrealistic), I'm trying to take it a day at a time, like the 12-step kids say.
I intended to do the sunshine up your ass and all, today, but this post is getting very long, says me.
So tomorrow, I'll write about what makes this time different in a good way. This is something I will have to deal with the rest of my life. Fighting my natural tendency to make myself fat, that is. I can never claim that I will succeed "this time," because that implies an end point. There isn't an end point. Not until I take my last breath. But guess what? I'm okay with fact. Being okay with that fact is just one thing makes this time better.
Stay tuned.

p.s. Dearest Unrepentant Elitist,
If, in fact, you are reading this, I apologize for my shitty punctuation and run-ons. Norman would be so disappointed. But I write as I speak. As you know, this is halting and tends to veer in many directions. Given that you have known me since 2nd grade piano lessons and still choose to be my friend, my guess is that you don't give a flying fuck and still labor under the delusion that I'm one of them thar smart people.
Cheers!