A Long Conversation With Myself

It's no secret that for several months now I've been considering taking some rather drastic measures to lose weight. Specifically, I've been thinking of having gastric bypass or the Lap Band procedure. The idea of doing this first came to me about three years ago. And I went through the entire process only to be told, "Oops, looks like your insurance won't cover this after all… Can you write a check for $25,000?"

Cue Momma Pug's first true breakdown. I mean, these people had put me through more medical tests than you can image. (Sleep study, allergy testing, x-rays, MRIs, blood work, and visiting a counselor, nutritionist, reproductive endocrinologist etc.) It was an awful, demeaning and costly experience that stretched over nearly a year. And frankly I felt betrayed when it turned out to be all for naught. I felt abandoned, alone and guess where the fatty turned? Food. Yeah, for the past year, I've done nothing to help myself. I've ate and ate and not really tried hard enough.

How'd 12 months of gluttony work out for me? Not well. And that's not to say I was overeating. I just wasn't following the dietary plan that I have to follow in order to not balloon up. My metabolism is shot and carbs hate me. It's just a fact – one that I tried to ignore because I was depressed. And where did this journey of self-neglect take me? To about 20 more pounds than I was before. I realized when I looked in the mirror that I didn't recognize the woman that was staring back at me. She looked tired and old and used up. To quote my high school band director, "Like 10 pounds of sausage in a five pound bag."

So I made a self-diagnosis: Crap, I look and feel like shit. Then I let the professionals make their guess. I visited with my beloved Dr. B – who never, ever has made me feel bad about myself, God bless her. She worked with me for the last few weeks to help me get to feeling better. She's gotten my fibro under control and my blood pressure is not spiking anymore.

I was at an 8 on the Feels Like Crap Scale. Now I'm closer to a 4. I actually felt like going grocery shopping on my own for the first time in months. More importantly, now there are no excuses. I can now move around without screeching in pain and I'm not swollen like a Christmas turkey.

So here goes. I'm giving it everything I got. I'm joining Weight Watchers and I'm implementing a daily workout regiment. I'm starting by walking to the mailbox and back. You know, baby steps. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, I'll probably be bitching and moaning about having to eat healthy and actually work out. Hey, that's got to the be at least as interesting as my dog stories.

Honestly, this is a plea for motivation. I need help. And I need support. I'm like a crack addict going cold turkey. And this ain't the sort of addiction they make a patch for. So forgive me if I bore you and feel free to ask for a return of the dog stories – should my bitching get out of hand.

My goal isn't to lose the 150 pounds I need to. I can't approach it like that – looking at one ginormous number. So I've broken it down in pieces. My first goal is to lose 50 pounds by birthday – July 3. I'll be 28 years old and I hope that I take a little less baggage into the next year of my life. Wish me luck. And pray for the Aggie – I'm taking him down this path of healthy living with me.