Bariatric Breakthrough Challenge:
Dothan, Alabama

The Doc, The Guru & The Post-Op:
Does this shirt make me look short?

I just got back from an amazing trip to Dothan, Alabama, where I was fortunate enough to participate in the Bariatric Guru’s Bariatric Breakthrough Challenge (Presented by Erin and Ben Akey) with my incredible friend and business partner, Dr. Connie Stapleton. This was my first time to Alabama, and I assure you, it will NOT be my last! – (Roll Tide) – I met extraordinary people, with extraordinary stories, and found myself in the company of more than a few kindred spirits. All I can tell you is, compassionate support is alive and well in local bariatric communities, thanks to generous souls like Alta, Matthew, Sharon, Gene, Talli, Mandy — and a bunch of other folks whose names escape me, but whose faces and hearts do not.

In case you didn’t know, A Post-Op & A Doc have been involved with Erin and Ben since the first Challenge (through video), but this was the first event we got to PHYSICALLY attend. Let me tell you, it was unbelievably gratifying and energizing. I can’t say enough how much we enjoyed the event — and how much I learned! That’s the beauty of these things; it doesn’t matter if you’re a presenter, an organizer, or a participant – you WILL take home at least 5 new things you didn’t know before, you WILL come away with the sure knowledge that you are NOT alone, you WILL believe that you can live a healthy Bariatric After Life™ and you WILL recommit to gaining, regaining or maintaining a healthy weight management program!

In other words, this is exciting now matter how you slice it! (If it sounds like I’m gushing, I am.)

Basically, if you haven’t done so already, you really must make a point of registering for and attending at least ONE Challenge event this year. Your investment in yourself is guaranteed to pay dividends!

Here’s a link to the program page, so you can see where events have already been scheduled.

BARIATRIC BREAKTHROUGH CHALLENGES
COME spend the day with us.
LEAVE a certified Bariatric Guru!

The Bariatric Guru & Chef

TOPICS:

• Accountability (To yourself and others)
• Recommitment to a Healthy Bariatric After Life™
• Healthy & Active Living through Exercise, Nutrition & Supplementation
• Healthy Eating with the Bariatric Chef (It actually tastes good, and you’ll get to sample yummy foods and product samples!)
• Mind|Body Synchronization (Bariatric Help for Your Head, Heart & Health with A Post-Op & A Doc) – Food Addiction, Relationships, Body Image

If you DON’T see one in your area, contact Erin and see what it takes to get YOUR Bariatric COE (Center of Excellence) to host an event

I’ll leave you with this: Since I participated in this event, I’m renewed, reinvigorated, regenerated and reenergized to live a healthy and active life in 2012 (and beyond). 

Are you?

I grew up in a great neighborhood. First of all, our block had a cul du sac, which meant that we didn’t get much traffic (except for the kind that thought there was an exit out the back). Secondly, we had a really cool hill (both on the street AND in our driveway), so we spent most of our summer days hurtling our bikes, skateboards, Big Wheels and roller skates (not blades, thank you very much) down the hill at *death-defying* speeds. When we weren’t tempting fate, we were doing “bike rallies” — which really just consisted of a bunch of us going ’round and ’round and ’round the “big block,” hooting and hollering (to beckon kids out of their houses) while blasting some Gordon Lightfoot song on our AM transistor radios and clothes-pinning playing cards to our spokes so we’d sound like ‘motorcycles.

It was great fun, and we never tired of the monotony.

Unless we were doing something else – like playing kickball (running the bases we’d painted on the street in reflective spray paint), tag football, HORSE, hide-and-go-seek (in the dark, naturally), or – on windy days – flying kites from Mr. Taylor’s front lawn.

His house was prime real estate for a number of reasons:

1. It was situated at the intersection of a “T”, meaning that you could run up the block (to launch your kite) and end up straight on his lawn (which was on a hill, so you could comfortably recline on your elbows.)
2. It had super thick St. Augustine grass (which was not particularly soft, like Bermuda or Fescue, but did create a nice cushion.)
3. He had apricot and plum trees in the backyard (so we didn’t have to go home when we got hungry.)

Yes, our neighborhood was quite active, but also competitive. With a nearly equal ratio of boys-to-girls (boys being older), that meant there were lots of Barbies getting kidnapped (mine, mostly) and flour bombs being dropped on houses, and mock wars being fought in the streets. It also meant that kite flying was not just for fun: It was serious business, not to be entered into lightly. Sometimes, we would have “dog fights” at low-altitudes, where the “loser” found his line sliced or his kite torpedoed into a tree. The winner would ink a skull and crossbones on his kite to signal another kill.

To up the ante, eventually, the boys learned that fishing line presented a greater defense to the opposition, as it was much harder to see, didn’t snap so easily, AND had the added bonus of distance! You could fly your kite A LOT FARTHER on fishing line, than you could on standard kite string. Some boys were very smart and ran their kites from fishing rods (for easy “reel-based retrieval”); others used wooden dowels, or just held the spool in hand.

Never one to miss out on a great idea, I checked around and learned that the best line was something called “100# Test,” and it came on “450 yard” spools. If memory serves, it was about $1.99 at the corner Thrifty Store.

Not one to let St. Augustine grow beneath my feet, I hopped on my trusty bike and headed to Thrifty to pick-up my very own secret weapon. I wanted to be the first girl to beat a boy (which did happen, by the way…except that it was Howard, and most people weren’t very impressed by this victory, but that’s not the point of the story…) Anyway, at first blush, the idea seemed reasonable enough: Find the fishing line marked “100# test, 450 yd length” and buy it. Unfortunately, when I got there, I learned that there were many different KINDS of line (nylon, braided, salt water, fresh water, fly-fishing, stream) AND, they were all priced quite differently. As a matter of fact, *some of them* cost as much as $5.00 per spool – for only 50 yards!

After about 20 minutes of indecision, I determined that the most important factor was PRICE, at which point, I narrowed it down to the nylon line and grabbed for the appropriate spool. Which would have been the end of the story. Except…I noticed that, FOR THE VERY SAME PRICE, I could get something called “80# Test” and it had (get this): 975 YDS of line!!! In other words, whoever was smart enough to fly their kite from it would SURELY win the neighborhood award for “greatest distance.”

The case was settled and I bought my fishing line. I couldn’t WAIT to attach it to my kite and show the boys how it was really done.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday: There were the proverbial fluffy white clouds dotting a cerulean blue sky and it was just windy enough to launch the kite, but warm enough to bask in the shade on Mr. Taylor’s lawn. I took my “Sky Spy” kite (replete with new 80# test fishing line) out into the street…assumed the position…and ran! Soon enough, the kite was aloft, and I was gleefully unspooling yard-after-yard of fishing line. My kite was the envy of the block…at least, as far as anyone could tell…you see…at some point, I had let out nearly ALL of my line, meaning my kite was nothing more than a tiny, 2-eyed speck in a big, blue sky.

This was great fun. For about 15 minutes. (Seriously, how long SHOULD you fly a kite?)

Soon enough, moms started bellowing out their front doors for their kids to “come home for dinner!” Mine was no exception and, not one to disobey, I immediately set about reeling my kite in. As it turns out, my brother was ALSO flying HIS kite, so we both had to bring our Sky Spies back to earth. Misery loves company.

Except…

• Did I mention that my brother was using 100# test/450 yd fishing line on his kite?
• Did I mention that he wasn’t shooting for a “distance” record that particular day?
• Do you remember the “rock incident” from Big Sur?

Well…he got his kite down pretty fast…in like…five minutes, and quick-as-a-whip, he was ready to head home to wash up for dinner. As a matter of fact, EVERYONE had their kites in hand pretty fast. Except me***

*** I refer you to the aforementioned 975 yard spool.

Needless to say, the task of winding my kite back to Mr. Taylor’s front lawn was a daunting (and lengthy) one, and soon enough, my brother was back to gloat tell me that I was “in really big trouble with mom and dad.” I asked for his help, but I’m *pretty sure* I didn’t get it. He might even have laughed at me (but I don’t want to fib if I’m not sure.)

These are NOT my hands. That is pretty much how my line looked, though.

Anyway…there I sat…for 1, solid hour. By this time, of course, it was dark. The street lights were on. I was alone…and YES, my kite was still aloft — SOMEWHERE OUT THERE. Lord only knows how, because it didn’t seem to be windy anymore.

Which might explain what happened next: I’m fairly certain I was within 200 short yards of retrieving my kite, when the darnedest thing happened: It began innocently enough with a tiny “plink” and then…quicker than you can say “I spy a loose kite in the sky”…the tension on my spool was gone…and the remaining line inexplicably drifted to the pavement…and across the treetops, front lawns, power lines, streets, and chimneys.

Hmm…Let me see if I got this straight: I spent ONE SOLID HOUR reeling in my kite, risking life, limb AND grounding, JUST so I could LOSE MY FREAKING KITE SOMEWHERE OVER BOYAR PARK (1 mile away?)

In a word: YES.

In retrospect, the moral of that story is pretty simple: MORE IS NOT ALWAYS BETTER AND SOMETIMES MORE IS LESS.

The corollary is: CHEAPER ISN’T ALWAYS BEST.

So, how do I apply this to my Bariatric After Life™? Well, just like I tried to get the most bang for my buck with that blasted fishing line (without fully understanding its usage or considering whether or not it even made sense), I have tried to do the same thing with food. There have been times where I have tried to “get away” with eating things that are “not as healthy as other things,” (like: sugar free cookies), and there are times that I ended up eating WAY TOO MANY of those things that are not as healthy as other things (like sugar free gummy bears)…and well…I paid the price. I learned the hard way that before you choose a fishing line (or food), you really need to understand HOW YOU INTEND TO USE IT and whether it makes sense.

I guess you could say, you need to choose the right “pound test” for the job!

In my defense (thanks, in no small part to brilliant marketing) I really believed that a lot of those food choices were equal to the alternatives (even BETTER) – just like that fishing line seemed equal to the alternative (even BETTER) — but the reality was, I lost sight of what I was really trying to achieve; I forgot what was reasonable; I forgot the real goal.

At the end of the day, any kite-flyer worth his salt will probably tell you that the goal to successful flight is MANAGEABILITY. It’s not always about distance or height – yes, you can do tricks – it’s about maintaing control of the kite. It’s about proving that you are in charge — not the other way around.

Weight management is the same way: It’s not about some magical number on the scale, or some teeny number on your clothes. It’s not about weighing what you weighed in high school, or squishing your shrinkly butt into those acid-washed “mom-jeans” from the 80′s. It’s about MANAGING your health and feeing good doing it.

You know…as I look back at that summer…so long ago on Mr. Taylor’s front lawn…I realize my kite was flying ME. Just like when I ate those things that seemed okay.

These days, I’m flying MYSELF — Oh, maybe not as “high” as other folks, but at least I’m airborne, and — hey, my life is manageable. At least for today.

Now, where did I put my black marker? I think I need to add a skull and crossbones to my scale…I killed another pound today!

When I was about six, my parents took my big brother and me camping at Big Sur. If you’ve never been there, it’s a stunning area on the central California coast, just off picturesque Highway 1 (Pacific Coast Highway). There are towering redwoods (though, not the tallest on the coast — those are further north in Humboldt) and lush ferns (think: Jurassic Park or Return of the Jedi, and you’re close), babbling brooks…and WILD BOARS. Yes, wild boars. My big brother, Greg, used to traumatize me by taking me on *long*  hikes *way out in the forest* and convincing me that there were wild boars hiding  in every burned out tree trunk — or, if they weren’t there at the moment, they’d be returning any second (and they would probably eat me!)

Despite the wild boars (and scary big brother) Big Sur was wonderful and we vacationed there several summers.

Side note: My mom (God love her) was not the…um…er…outdoorsy type, though she gamely tried to be (so I’ll give her credit). On many trips, we all slept in a big (heavy) canvas tent with a little porta-potty just inside the “door,” so it was pretty *rough.* Being an RV person myself, I can understand why tent camping might not be the most inviting thing to a girly-girl, but I think my mom *might* have taken that whole “comforts-of-home” thing a tad far…she actually packed her LIGHT UP MAKE-UP MIRROR  so she could do a “full-face” each morning. I am not kidding you! This mirror was like one of those old-school beauty mirrors with bulbs dow either side — AND (since this was the deluxe model) — three lighting conditions: Indoor/Fluorescent, Outdoor (camping), and Evening. I loved that mirror and she always looked beautiful in it, but it is sorta funny to think back now and imagine doing that myself. Okay, maybe I would…

But, back to my little story. On this particular trip, my dad decided it would be a great idea for us to hike up to the “famed” Big Sur waterfall. No, this is not the ‘really’ famous Pfeiffer Falls, but rather, the smaller, less notable, but still pretty ‘Big Sur Waterfall.” it was a very easy 1/2 mile hike, but to my little 6-year old legs, it felt like a full day’s walk (which meant that my dad would have to carry me on his back sometimes…)

Less-Famous Big Sur Waterfall

Well, after about 7 hours (or 30 minutes, depending upon who you talk to), we arrived at our destination: BIG SUR FALLS! My dad went right up to it and let the water *dangerously* run into his hand! Meanwhile, my mother kept yelling at him to ‘be careful,’ and ‘come back!’ While this was going on, my brother had found some neat, flat rocks to walk out onto, which put him sort of towards the middle of the stream. He was very brave and, as much as I wanted to go, my mom wouldn’t let me.

This disappointed me to no end and I was completely inconsolable.

Until my dad started throwing rocks into the creek. Naturally, *I* started throwing rocks, and we had great fun.

Kerplunk! Sploosh! Splash! Kathunk! Whee!

And, just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, my dad encouraged me to throw “overhand.”

Now, up to this point, I’d been throwing underhand (granny-style) because that’s what 6-year old girls do. I told him I couldn’t throw overhand and didn’t want to. But he insisted that I “at least try.” So, I did. I found a really great rock, took aim at the stream and…let her rip.

I would love to tell you my aim was true and that I hit the stream right where I targeted, but that isn’t *exactly* what happened. No…actually, I beaned my brother in the back of the head (and he bled…a little). That’s right, I hurled a pitch that would make Fernando Valenzuela proud — right at his noggin’.

Oh. Brother.

Not ironically, Greg was extremely unhappy about this event and, as far as I can remember, called me a really bad name. Something like, ‘Stupid!’ — which is as coarse as it got in my house. Maybe I deserved it…a little…but I didn’t mean to hit him. I was AIMING somewhere else!

Well…I was totally devastated after I hit my brother with that rock. Absolutely demolished…and I cried and cried and cried (until I started hiccuping and had to stop because my mom said she didn’t want to hear another peep out of me, and you KNOW how that goes.) Eventually, I got over it (although, I think my brother is still a bit steamed about it to this day) –– AND –– I did finally learn how to throw OVERHAND.

Which brings me to my point: Sometimes, we MUST try things that we aren’t really sure we can accomplish…even though we might fail…because, sometimes (maybe often), we WILL fail.

Like, trying to lose weight. How many diets did I try (and fail) before weight loss surgery? Here’s a hint: About the same number of pitches I threw as pitcher for my summer league girls softball team, the Bat-Her-Ups. Yeah, I know, stupid name, but we had super cute uniforms – blue and green polo stripes with white collars – don’t ask. To be clear, it was soft pitch, and it was underhand, BUT when I was not pitching, I played 2nd base, which meant that I DID have to throw OVERHAND, so at SOME POINT I had to figure out how to do it, right? Let’s just say it’s a skill I acquired somewhere between the time my brother threatened to hit ME with a rock and about age 9.

How did I learn this particular skill? By trying — over and over and over — until I got it right. True, I was never a STRONG thrower (so, putting me in right field was a horrible idea without TWO cut-off men), and the ball often went straight into the ground, but thanks to my “pitch back” in the front yard, and some much-needed instruction from my pop, I got fairly accurate at making the ball go where I pointed my toe.

Did you catch that? I learned to point my toe where i wanted the ball to go.

Guess what? I kinda learned the same skill in my Bariatric After Life™! I  learned to look where I want to go (towards healthy weight management) — NOT where I DON’T want to go (towards uncontrollable weight regain) — and guess what? That is where I go (mostly).

However, when I take my eye off the ball (stop journaling my foods, stop working out regularly, stop paying attention to my behaviors, etc.), I veer off course…and the ball goes straight into the ground — OR, I hit MYSELF in the head! D’oh! Fortunately, I get it over the plate more than in the dirt, so I’ll consider my RBI pretty good (and improving)!

Anyway, let me leave you with these two things:

1) Big brothers can be mean, but you shouldn’t hit them in the head with rocks, and
2) Weight management IS possible, if you learn  proper form and practice regularly.

Just like throwing overhand.

Hey guys!

I’ll be speaking at my 3rd WLS Vegas Meet & Greet (2nd for WLSFA) in May. Are you coming?

Here are the event details:

What: 2012 WLSFA Mother of All Meet & Greets: Kick It Up a Notch!
When: May 18-20, 2012
Where: BALLY’S Hotel & Casino (on the Strip, baby!)
Price: $110/Person

Discount Room Rates Available at Ballys.com

Here is what I’ll be talking about:

KICK IT WITH CARI

Whether you want to Kick some bad habits to the curb, Kick Start some healthy new ones, or Kick Around some fresh ideas for living a happy Bariatric After Life™, I’ll have you Kicking up your Heels with an energetic, informative and inspiring talk. You’ll get a real Kick out of my interactive presentation and might even get that Kick in the Pants you’ve been needing! So, come Kick It with ME. You’ll be glad you did!

I’ll see ya in Vegas, Baby!

In case you didn’t know…

When I’m not trying on new shoes or fixing my hair, I’m busy “kicking it” with Dr. Connie Stapleton as one-half of A Post-Op & A Doc – A dynamic duo that brings a unique brand of funny-but-firm wisdom to a hungry audience. We’ll BOTH be in Vegas, so please be sure to check us out!

Have you watched our videos?
Have you friended us yet?

What we say is as important as how we say it, and what we hear is most important of all.

I’ve spent a lot of time dissecting my self-talk. I think about how I speak to myself – what tone I use, whether or not I’m condemning myself, and whether I’m being kind, compassionate and loving, or mean, unforgiving and shaming. You’ve heard it said that you should talk to yourself the way you would talk to your friend, and if you wouldn’t say it to them – DON’T say it to yourself.

I’ve done pretty well with cleaning up my self-trash-talking (although I still beat myself up and take a little longer than I’d like to express forgiveness), but something happened this past weekend that really threw me for a loop.

WARNING: I’m going to say something that is significant and pertinent to MYSELF, so (as my trusted friend and business partner, Dr. Connie Stapleton always says…) “don’t hear what I’m NOT saying.”

With that said, here’s where my tale begins: While I was at the final Obesity Help event of the year (Thank you, Long Island) I found myself doing things that I don’t normally do. For starters, I went out to dinner. Twice. And, I ate something other than a salad. Now, you know my travails and you’ve heard all of my pouch woes, so my food choices are often less about tremendous “will-power” and more about what will actually “go down the gullet” (and stay there.) Typically speaking, there just isn’t a great deal out there that I can really “feast upon,” so I tend NOT to go there (if you know what I mean.)

As a result of wanting to be able to eat well when I travel, I pack (Read: schlep) tons of protein with me. I bring shakes, drinks, bars and soy chips. Yup. I’m a walking processed protein factory, but that’s only because it’s über hard to travel with lettuce, vegetables, cottage cheese, salsa, greek yogurt and feta cheese!

But, I digress.

As I said, this time, I did things I don’t normally do. I went out to eat, and I ate. I made healthy choices (sesame encrusted ahi tuna, antipasto and veggies). For the food, anyway. Here’s where things got squirrelly: I had a drink – no, not water. I had a crazy martini drink. I loved it and told myself that, since I never do it, it’s okay. I don’t have a problem with alcohol, and I always keep it in check, so…no biggie.

Except that, later in the evening, I had ANOTHER DRINK. Yes, Me.
Okay…I bowed to some “peer pressure” (which is no justification, but it makes a super great excuse.) Anyway, that was that and I collapsed into bed for the evening. No harm, no foul, though I was a little worse for the wear.

That might have been the end of it…had I not gone out to dinner. AGAIN. THIS TIME, I had TWO DRINKS. Yes, you read that correctly. I ordered two ridiculous drinks…and got loopy. I didn’t like the way I felt and I wished that I could undo what I’d done. But, I couldn’t. So, I was left with my poor choices…and my self-loathing.

It took me until the next morning to figure out the lesson in the behavior. You see, I try to live my life as a positive example for others – and that’s a lot of pressure. No, I don’t try to be perfect, but I do my best to model healthy behaviors that I believe in. I am honest about my shortcomings (hello, Oreos?) and don’t believe in being someone I’m not. I have values that I live by and respect.

So, what’s the deal here? On the face of it, I can tell myself that I’m ashamed that I did this in front of people who expected more of me (but, hat’s the easy thing to say). I can’t undo it, and I’m finding it really hard to forgive myself for my poor choice – though I know forgiveness will come.

Here is where the self-talk comes into play: For so long, I told myself that I wouldn’t drink any alcohol because I “don’t need it,” and because “I don’t feel it’s appropriate” for my healthy lifestyle. I mean, if I say no to sugar in my food, how can I say “okay” to sugar in booze? It’s dishonest.

In other words, I didn’t drink because I shouldn’t drink, which really translated into something that sounded more like, “I CAN’T DRINK.”

Hmmm…

• I am lying to myself when I say it’s “not that bad,” because…it really is that bad.
• I am lying to myself when I say, “I can do whatever I want,” because I know that just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.
• I am lying to myself when I say I can’t, because ultimately, I know that I can.

Chalk it up to personal accountability and taking responsibility for my body. But, make no mistake: Drinking is a choice. It’s not a “don’t” or “can’t.” And that’s where the whole self-talk thing really comes into play. For a long time, I told myself something I knew wasn’t true. Just like a child, I said, “don’t tell me I can’t, because I can.” This weekend, I paid a price, and my self-respect took a hit.

The good news is, it’s only a wasted experience if I DON’T learn anything from it – and I have. Hey, if I have to shovel this much horse-poo, there’d better be a pony under here somewhere, right?

Okay, I know what you’re saying: But, Cari, where is the bigger lesson in all of this???

Here it is: If I CAN drink, but CHOOSE not to, then the same must hold true for FOOD. I CAN eat Oreos, cheap carbs and unhealthy foods, but I must CHOOSE not to because, doing so will compromise my personal values.

Phew..that is some heavy stuff…and I won’t say I’m “there yet” (because I’m not) but I am closer than I’ve ever been  – AND I believe I’ve made a breakthrough. I’m on my way.

Here’s the take-away? I am (finally) learning to hear what I’m actually saying, and learning to say what I actually mean.

How do you talk to yourself and what do you hear yourself saying? Do you have a “sliding scale” of acceptable things you put in your mouth? Do you tell yourself, “Hey, I don’t eat this, so I should be able to have a little of that…?” I’d love to hear the conversations you have with yourself, so leave me a comment and let me know.

When I was a young working girl, I had to dress up everyday for my job at the investment bank on the 22nd floor of a really tall building in downtown Los Angeles. I wore stockings, heels and suits, dresses or skirts. I never wore pants – it wasn’t acceptable, but that was fine, because my “butt-to-waist” ratio made it challenging to find a good fit anyway. Of course, in those days, spandex-enhanced pants were not really en vogue, (meaning there was no “give” or expansion to accommodate the spread). Needless to say, pants were uncomfortable.

Still…I did dress up. Every. Day. (And that really is the point of this blog).

To put this into proper perspective, I was not making a lot of money as a secretary, and, at that time anyway, Payless only sold tennis shoes, so I generally spent about $45 for a pair of shoes…That was a LOT of money, considering rent was $465!

Well, the other day, I was reminiscing about the “good old days” and remembered one of my VERY-MOST-FAVORITE-PAIR-OF-SHOES. Ever. They were taxi-cab yellow patent leather pumps with a sexy vamp and the perfect heel. Some people called them “school bus gold,” but that always mortified me, because it meant someone thought I was BIG…like a school bus.

Seriously. I thought that.

My shoes were way prettier than these, and they didn't have pointy toes, but these are for effect.

Anyway, I had two things that matched those shoes: One was a cute cotton dress with a matching fabric belt, (that I always thought made me look fat…isn’t that funny?) and the other was a sexy satin goldenrod yellow blouse that I wore with a black pencil skirt. But…those were the ONLY TWO THINGS that those shoes matched and, in those days, you didn’t go for a “POP” of color like you do now; you went for “MATCHY-MATCHY.”

They were a lot like these, only they weren't suede – they were shiny – and I don't recall ever standing on a sheepskin throw in mine.

BUT, back to the shoes. In reality, I must confess that they weren’t patent leather at all. They were pleather. That’s right: PLASTIC-LEATHER. And, they were tight. Incredibly tight. Incredibly, painfully tight. From the instant I put them on, until I took them off, they pinched my toes and hurt like nobody’s business. Yes, I bought them like that, and yes, they hurt in the store! Tragically, these stupid shoes hurt so much, I wasn’t even able to walk in them for the first hour. Fortunately, it would get better and eventually, my toes would fall asleep so the pain would localize, and I could wince my way quite convincingly through my day without anyone having the slightest hint that I was uncomfortable.

That’s what I did: I shimmied along in my über-sexy yellow plastic shoes and matching dress and acted is if I hadn’t a care in the world (because that’s what beautiful did. They ignored their discomfort.) Although…in retrospect, I cannot begin to understand HOW they tolerated the pain, except to say that they weren’t trying to balance 180 pounds on a 1/4″ diameter heel stud. Yeah, that was definitely how they did it.

Right about now, you’re asking, “What on EARTH could possibly have motivated you to spend money you didn’t have on shoes that didn’t fit in the store and weren’t going to stretch once you got them home?”

In a word? VANITY.

That’s right: VANITY.

I had always heard that you had to suffer for your beauty, so that’s what I did. Never mind those naysayers who warned me that I’d “pay the ultimate price later” when I was old (40) and couldn’t wear heels anymore. They told me I’d end up in sensible shoes…like nurses wear. And that I’d have bunions, calluses and misshapen feet.

But I DIDN’T CARE.

I wanted what I wanted — no matter the price.

What made me think it was okay to suffer in silence? Why did I think I needed to HURT for the sake of beauty? As I sit here today (in more comfortable, though much higher shoes), I wonder if it was the evil “over-compensation” at work. You know, the feeling that, since I was overweight, I had to pay the price by suffering. Perhaps I believed I wasn’t worth more, so I’d take what I could get and enjoy the compliments.

Or, maybe I just WANTED to fit in so desperately, it didn’t matter how extreme the consequences…

There might be something to that…after all it’s a skill I perfected in my obese years…the art of ignoring the consequences.

I wanted it, and that’s all that mattered.

Other people ate junk food; so did I.
Other people did whatever they wanted; so did I.
Who really cared?It was only LIFE…and I had so much more of it ahead of me, best to live it while I was young.

And here I am.
Older than 40.
Recovering from obesity and food addiction.
And still wearing high heels.

So, what changed?

Well, I think I finally figured out that I don’t have to overcompensate for my deficiencies anymore, because my goal is not perfection. I don’t have to suffer because I think it is expected of me, and I don’t have to wear shoes that pinch. (Unless I want to because they are so, darned sexy

The reality is, I am who I am, and life is too short to suffer and try to pretend I am someone that I’m not.

Why, if I had those shoes today, I’d proudly call them SCHOOL BUS YELLOW and not worry that someone might think I LOOK like a school bus in them!

What matters most?

Well…I think I’m gonna go with comfortable peace on this one. Yes, comfortable peace. That is the goal, and it doesn’t involve ill-fitting, taxi-cab yellow pumps or dresses that make me feel ugly.

Okay, I do miss those shoes.

Sometimes.

My binge addiction is like a teenager who parties when the parents are away for the weekend. You know how it goes, the parents leave and say, “Now, don’t have a bunch of people over and absolutely NO PARTIES.” And the teenager says, “I know. I won’t. Gosh, don’t you trust me?”

So, the parents leave (thinking they’ll have to learn to trust their teenager eventually) and the kid is thinking, “OMG, I thought they’d NEVER leave. Now, let me send a Facebook Group Invitation to all 1500 of my closest friends…”

What happens while the parents are away is not pretty and definitely does not fall under the heading of “good, clean fun.”

Nope, when the parents return (early, usually) they are met with a scene straight out of Animal House: There are pizza boxes strewn everywhere, Doritos crunched into the carpet, and those red plastic “SOLO” cups with stale beer on every piece of furniture in sight. There are bottles of flat Coke, empty chip bags and paper plates with orange grease spots on them.

OH. MY. GOD. WHAT. HAPPENED. HERE???!!!

One thing is certain: The parents were not at home when the eating orgy ensued, and they DEFINITELY did not get to ‘enjoy’ the festivities…BUT, THEY WILL HAVE TO CLEAN UP AFTER IT.

I know, I know…fellow parents are out there saying, “Oh no. I’M not cleaning ANYTHING up. My KID is gonna to do THAT.” But, we all know that the kid is passed out on the futon in the den, and besides, he’ll deny everything, blame everyone, and do a lousy job of putting things back in order.

But, that’s not all: That antique that’s been in the family for generations? Broken. And the couch cushions? Torn. The carpet? Stained. Nothing is going to be the way it was…but it has to be returned to some semblance of order.

So, why am I telling you about a “party-while-the-parents-are-away” weekend? Because my stubbornly recalcitrant binge addiction is a lot like that teenager: IT WANTS TO PARTY EVEN THOUGH I TELL IT NOT TO.

Guess who gets to “come home” to home to the carnage?

Guess who gets to stumble across chalk outlines (where the box of Zingers WAS), clean Oreo cookie crumbs off the counter, and tear down the yellow police tape blocking the refrigerator door?

You guessed it: ME.

Bingeing gets the party and I get the hangover.

My Party-Girl-Binger wants me to believe we’ve had good times – BUT WE HAVEN’T AND THE PARTY IS OVER. The bingeing teenager is officially GROUNDED, and it’s time for the adult to hire a “house sitter” (more like a therapist, trained in addiction and recovery), clear out the pantry, and get back to an OA meeting.

Can anyone else relate?

Here is a Little Life Lesson for Living a Happier Bariatric After Life™

I have always hated my legs; they just aren’t good looking.  Sadly, I was not one of those women whose legs stayed skinny and shapely while the rest of me got bigger. Okay, that’s not entirely true: I had an hourglass figure…but all the sand ran to the bottom.

Anyway, in this episode, I figured out that it’s not okay to decide that, just because *I* don’t like something, *no one* else can like it either. When you set up boundaries, and make rules about how someone can love you, the real loser is YOU.

When I was little, people told me that I should be an artist, an illustrator, or a cartoonist when I grew up. I heard this all the time (probably because I was ALWAYS DRAWING something) and besides, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea. Didn’t all of us imagine we would grow up to do something “fun” …that we’d make a living doing something we love? I grew up in the early 70′s when kids dreamt of becoming an astronaut, airline pilot, or even president. Boy, times have changed…

Anyway, I spent my formative years drawing, sketching and coloring on whatever paper I could find. During the school year, I’d draw pictures of couples (John + Anna, John + Donna, John + Somebody New…), and at the end of the school year, I’d “doodle” in people’s yearbooks.

I left my mark EVERYWHERE, and became well-known for my cartoons.

And then I started junior high, (which ran from 7th to 9th grade.) This was the first time art became more than just something I could do after lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was an actual “elective” that I could take, and I got to do it EVERY DAY! This was heaven for me, and I loved the idea of it all. Of course, we explored entirely new media — things like pen and ink, watercolors and clay. Unfortunately, I soon figured out that I had two problems:

1. I wasn’t very good at many of the new media, and
2. there was a girl named Julie P. who WAS.

Trust me, she was an incredibly gifted artist. Which only meant one thing: C-O-M-P-E-T-I-T-I-O-N.

Okay, so there was someone BETTER than I was at art.  Actually, she was SO much better, she was voted “Most Artistic” in the 9th grade popularity poll.

I came in second.

You know what they say, you don’t win the silver, you lose the gold. So, I did what any honest, self-discriminating person would do: I quit dreaming of becoming an artist. After all, everyone *else* was better, so why should I pursue a career at it?

Right about now, I can hear some of you saying, “What? Why did she quit art? Why would she do that? Why didn’t she learn from Julie P. (and any of the other artists who were better?) It’s true…that would have been the smart thing, I’ll give you that, but in those days, I had zero self-confidence and a fragile ego, so admitting that someone was BETTER at something carried a very high price tag. Unfortunately, that price tag turned out to be my entire creative self, because over the course of the next 8 years (until about the age of 20), I continued to run into people who were better.

I got turned down for VAPA (Visual & Performing Arts) program in high school, I got turned down for a scholarship to Art Center, and I got turned down for a promotion in the creative department at the ad agency where I worked. Never mind that I should have taken those rejections as opportunities to become better at my craft. Never mind that I could have asked talented and successful artists for help…Just never mind.

I took those rejections personally, and they became nails in my creative coffin.

Until…one day…I just…stopped drawing.

So, what was the lesson in that creative carnage? Well, it sort of came to me the other day, when I learned (for the umpteenth time) that my success as a post-op is viewed by some with scorn and jealousy. In other words, my success somehow translates into their failure. Are you noting the parallels here? The only real difference is, now, *I* am Julie P. and those people who don’t think they are “good enough” are ME! Unfortunately, this isn’t about crayons and paper — this is about life. This is about health, happiness and healing.

Of course, I can’t blame others for looking at me with derision – it’s a practiced art form for some of us; we compare ourselves to others, usually, unfavorably. I spent YEARS believing I didn’t measure up; I put myself on the losing end of the comparison.

WELL, not anymore. I no longer compare myself to others who are living a successful Bariatric After Life™ because I realize that we all have different gifts…talents…strengths…we are all different people who can bring a great deal of wisdom to the world, if we just BELIEVE IN OURSELVES.

Alright, I don’t expect to be voted “Most Fabulous” anytime soon (because, last time I checked, there were no Bariatric Yearbooks — LOL), but that’s okay. I know that I must share my talents with others and, wherever I come up short, must look to those who are MORE SUCCESSFUL to learn how THEY have succeeded!

So what if it took me forty years to figure it all out…I may be a SLOW learner, but I’m a GOOD learner, and this lesson has been well- learned: I didn’t ask Julie P. for tips on how to become a better artist, but that won’t stop me from asking others how to become a better ME.

Do you see yourself in this lesson? Have you judged yourself poorly against others who might have shed more weight after surgery, or been more physically active? Have you decided you are a failure because you don’t wear a certain size, haven’t run a 5K, or you struggle with bingeing?

If there’s one message I can give you, it’s this: LEARN FROM OTHERS.

Don’t quit because they succeed.
Succeed because they don’t quit!

Several weeks back, my good friend (and business partner), Dr. Connie Stapleton, posted something called: “If 10 People Say You Have a Tail, You’d Better Turn Around and Check.” I thought it was a brilliant metaphor and was really open to the fact that, should anyone ever tell ME that I had a tail, I’d take it in stride and not be the least bit hurt. Uh, yeah…not so much. Watch this video to see the lesson I learned when I found out that I HAVE A TAIL.