On my last trip to the library, I picked up a few books. When my oldest daughter saw my selections,she was a bit surprised. The books were: Fat Girl (a memoir), The Fat Girl (an old YA book from the 80s) and a fiction novel titled Beautiful Bodies.

I have tried to read Beautiful Bodies, and I am not liking it. It is supposed to be about six friends having a dinner party and talking, but the first few chapters are each of the characters time before arriving at the party, and it is boring. Very boring. I don’t think I’m going to read anymore. This is progress. I used to keep reading books that didn’t appeal to me.

I haven’t read the YA book yet (or tried), but I did read the memoir Fat Girl by Judith Moore. This is a  book that I have thought about buying more than once, but I didn’t because it is a tiny book and expensive by comparison.

It is also a depressing book. I didn’t learn anything interesting or different about fat issues. There was a lot of self-loathing, and I forced myself to finish it. One review called the book “breathtaking,” but I didn’t get that at all.

One book that I did like recently, and I liked it because it offered a new perspective as well as lots of good stuff about weight — Life in the Fat Lane by Cherie Bennett. It is a YA book. It really makes you think, I think. Or at least it did me.

And that’s my review. I am going to avoid weight-related reading for a bit. Next on my reading list: Peace Like a River by Leif Enger.

or more evidence that I have actually lost weight….

I have lost between 35 to 40 pounds, and I have about 60 pounds that I still want to lose, but I am already noticing the impact my weight loss has had. As I mentioned earlier this week, my clothes are looser and sometimes too loose.

But I think the thing I noticed the most is that I am no longer invisible.

When I weigh a certain amount, I become invisible to most of the male species on the planet. As I go about my day, males look through me or around me but not at me. I don’t mind this since I tend not to notice them either no matter what they weigh. I’m just not looking.

But since I’ve dropped 40 pounds and managed to keep my D-cup breasts, I am no longer invisible. I am getting second glances from men I pass. More often than not, I will also get a smile, a wave, a hello, or some other line. I tend to still not be looking, and I end up startled as a stranger says something to me as I’m lost in thought, or I notice the person I am not really looking at is smiling at me and saying hello. I panic momentarily wondering if I know this person, but I usually don’t. This has happened more to me in the last month than it has in the last two years.

And I wonder is it because I feel better about myself and it shows, or is it because I am invisible when I weigh over a certain amount, and I am no longer invisible. I’m not sure. I just know it is happening now, and it wasn’t then.

It has finally warmed up in northern Michigan and in response I have pulled out my shorts, capris, and various summer clothes. And just like the last two years, I did not fit into the clothes that I pulled out.

But this year, it was because the clothes I pulled out were too big.

I pulled on one pair of shorts that I wore a lot last year, and I knew I would no longer be able to wear them. The room at the waist was more than five inches. Even a belt wouldn’t help.

I also added new holes in my belt because it needed it again.

Although I hate shopping, I find that Iam a lot less resentful when I am buying new clothes because my old ones are too big. Woohoo!

My arms are sore and my shoulders ache. My entire upper body is sore. I spent about three hours raking bark and sawdust from our yard today.

We burn wood at our home, and we bought 10 pulp wood cords a little over a year ago. It arrives as logs in a very high pile. We are now down to less than a third. We’ve been burning it throughout the winter, and it made a mess in our side yard. This is one of the warmest days, and so we brought more wood into the garage, and I began cleaning up the yard. It is a huge process and even after several hours of work, it isn’t close to being done.

It feels good though, but it probably won’t tomorrow. I even have a blister on my thumb from holding the rake.

When I was very young, my dad was a chain smoker, and he drank alcohol daily. I learned to play pool at the age of 8 in the Moose Lodge while my dad drank and smoked at the bar, and my mom watched over me at a nearby table. I knew enough to ask the barmaid or the red-painted quarters to put in the jukebox.

When I was a young teenager, my dad gave up smoking and drinking. He did this by going cold turkey. It worked. I remember he made a bet with my brother-in-law, and my brother-in-law wasn’t able to successfully quit smoking, but my dad did.

He was able to control his addictions to alcohol and nicotine by severing them. I don’t know if the phantom foot of his addictions ever itched, but I do know he never scratched.

After years of being alcohol-free, a doctor suggested to my dad that a shot of whiskey a day would be good for his heart. My dad responded that he had never been able to drink just one.

But you can’t go cold turkey with food.

My dad enjoyed good food. He savored the flavors. He would eat things I would never even consider like frog legs. We would drive for miles to eat in a restaurant in Luzurne that had an all-you-can-eat froglegs buffet on Friday nights. My dad would object when I would order a hamburger and fries. “Get something you don’t eat at home,” he would tell me. I would order the salad bar, and I would delight in the wide range of choices.

The salad bar wasn’t what my dad meant.

When we lived in Florida, we’d sit in a restaurant on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and my parents would eat fresh seafood. I would refuse to try the shrimp. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. I was feeling a little adventurous.

Today, I read several poems that talked about cooking. One, in particular, sounded almost pornographic as the author described pouring the oil in the pan and searing the whatever it was she was searing. What is searing anyway? The description of the eating became even more vivid with flavors bursting.

And I realize I am missing something. I do not talk about or think about food this way. It is not a sensual experience for me.

I have a friend who can get very animated and offer detail after detail as she describes how she cooks something. I cannot comprehend her culinary comments.

I eat because I’m hungry, or people around me or eating. If left on my own, I would forget to eat. I do not enjoy cooking. I enjoy socializing more than eating when I dine out. Eating is something I have to do.

When I do get a hankering for something, it is usually pretty tame. The other night I wanted something to drink with a bit of a kick. I was upset we were out of orange juice because it would have been perfect. Just a plain glass of orange juice.

When I cook, I rarely add spices. I never add salt to my food. If I use ketchup to eat my fries, the fries weren’t that very good to begin with. I prefer my hot dogs plain.

So if I am not obsessed with food, and my taste buds are fairly bland, how did I end up overweight to begin with?

I’ve been reading Teenage Waistland, which is part memoir and part a guide for parents of fat kids on what not to do. Except it seems anything a parent does is a don’t when it comes to a child’s weight. The author, who doesn’t have kids of her own, isn’t very gracious when she comes to analyzing the role parents have in a child’s weight.

Still the issues addressed in this book are part of what started me writing about weight and being a fat man’s daughter in the first place.  How do I talk to my children about weight? How can I teach them about healthy portions without knowing healthy portions? How can I discuss being concerned about weight without making them overly concerned about weight?

Is my obsession with exploring this issue going to drive my own children into anorexia, bulimia or obesity?

Or will someone else’s thoughtless comment going to do it for me?

I’m 36 years old, and I still remember a trip to Houston to visit my sister and her husband. My sister had cable and more importantly she had MTV. I was a teenager surrounded by toddlers and adults and a television that offered music videos and more channels than I had seen in my life. I spent some quality time sitting on their couch watching my very first videos. This prompted her husband to make a comment about my weight. It was probably 20 years ago, and I still remember how embarrassed I felt. It was the first time someone had ever commented on my weight. And I was not fat. I wasn’t even close, but I remember the hot cheeks and shame that I felt with his words.

Last Sunday was Easter, and we were all sitting around the table. Dinner was over, and we were playing cards. My oldest daughter was sitting across from me, next to her aunt. Her aunt is obese. She is almost as wide as she is tall. She needs surgery on her knee, but she can’t have it until she loses weight. She doesn’t look like she’s lost any weight lately.

Sitting next to me is my father-in-law. My daughter grabs something to snack on, and my father-in-law made a comment. I don’t remember what my daughter was eating or father-in-law said. I just know it was a comment about my daughter’s weight, as if her weight was a problem.  I think the same thing prompted my father-in-law that prompted my brother-in-law so many years before — someone very obese was in the house and the comment was meant as a preventative measure. But 20 years have gone by, and I didn’t hesitate as I smacked my father-in-law on the arm and let him know that his comment was not appropriate. I’m not sure if my daughter heard him, a comment my mother-in-law made, and I’m not completely sure my father-in-law understood my objection. I’m not sure I did either.

I was horrified his comment was heard by my daughter and would be internalized when it shouldn’t be. I was horrified his comment was heard by my sister-in-law and would sting with pain and truth. I was hurt that people’s words can be so painful.

The other day my daughter was ill, and I picked her up from school. I was on my way to a job, and she came with me. While she waited for me, she bought four candy bars from the vending machine. Two for her and two for me. I didn’t know about the third and fourth one. I ate part of the first candy bar she offered me. I declined the second one. IN less than two hours, my daughter had eaten all of the candy.

As we drove home, I talked about it. I didn’t say it was wrong. I talked about it in terms of calories and portions and eating habits. I noted it wasn’t something you should do frequently. And I had her read the calories on the wrapper, and I mentioned how many calories a typical day should include. I tried not to make her feel bad. I emphasized she isn’t overweight. I don’t want to make her obsessed, but I do want her to know things I didn’t know about portions and exercise.

I was not an overweight child. I was thin most of my life. I didn’t have a weight problem until I became pregnant. I was pregnant and/or breastfeeding for seven years. I lost the weight, and I took a job that left me little time to exercise. I gained weight. I gained the most weight in 2006. I’ve since lost it, but I am still overweight/obese.

Monday, my husband and I talked to an insurance guy about life insurance. The insurance guy didn’t hesitate to ask my husband his weight. He hesitated before he asked me, but I didn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m obese,” I said. And here I fudged my height, saying, “I’m 5′8 and 211.” I actually hover somewhere between 5′7 and 5′8, but I hadn’t fudged on saying I was obese or my weight, so I will let the fraction of an inch slide for the moment.

The next day, my husband and I were talking about the insurance. He shakes his head as he recalls my response. “Obese,” he said. His head shaking from side to side in denial. I’m not obese, he thinks.

I am. I want my children to know what a healthy weight is and what a normal weight body looks like. My children are in the normal range. The oldest weighs more than her great-grandma did at the great-grandma’s wedding. I know this because the great-grandma told me so when she learned how much my daughter weighs. My daughter is also several inches taller than hr great-grandma, and her weight and height fall in the middle of the “normal” range on the BMI scale - 21.6.

What does it say about me that I’ve checked?

It was on an envelope. A few quick lines. I wrote it while stopped at a traffic light, and I used my steering wheel as a table. I didn’t want to forget. It was an entire passage of thoughts, a new room, that I wanted to explore as I continue to write my memoir. I needed to record it, so I wouldn’t forget. I remember writing on the envelope. I remember recording an important thought.

I can’t find the envelope. I don’t remember what I wrote. I just remember writing….

I have not yet given up hope the envelope is gone. There is a pile of paper I brought in from my car Saturday, and the envelope is probably in the pile.

I just wrote it Friday morning. It can’t be lost yet. Can it?

***

I was reading the memoir, Three Dog Life, and there was a passage about memory that I really liked. I want to record it, so I remember. This passage has nothing to do with the envelope, other than both have to do with memory….

And this passage struck me because it addresses something I’ve wondered about — how my memories in written form impact other people.

“Six months ago a friend was angry with me and I with her. I had written something someone said years ago, but it was she who heard the words, not me, a fact I had completely forgotten. Her experience was precious, and she accused me of stealing her memory. Not only that, but what she remembered with grief I had somehow transmuted to gratitude, so besides stealing her memory, I also got it wrong. We argued, but there was no meeting place. For days the same questions went through my head. Is memory property? If two people remember something differently is one of them wrong? Wasn’t my memory of a memory also real? There were no solid answers, just winding paths I went round and round on. I thought of nothing else; a chasm had opened between me and my friend.

“When I went to see Rich that Thursday, the first thing he said was, “Please forgive the selfishness of an old man who seizes the past for his own.” He paused, but I was already listening closely. This sounded oddly like what I’d been thinking about” (Thomas 129-130).

There’s more, but I have class.

Thomas, Abigail. Three Dog Life. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 2007.

That is a great number, and it is not because I am going to be 37 this year.

That is the number of pounds I have lost since January 2007, which is when I weighed my highest ever (except pregnancy).

To meet my goal weight, I still have to lose another 53 pounds.

However, I must say that the 37 pounds I have lost so far are the ones that seem to make me feel less like a fat person and more like me.

I have my face back with my own cheekbones. My thighs and waist are inches smaller. I had to buy a new belt because my old belt was too big even at the smallest notch. Prior to the weight loss, I used the belt at the largest notch. That is a difference of about four inches or more. With my new belt, I am still using the smallest notch. I thought when I bought it, I would have a few notches to go, but I was wrong.

I now have to wear a belt because my pants are too big and show off too much of my lower back/butt if I fail to wear one. My children thank me for this.

I am also happy because I have noticed weight loss in my hands, face, thighs and butt, but I have not yet noticed anything missing where women normally lose weight first — their breasts. I’d like to keep what I have there thank-you-very-much.

I think I gained about 40 pounds when I was attending grad school in 2006. I know I now weigh less than I did in March 2006.

Although the weight guidelines indicate I should lose another 53 pounds, I am focused now on losing 14 pounds. And then maybe another 10. At that point, I will be thrilled, and I think I won’t claim to be fat anymore.

This is a huge thing. To emphasize how big of a thing this is, I have to let you know where I was in September 2007.

I signed up in September to attend an informational seminar about weight-loss surgery. It would cost $25 just to listen, and I was considering getting a lapband surgery. I felt like that was my only option. To even be considered for weight-loss surgery, you have to weigh about 100 pounds over your normal weight and have a BMI of 40 or more.

In September, my BMI was 38.7, and I was thinking it would be easier to gain 20 pounds to qualify than lose the weight on my own. I know this is NOT the way to think about weight loss, but I was frustrated. I had been trying to lose weight for most of 2007. I had initial success and then nothing, and I was very discouraged.

Right now, my BMI is still in the obese range, but I am so much better. It is currently 33.4 based on a height of 5′7. (You can do the math and figure out I currently weigh 213.)
For a woman who is 5′7 (I am slightly taller but not quite 5′8), the high of a normal BMI is 24.9 means weighing no more than 159 pounds. At 5′8, a BMI of 24.9 means a weight of 164 maximum.

My goal right now? I want to be under 200 pounds by May/June.

I think I learned how important motivation (or the lack of it) can be in weight loss. It can be horrible to work hard and not see any results. It made me want to give up. The lapband really appealed to me because it could be adjusted in the future.

I read weight loss blogs like Half of Me, and I read about the person not only losing weight but changing their lifestyle so they are competing in marathons. I am not a marathon kind of gal. I do not see the appeal in running. I like walking, but running does not have an appeal and not just because of my lovely right ankle and all of its scarring and issues.

I can do walking. I can even incorporate regular exercise, but I have no interest in marathons and/or classes like aerobics. I can’t imagine that changing. But who knows what I’ll think tomorrow. Just last September I considered (briefly) gaining 20 pounds to take the “easy” way out…. (Obviously, I know weight loss surgery is not an easy decision. I was commenting more on my thought process than the reality of surgery.)

Earlier this week I was reading Big Boned by Meg Cabot, which is part of a mystery series about an ex-rock singer named Heather who is slightly overweight (aka big boned). In the book, Heather is at the home of a college student talking to the student’s mother who admits she doesn’t get her daughter because her daughter is not a size 8 like the mom and other sister. (Seriously.) And there all kinds of things wrong with that sort of outlook on life, but it also reminded me of my relationship with my mom.

When I was young, (and skinny), my mom would tell me I didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.

Now, I am not skinny, and my mom no longer makes the bird comment. She has other comments, and the comments COULD hurt, but I have never let them because I understand. Plus, sometimes her comments come back to bite her.

For instance, in December, I was talking to my mom on the phone. She mentioned she had received her Christmas present from my older sister, Kari. The conversation went something like this:

Mom: Kari must think I’m huge. She bought me size 20 pants, and they are just too big.

Linda: (I have no idea what I said, but I think I asked if she tried them on. Isn’t it convenient how I remember her words and not mine?)

Mom:  They are huge. Maybe they will fit you.

*Crickets*

Linda: (while laughing) They are huge, and so maybe they will fit me? What exactly are you trying to say, Mom?

Mom: I didn’t mean it like that.

Linda: Oh? How did you mean it? That I’m huge and you aren’t? That I’m bigger than you? That I am fat?

Mom: (changes subject)

Fast-forward a few days to the Denton family Christmas with my brother and his family, my family and my mom.

Linda: Mom, you look nice. I like that outfit.

Mom: It’s my Christmas present from Kari.

Linda: Oh? You mean those are the huge pants? The ones you’ll swim in, but they might fit me?
And then I precede to tell my brother all about my mom’s inappropriate comments while totally harassing my mom because the size 20 pants fit her. And we both have fun harassing her. Poor Mom.

And she totally deserves it because her and Kari do not have thunder thighs. I think they would be considered apple shaped when I am definitely a pear. They have very tiny legs, but I inherited much meatier legs. It is not fair. I wanted the skinny thighs, but I don’t have the varicose veins my mom has either, so I guess I will just have to deal with it.

Long before I started dieting, I monitored my weight by my clothing; more specifically how my clothing fit (or didn’t).

About a month ago, I had to throw away several pairs of jeans because they all had the same problem — the cloth in the inner thigh area had worn through so much that holes had started to form. For some of the jeans, it was just a small hole barely visible. On others, it was a gaping hole.

As a result, I inspected every pair of jeans I owned and several other pants as well. Almost all of them showed signs of wear in the inner thigh area from the continual rubbing of my thighs as I move throughout my day. Everything else about the jeans were in like-new condition, but the thigh areas were worn thin. I was forced to throw away almost every pair of jeans I owned.

The only pants that didn’t show wear in the thigh area were my fat pants — a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans that I had purchased at a deep discount. Even when I purchased the pants, they were a little big on me, but I couldn’t pass up the deal. Plus, they weren’t that big. They were my size but the “tall” version, which meant the longer than normal legs fit me differently than most of my jeans. At 5′7″, I’m at the lower end of the “tall” range.

The first time I wore the jeans, my husband commented on them. He didn’t like them because they made my butt look larger than it really is. The loose fit and poor butt display made these jeans become my work jeans. When I had to do something that required a lot of lower body movement, I would wear these jeans. They worked well while snowmobiling, any major cleaning and home improvement projects.

So many times I went to my dresser drawer and pulled out pants that no longer fit me, but these jeans always went on. They were my fall-back pair when nothing else was available. If I had a lazy day of hanging out at home, I pulled on these jeans. The loose fit may not have showcased my butt very well, but they were comfortable to wear. I never had to tug them up to cover my butt crack or worry about straining the seams if I bent down to pick something up off the floor.

Every time I wore the jeans, my husband mentioned how poorly they displayed my rear end. He didn’t like them at all, but I continued to wear them.

They were the jeans I grabbed when nothing else wanted to fit. These were the jeans I could pull on no matter how I felt or how bloated and fat I was that day.

Yesterday, I threw away my fat jeans.

It was a big move for me, and I wasn’t sure at first that I should do it. After throwing away so many pants last month, my clothing options are limited as it is. It is not an easy decision to toss a pair of jeans that are in good condition.

I wore the jeans yesterday. It was a hanging around the house day, and I pulled the jeans on because it didn’t matter what I looked like. The jeans, however, are now too big.

My hips have always been bigger than my waist by several inches. It means most of my pants are tight in the hip area and have a small gap at my waist. But yesterday, my fat pants were just too big. The waist band’s gap was huge. I could pull on the outer thigh area and pull the pants off despite them being fastened. It involved a little bit of a single hip wiggle to the right when the pants began to go over my larger hips, but it could be done without a lot of effort.

According to the scale, my weight loss effort is only 25 percent complete, but throwing away my fat pants is a major deal. So much so that I decided to take a photo to document my achievement to date:

According to the tag on the jeans, they are a size 20 and “classic fit.” I don’t see anything to indicate they were “tall” although there is a “inseam-r” on the label, but I have no idea what that means.
Yesterday, while wearing my fat pants, I went to a local store and tried on various pants. For the last six months, I have been wearing a size 20 jeans, but that is misleading. I had refused to buy jeans larger than a size 20, but at times, I couldn’t make a size 20 fit and size 22, after being used to my tight-fitting size 20, felt huge the few times I tried them on. I usually opted for the smaller, tighter size, but it was something I had to decide on a case by case basis.

Yesterday, in the dressing room, getting a full-length view of me in my fat pants is when I really decided it was time to get rid of them. I never want to fit into them again, and it is clear they no longer fit. It was time to let them go.

My results in the dressing room were mixed. I could fit into some size 18 jeans but not all. The cut and brand played a major part in the deciding factor. If the fit was relaxed or classic, size 18 fits. Anything else is iffy.

One thing I learned in the dressing room yesterday — pay close attention to the labels. I mistakenly picked up a pair of size 18 “misses” jeans, and I didn’t realize it until I went to try them on. I am not a “misses” by any means. I also need to avoid “juniors” labels. It just isn’t good for the ego.

Last night my husband asked me a couple of times where I had been yesterday afternoon. I told him I was shopping, but I didn’t try to explain why my shopping trip took so long despite bringing home just a few items. It’s hard to explain that I was size-shopping, which is sort of like window-shopping. There is no intent to actually buy anything, but you have to know where you stand in the changing world of women’s sizes.