Forty two weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: 249
- Blood Sugar: 101
And THAT is one pound below goal weight. I’m obviously thrilled by this, it genuinely feels like an amazing accomplishment, but I’m not doing the metaphorical cartwheels I’d expected to be doing, and I think one of the reasons for that is because I decided a month or two ago, what my second goal would be, and I think it just shifted in my mind from second goal, to goal.
Whatever though, this feels good.
The new goal is 235 by the way. At 235, I’ll have officially lost half my body weight (from when this all started, in January of 2016, NOT from my heaviest…I’m already half the size I was from then), and it’d be cool to say I lost half my body weight. Above and beyond the cool points though, is the whole BMI thing. To get down to a healthy BMI, I need to hit either 238 or 237, I forget. So, fuck it, if I can get to there – and I can – then I can get to 235.
And I know BMI isn’t necessarily the best measurement of health, but I want to at least get to a healthy BMI, and then if it goes back up, I’d like like that to be from whatever muscle I can put on through working out.
Also…I’m not going to get into the politics of this shit, but as I sit here typing this, from my particular perspective of 42 weeks post-op, nearly four and a half years of classes, hard work, challenges, setbacks, and support groups – nearly four and a half years of busting my ass to improve my health – it’s impossible not to cringe at the monstrous stupidity of my fellow Americans who are gathering in huge crowds (in the middle of a fucking pandemic) to protest for their right to expose themselves to a deadly disease. I can only shake my head in disbelief at the callousness of prioritizing economic interests over the interests of good health and public safety. And I know this will fall on deaf ears, but I’m going to say it anyway:
Fuck every last one of you.
I’m happy, obviously. When I don’t read the news.
Here, have a graphic:
