Fifty two weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: 2??
- Blood Sugar: ???
I had surgery one year ago. Almost. Technically, my “surgiversary” (I love language and all the fun things you can do with it, but I kind of hate adorable word mashups, so I’m conflicted in even using this term) is in two days, and if I remember, I might write something on that day to make a note of it. But I might not. You’ll notice the numbers above are a bit vague. Last time I did that, it was New Year’s Day, and Annette and I were on vacation. We’ve been lucky enough to get the chance to spend some time on a farm with her brother’s family in Northern Washington state. She’s still on summer break, I’m teaching online, we were able to find someone to take care of our house while we’re gone, and when life gives you these rare opportunities, you take them.
Right now I’m hanging out in “the little house” on this farm (which is just a normal-sized house, but smaller than the main house), and I’m writing this while being neglected by students for my office hour on Zoom.
In the last two days we’ve driven a bajillion miles, but it feels like twice that. I had no idea how painful it was to sit on everything for normal-sized people. My ass has diminished to bone and nerve endings, and even nice, cushioned chairs are painful after a while. I’m wondering if this is a low-key conspiracy to keep me active and keep the weight off. If so, well done to whoever thought it up (you monstrous prick).
Anyway, I thought about packing the scale, because we’re honestly not sure how long we’ll be gone, but I drive a tiny little Fisher Price car, and space is limited. We needed the ice chest filled with healthy food, because fuck fast food. We needed the three bags of clothing, vitamins, and toiletries because we didn’t feel like being naked, screwing up our health, or smelling like ass. We needed the bag of dog food because we’re not dicks. We did not need the scale. Weighing ourselves is not a necessity, and I’m not going to expand my borderline obsessive compulsive tendencies to include a scale so I can weigh myself when I’m not at home.
When a vacation requires that you pack enough luggage that you might be mistaken for Queen Victoria on Safari, it’s no longer a vacation.
So I’m going to log my calories on my phone, I’m going to keep active, and I’m going to enjoy my time with my family and the friends I hope to see while I’m up here, because – and I’ll keep reminding myself of this until I no longer have to – the point of having the surgery was to give myself a better life.
I’m happy. I’m feeling amazing, I’m eating well, I’m surrounded by nephews, the dogs are slowly getting used to the sounds of the farm, and I’m lucky enough to still be earning a living in the middle of the Covid-19 shit storm. I am incredibly privileged. Incredibly lucky.
Here, have a graphic:
