By the numbers

Although I am fourth-generation fat, my personal fat bomb didn't explode until my late 20s when the combination of a full hysterectomy and steroid treatment -- combined with my lifelong love of pizza, bread, and cheese -- filled out another thick bough on the family tree.
My version of SuperFat could only be temporarily stifled by trainers, support groups, meal programs and every diet craze of the last 25 years. SuperFat would insidiously allow small victories only to crush them with renewed conquering force.  When my closet stubbornly settled into the 2x, big-girl, fashion-by-polyester-potato-sack range, I spent a couple years with my good friend Denial.
After seven years of homework and a couple dozen more futile attempts at weight normalcy, I made my move March 3, 2014 and had 85 percent of my stomach removed in favor of three staples creating a Vertical Gastric Sleeve. My stomach pouch is currently slightly larger than a chicken's egg.
There were several other abdominal repairs at the time of the surgery that allowed me greater movement and less pain almost immediately. I kicked myself for not getting the surgeries earlier. Then The Sleeve started kicking back.
This blog will cover my journey to make peace with food, my body and myself (and to separate the tangled mess those three things are for me).
I spent the first and best years of my career as a daily newspaper reporter. The dark side (corporate communications and marketing)  paid much better.  I was fortunate to work for and with some truly good people (and a few vainglorious SOBs).
This is a no-spin space. I'm going back to my roots to "tell it like it is," even when it isn't that great.
Let's start with the worst of it. At the time I started my pre-surgery diet I weighed 275, more than most of the Houston Texans offensive line with none of their muscle or speed.  My Body Mass Index of 41 qualified me as "morbidly obese" and a candidate for surgery. It didn't matter that I could still get into a lotus position or walked faster than anyone else in my family -- if a health insurance company is willing to spend about $20,000 on fixing you it means you are not overweight -- you are diseased.
Obesity is a disease and surgery does not cure it. It will, providing I stay with the whole plan, push it into remission. Keeping it there is up to me.
I've heard and read the admonishments to only weigh yourself weekly -- that it isn't about the numbers but how you feel. I feel like I need those numbers. This morning the scale said 229.  My BMI of 34 takes "morbidly" off the table so I am just garden variety "obese." Another 30 pounds and I will be simply "overweight."
Dare to dream.