(Yes, Spellcheck, I know ‘feeled’ is not a word.) Feeled. The emphasis on feeled was funny to me and I actually said this phrase out loud to Steve as I was describing something.
I was describing a student that I had during summer school over the past month. For him, All the feels are feeled. Someone stepped on his finger, holy mother of God, you would have thought a piano was falling from the sky. In his ramp design he made with a friend, you’d have thought he’d won the Gold Medal at the Olympics. Excessive talking and gettin’ the stern look and scolding from Mrs. Guiles, head hung in shame like Eeyore. Even though I only had him for 4 weeks, I loved this kid. Full of life and feeling. Most of the time, his excitement was magnetic (other times it was a little annoying) but mostly, just contagious. <<insert Jack Black’s voice from Nacho Libre >>”Dude, we DO have good imaginations! We’re good.” I overheard him say that. So adorable. This made me have all the feels.
Summer school was a joy. I’m reflecting on why I loved teaching so much this summer. It was hearkening back to the days when I walked into my classroom for the first time and felt all the feels. I was nervous, excited, full of wonder and anticipation and couldn’t wait to teach the next day. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Why was it different this time versus how I’ve felt over the past 10 years of teaching? Because I had a choice. I was able to choose what I wanted to teach. I was able to draw on students’ interests and strengths. I was able to let children dictate the learning. I was able to come up with wild ideas and go with them. We made paper airplanes and measured the distance. We made catapults, boat rafts, towers out of straws and masking tape, marble mazes, houses for the three little pigs, a parachute for Jack (from Jack and the Beanstalk), hoop glider races, marshmallow tubes, experiments using chicken bones, eggs, and toe cheese.(Yes, that’s what I said, toe cheese, not to my students, but to you, just to gross you out. Turns out there is a lot of bacteria on your feet.)
And oh the art, we did! Designing clay figurines, resist using oil pastels, chalk pastel art, and slime made from glue and borax. Green-screening and computer programming using Scratch and Lightbot were an added bonus. I kept those kids so busy, most decided that for their last day, they’d like to watch how-to drawing videos on Youtube
and just draw or make paper airplanes. Creating was our language. I was like a kid in a candy store and so were they. (They are kids, I’m clearly not. But I sure felt like it again.)
There’s something I learned long ago but was reinforced fully this month. Perseverance can’t just be taught from a lecture, it has to be experienced. In many of the design tasks, we talked about variables and used vocabulary in context. Students rose to the challenge and worked together to meet the expectations. They talked A LOT and learned how to communicate better. (Except for that time when one student said, “Have you seen Austin Powers?” in the middle of the group work session, and the other student responded, “What the hell is Austin Powers?” Yes, I was video taping during that particular sequence and had to stop the video and have a little chat with “What the hell?” kid.) That aside, building on natural curiosity is a gift. I’m going to build more of this into my classroom next year.
As the students went outside to test their airplanes, they’d say, “Permission to test” and I’d say, “Permission granted.” Because. it. was. fun. Fun and school shouldn’t be an oxymoron. This is what children will remember about school, that time when their teacher opened the plastic wrap off the chicken bones that had been soaking in Coke and milk for 6 days. (Yeah, that time, when she almost barfed the smell was so overpowering. I was takin’ one for the team that day. The experiment was called Lazy Bones, but I think I’m going to rename it, Stinky Bones. Ew.)
Me: Shark Fin! Class call back: Shark Fin-Oooh-Ha-Ha! Think Finding Nemo. Best attention grabber ever. The kids loved using their native tribe low chanting voices as they responded.
I overheard one student say, as we were walking out during that last week, “I’m going to miss Mrs. Guiles. I’m going to miss this class and everybody.” **Teary.** This is the way school should be. Building community and a love of learning.
That is all. All the feels were feeled this month. All the feels.
Until next Friday. Love you loves.
Gastric Bypass update:
So far I’ve made it to 10,000 steps several days over the past few weeks by going to Raging Waters and walking the Lazy River. Turns out, one lap is 400 steps, in case you were wondering.
I like this word. We all have quirkages. (I think it’s my own creation.) I avoid conflict. I realized something weird today when I was at Walmart. (Yes, I shop there, go ahead and judge me. I know where most things are. Dairy section, pet food, etc.) Anyway, I don’t like saying ‘Excuse me’ when people are blocking the aisle, so I change course and walk around them to the closest detour aisle. Is that weird? It’s a quirk. I don’t like putting anyone out, even if it means having them move over a few inches in an aisle at Walmart. (Weird, huh?)
Here are my things:
I have to peel the labels off of any project I buy. You know, those sticky labels that are on practically every plastic item? I can’t hang with that staying on the plastic…I…must…peel..it…off… (If it won’t come off all the way, I have Goo Gone, which will take off the remaining sticky residue. For your information.)
I’m a water snob, because water isn’t supposed to have a taste. So, we have earthquake proportions of water. Not because there might be an earthquake, but because I’m too busy to change the Arrowhead automatic seven 5-gallon-a-month order. (It’s on my To Do list.)
Oh my, ball sac hanging from trucks, (yeah, you heard that right) because it’s never a mini van or sports car, it’s a truck usually with raised tires. (Really, do we need this in the world, really?) Somehow men who have raised trucks have to reinforce their ball-sackage size by hanging them on the end of their vehicle? How does this make sense? If you do this on your truck, please explain, ladies. Lol.
Drivers that drive the speed limit…in the fast lane & then breaking? Why? You don’t need to break when you get into the next lane…FYI, you don’t need to break when changing lanes, it’s not a thing. Stop it. You’re making 1/2 of the drivers in California CRAZY with this habit. Stop breaking when you change lanes!
Strolling folks that take up the entire walkway. You’ve seen this, a 6 foot wide walkway, occupied by 4 pedestrians horizontally takin’ their time as I’m trying to rush to an event or an appointment.
Butts hanging out of shorts, I’m not a big fan of this. It seems like, well, a willful attempt at attracting male attention, whilst the butt checks are sayin’ “Helllllooo Look at Me!” Really, this is it? This is attractive? I know, yes, some think so, but I just find it annoying. Daisy Dukes, c’mon. Why? I know on some level why. But, Butt?
Whiny children, whiny is banned in my house and classroom. Children will stop this immediately if it’s not reinforced. Go on a Whiny Children Ban like I have. It works. You’ll thank me.
Aversion to making phone calls: I’ve had a phone call on my To Do list for about 4 weeks. Does anyone else do this? I procrastinate from making that important phone call because I don’t want to get stuck in a long conversation. I procrastinate calling family members especially, because I don’t want to have a 30 minute awkwardly paused and paced conversation. I’m awkward on the phone. I’m really not, but I FEEL that way, so that’s why I wait until the very last minute to make important phone calls to relatives. Given the age gap, texting is not as acceptable. So I give in and let them hear my voice…eventually.
ABCDF cups in bras. Yes, we all know this is a thing, and the higher the cup the more prestige. ABCDF in school, the higher you go, the dumber you are. How does this make sense? Who set up these grading systems? Just sayin’. “Oh, I’ve got a D. Cup size. Oh, I’ve got a D. Grade in English.” Totally opposite meanings. Very different reactions. One is acceptable, the other, not so much.
Raging Waters: The Home of the Burnt Boobs, Butts, Backs, and Bellies, where you go to have a good time. (Until you get home and realize you’re in a world of hurt.) Yeah, pretty much, people need to learn how to follow the sunscreen directions. It ain’t pretty people. The patchy sunburns have scarred my eyes this summer. REAPPLY! You will thank me later.
In closing, my kids’ CAASPP (California Assessment of Student Performance and Progress) scores came in the mail this week. There are three categories: Below Standard, Near Standard, and Above Standard. We received these test results in the mail and I kinda freaked. I immediately had like a fit, not because of my children’s test results, but because I know my students’ test results are going to be received by their parents. It’s so hard to feel responsible for the test scores of SCORES of children who grow up in different families with a variety of circumstances and realize that it’s up to their teacher to help them get to ‘Above Standard’. I freaked because during the CST phase we were considered a low performing school (thank God that’s over), at the school I’ve been teaching at for over 14 years. When I think of being evaluated as a teacher, based on this high stakes testing criteria, I start to panic. I feel like I have PTSD. Today I actually cried thinking about going backwards to the days of CSTs and us, as teachers, having to prove our worth based on how our students performed. It makes me angry and fearful of the unknown in the new CAASPP environment.
So, there you go…Quirkages, Pet Peeves and State Testing. These seemed to go together. Tell me about your quirkages. I’d love to hear that I’m not alone.
Until next Friday. Love you loves.
Gastric Bypass Update:
I broke down and bought a Fitbit Charge HR this week. Tracking my walking is good. It’s hard to get a lot of walking in when it’s 100 degrees. Walking at the Lazy River at Raging Waters, that I can do. So I made it 10,000 steps one day this week. 1 out of 7, not so bad. 🙂 It’s a start.
Tell Me I’m Fat is podcast I listened to recently on This American Life. I’ve felt these women’s emotions deeply. This post is a reaction to listening to this post.
This episode was brave and unrelenting. If you can make the time, listen to the whole thing because chances are, you’ll relate to many parts of this podcast too. Most of this post is the real and raw transcripts of women and their weight related experiences. I have added all of my words in italics in this post for easier separation.
Podcast here. I’ve included a lot of the transcript of the episode in this post. They said it way better than I ever could because it was their first-hand experience on being fat in a skinny-obsessed culture.
Act One. The Day the Scales Fell from Her Eyes.
My boss, Dan, was on something of an obesity epidemic kick. He wasn’t alone. The rest of the nation had declared a war on obesity. They’d whipped up a host of reasons why it was right and good to hate fat people– our repulsive, unsexy bodies, of course, the classic, but also our drain on the health care system, our hogging of plane armrests, our impact on the children, our pathetic inability and/or monstrous refusal to swap austerity for gluttony, oh, and our health, because they care.
Dan was on that train, and I don’t blame him. It was a very popular and, I imagine, gratifying ticket at the time. And even more so than today, it was considered very roguish to tell it like it is about fat people. Dan’s main sticking point seemed to be fat people like me who insisted we weren’t imminently dying.
He fiercely and persistently defended his, quote, “refusal to take the self-esteem-boosting/public-health-shredding position that you can be obese and healthy. More than anything, this passage from his 2005 book, The Commitment, sums up the overall tone of his stance at the time on fatties. Here’s the quote.
“Two days later, in a water park in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, I came to a couple of realizations. First, anyone who denies the existence of the obesity epidemic in the United States hasn’t been to a water park in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
The owners of water parks in the US must be saving a fortune on water and chlorine bills. Floating in the deep end of the wave pool with DJ, Terry observed that there was an awful lot of water being displaced. If the South Dakotans floating around us all got out of the pool at the same time, the water level would most likely have dropped 6 feet.”
That’s what Dan wrote. In other words, we’re horrible to look at. We’re in the way. We’re a joke.
I could probably have dealt with that. But I started to get comments here and there from readers asking how it felt to know that my boss hated me because of my body. I knew Dan didn’t hate me. But why didn’t he see that when he wrote about fat people he was writing about me, Lindy West, his colleague and friend? And why should I, as an employee, have to swallow that kind of treatment at my job, in the same newspaper I was sweating blood into for 36K a year? Did I want to be the kind of person who didn’t fight?”
On February 11, 2011, I wrote a scorched-earth essay and posted it publicly at the tail end of a sunny Friday afternoon. The post was called, “Hello, I Am Fat.” It included a full body photo of me taken that day by Kelly O, our staff photographer, with the caption, “28 years old, female, 5 foot 9, 263 pounds.”
It read as follows. “This is my body, over there. See it? I have lived in this body my whole life. I have wanted to change this body my whole life.
I get that you think you’re actually helping people by contributing to the alp of shame that crushes every fat person every day of their lives. But you’re not helping. Shame doesn’t work. Diets don’t work.
Fat people already are ashamed. It’s taken care of. No further manpower needed on the shame front. Thanks.”
“I reject this entire framework. I’m not concerned with whether or not fat people can change their bodies through self-discipline and choices. Pretty much all of them have tried already. A couple of them have succeeded. Whatever.
My question is, what if they try and try and try and still fail? What if they’re still fat? What if they’re fat forever? What do you do with them then?
Do you really want millions of teenage girls to feel like they’re trapped in bodies that are ruining their lives? And on top of that, it’s because of their own moral failure? And on top of that, they’re ruining America with the terribly expensive diabetes that they don’t even have yet? You know what’s shameful? A complete lack of empathy.”
I just love her. I bought Lindy West’s book, Shrill, after listening to this podcast. She challenged me to love me, no matter what. I think the real core point of her writing is to be content with who you are now, instead of chasing that ideal perfect body in your head.
Of course, I’d lost the weight to fix two specific problems. I wanted to get a job and find love. Old Elna looked for a job for a year and a half. New Elna was offered work a month after she hit her goal weight, an entry-level position on an actual TV show.
I was hired to be a page at the Letterman show. My job was to walk down the line of people waiting to go into the theater and divide them into three groups– dots, generals, and CBS twos. The dots were the beautiful people. They got seated in the first three rows. Usually those were the only rows you saw on television.
Generals were average people. They sat in the order they arrived. CBS two was for fat people, elderly people with a visible illness, people who looked like they might be disruptive, and goths. I’d scribble CBS two on their ticket. And that was code for, seat them in the back three rows at the balcony– the nosebleed seats. I’d seen Letterman a few years earlier. I was near the front of the line and somehow ended up in the nosebleeds. I remember being confused by it. The day I was trained, I put it together.
Here’s what losing 110 pounds really looks like according to Elna Baker. New Elna shared her perspective of life being 110 pounds heavier and what it’s like as the New Elna. Anyone who has gone through extensive weight loss has to grapple with the feelings of being treated differently on many levels because you weigh less. It’s a weird paradigm shift and one I don’t think I’ll get used to because it pisses me off. I don’t like being treated differently because I wear a different size. (Get me? Do you get me? The struggle is real.)
Act 3. How Are You Doing with Sizes?
Exactly. I don’t want to pretend that I’m OK with it, and it’s not judging anyone else. It’s just that I know the realities of living in my body. I know how irritating and how exhausting it is to, for example, climb a set of stairs. And so I don’t need to be thin, but I want to be in better shape. I want to have more stamina. And I honestly, because I’m vain, want to wear cuter clothes.
Roxane Gay’s observations about being Lane Bryant-sized versus above Lane Bryant sized was very interesting and raw. I’ve always been Lane Bryant-sized and have resented the fact that the Lane Bryant choices were still not cute enough. However, if you can’t fit in Lane Bryant sizes then the ‘cute clothes’ options are even more narrow. Way more narrow. Excuse the poor use of adjective.
I agree completely with Roxane Gay. One of the reasons I chose to have weight loss surgery was how my weight inhibited many of my daily experiences and the toll it was taking on my body—back, knees, feet especially. Climbing stairs and walking in general is much easier now. And like her, I want to wear cuter clothes, because I’m vain too.
Act 4. Cross Training
And I was just pretty devastated for the first couple of months that, you know, that that was the only thing that seemed to be important, right? What I look like and not what kind of person I was. And it was kind of a disclaimer of everything that a Christian university was supposed to be about, right?
I was like, really, God? Is this how you’re judging people? I don’t know how they reconcile that, you know? The thing is supposed to be, God looks inside and sees your heart, right? That’s the premise. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Here’s the context of the quote above. Students at a particular university were admitted and kept in school based on their BMI. If you want to know which school this was, you’ll have to listen to the podcast. (Oh brother, college acceptance based on weight? Gimme a break—only in a southern state in the 70’s. Makes me want to throw up in my mouth that this happened to people. God + proper weight= ? Good Christian. Ew. This makes me ill.)
Act 5: An Immodest Proposal. Listen to the podcast or read the transcript here. In the final Act, Lindy talks about her wedding proposal. Beauty.
So let me end here:
I’ve felt many of the things these women have talked about in this podcast. I’ve debated the idea of losing weight and if I’m doing it for the right reasons. Fortunately, I didn’t have to deal with the life events of finding a job and love whilst at my fattest weight, otherwise, I might have succumbed to what Elna did (and the subsequent horrible surgeries) out of perceived necessity to have the American Skinny Dream. Living as a fat person is hard. It is a constant reminder of how you’re not measuring up to a societal expectation. Skinny=good. Fat=bad.
I think we need to rethink the fat messages we send subtly and overtly. I don’t want my own children to feel like they’re not measuring up by measuring down. If I’m honest though, I hope they never have to struggle with being fat like I have. They can struggle with other things, but in my humble option, being fat may be the one of the worst and often still socially acceptable stigmatizations. It totally sucks.
Until next Friday…Love you loves.
Gastric Bypass Update:
I’ve lost 60 pounds. The reality, I’m STILL considered obese. I think I look pretty darn good, but I’m STILL obese. According to the standard ‘BMI gods’, I’m supposed to be 40 pounds less than I am now.
I have to admit, I’m kinda fighting the norms a little. I don’t really care about the BMI gods and their expectations. I’m a rebel like that.
Let the hair loss begin! It’s begun and has accelerated over the past 6 weeks. I lose a consistent amount of hair every day. It’s actually a side effect of weight loss surgery. The good news is, that this hair loss should be temporary and I’ll return to my normal rate of hair loss soon. I’m shedding like a cat though, and that’s really annoying. For the record, being butt hot and shedding isn’t really that fun. Fortunately, I have so much hair on my head, most people can’t tell I’ve lost any.
This is the Joy you don’t often get to see. I’m pissed off tonight. I’m angry that we can dismiss life, and throw people out like garbage. I’m outraged that the world can be so unjust. I’m angry about the latest in a series of unjust murders. I’m a white middle class female in California (You must be a fruit or a nut… go ahead think it.), and I’m mad as hell. This is NOT OKAY. I can’t watch the video of his murder, I just listened and that was enough. I won’t be able to erase it. (Go ahead and judge me, I dare you.) I don’t need to watch it play-by-play visually, to know that it happened and it didn’t need to happen that way. I have heard enough in social media to know that this particular event was WRONG.
You might want to unfriend me or not read my blog because this is too uncomfortable.
Listen to this song while you’re reading the rest of this post. Call It What It Is, by Ben Harper. When he wrote this, Alton Sterling’s name wasn’t in the headlines.
What is this tapping into for me? INjustice. Praying is important, but so is action. Words are one thing; solidarity and living a change is another. When I was a child, I lived in poverty amongst many victimized groups. North Tyler was a typical underprivileged area with mostly black people suffering the hard knocks of life in that community. Survival. Poverty. Lack of education and job opportunities were rampant.
As a social work major in college, my professor, said something like, “Righteous anger often leads to social change.” This was the first time in my life when I realized that anger isn’t innately BAD. (Growing up in a Christian home, I often equated subtly and overtly, that anger was wrong, a sin.) Anger can provoke change. Right now, I’m gonna tell all y’all, get ANGRY. Apathy is a sin that no one ever told me about. But I believe inaction and lack of compassion is wrong. Get up, stand up. Do something.
White privilege: we have it and we don’t even realize it. Many of my friends are white and I don’t have issues with that, but I think we live in a bubble. We can easily be naive to the struggles people face without the privileges automatically granted to us by our skin color and social class. Read this article about white guilt vs. white responsibility. It may change you, if you let it.
This epidemic isn’t going away. We can close our eyes, move on, and live our lives in the suburbs or rural areas. Meanwhile, life in urban areas surges on, injustices occur daily, and we close our eyes and put in ear plugs. It’s easier to ignore it… but it ain’t going away. We need to respond.
How? Help me. I want to respond. I want to live a life with meaning. This white middle class mama wants to DO SOMETHING.
I’m starting by adding my trickle to the lake by writing this piece.
This mama has passion and spoke her heart as a woman living, raising a family, and working as a police officer in an urban area. Listen to her preach and GET ANGRY. It’s okay. You have to start somewhere.
This was posted on Brene Brown’s Facebook page:
Elie Wiesel wrote, “Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe.” The center of the universe is our own backyard right now. I believe that healing racism will require honest conversations about race and class privilege – with our friends, our neighbors, our co-workers, our families, and our children. Yes, these are hard, uncomfortable discussions and we can become paralyzed by the fear of saying the wrong thing or being misunderstood. But we have to be braver than we’ve been because the cost of not having these conversations is paid in lives.
Stand up wherever you are, you won’t regret it. I believe that we are stronger when we’re united, just like Nakia Jones said in her passionate plea.
Let’s Talk About Sweat, Baby. Let’s talk about you and me. (Yes, a shout out to Salt-n-Pepa.)
It’s been butt-hot. (I’ve been wanting a reason to add butt as an adjective. All the kids are doing it… butt-awesome, butt-cool, or butt-hurt, which is a slang term used often, meaning-offended, upset, or angry, usually by a small slight or a friendly insult. ) I’m offended by this heat so I’m coining the phrase butt-hot (and you can’t stop me)! So here’s your new expression, which means-offended, upset, or angry usually by temperatures that reach above 85 degrees. Maybe your butt-hot definition is above 90 degrees, nope, mine, a firm 85.
Sweat beads pour from every pore on my face. Joy does not glow, she sweats. Thanks dad, for the DNA that made it so I could expel toxins from my face, in way less than 0-60. It’s a lovely womanly trait. I feel like a freak show when I sweat like this. It’s okay when it’s expected, like then you’re in a Spin class or jogging, but when you’re standing in line in air-conditioned environment, it’s not cool people, not cool. For the record, I am not happy with the Sweat DNA. “Raise your hand, raise your hand if you’re sure!” the jingle for the brand Sure deodorant. “Never let ’em see you sweat.” Another deodorant commercial. I obviously am not living up to America’s expectation of non sweaty behavior. Deodorants have never kept me from sweating and neither have antiperspirants. And who puts antiperspirants on their face? (Uh, no one.) I think maybe my body knows that the commercials have been wrong all along. (American deodorant companies, you have failed me. <<Insert Darth Vader voice>> You have failed me for the last time.)
I’m only Sure of one thing, when the temperature is above 85 degrees, I WILL SWEAT, above 90 degrees, and I WILL DRIP. Getting nervous and obsessing about it, only makes my sweat instinct worse. I wish I could be like one of those rockers at an epic rock show where the hair is soaking wet from sweat, and it’s dripping down their face and neck and they look, sexy, and in charge of the world. In contrast, I just look like a wet cat, pathetic and miserable.
Here’s how it happens: it starts above and below my lips, in the what would be the mustache and goatee area if I were a male. (I can vividly remember the sweat beads welling up in Texas in the mid-80s. The humidity. For the love of God. All summer. So much humidity. Picture me in a light blue velour shirt. Nell and I used to swap shirts and the velour was in, so we wore it like it was 1999, rain or shine. Sweat was an event. It even happened back then, when I was in 3rd grade.) It progresses underneath my eyes, then at the border of my hairline on my forehead. It beads, and then drips. **Sigh** The dripping. Dripping is for faucets, not for faces. (Repeat after me. Dripping is for faucets, not for faces.) The dripping, then the obsessive wiping, so as not to appear to be dripping. Ugh. Repeat.
I think I was made to live in a different environment, like the coast of Scotland for instance. That sounds like a place that would be my perfect environment. Anyone want to move with me? Or maybe we could just relocate and Summer in Scotland? Good. Sounds like a plan.
So, what’s the lesson here? Patience. Patient, I am not. (As Yoda would say. What’s with the Star Wars references? It works, okay. Leave me alone.) I will never embrace my sweatiness. Never. Remember, I’m a menopause-lifer (the hot flash part). Sweat love, can I do it? Can I love the sweat? Nope, not yet. Bikram Yoga would be my hell. Sweat is like a plague. Like grasshoppers eating the harvest, or a virus that refuses to be expelled. IT RETURNS, every year when the temperature rises above 85 degrees. I always catch this terrible plague. It embraces me with arms wide open. Sweat is my eager lover. My unwanted lover. It’s like Pepe Le Pew and the cat girlfriend that he smothers at every turn. She just wants to be rid of Pepe, but he always finds her. Sweat is my Pepe Le Pew. Do you see the kitty cat? She tries ad nauseam to escape from the embrace of Pepe, to no avail. He keeps finding her and squeezing her and leaving his scent on her, in spite of her constant escape maneuvering. That’s me, the wide-eyed girlfriend. Always uncomfortable and looking for a way to move away from the events that lead to sweat.
It’s fairly simple. I walk from my classroom to the office. Sweatastic. I load groceries into my car. Sweatastic. I sit in an uncomfortably stuffy room. Sweatastic. I AM SWEATASTIC in all of July, August, September and part of October, every year. Like a splinter that can’t be extracted through layers of skin. Like the woman in Sam’s Club who insists on multiple transactions and rescanning of her precious bagels while my ice cream is melting the cart two carts back (this happened today and I didn’t buy the ice cream for me, in case you were wondering). Like skin that touches skin or any other surface. Like Heather Locklear in the hair commercials, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” Turn and glance back at the camera with wet-cat-face-and-hairage, and change to, ” Don’t hate me because I sweat.” (It doesn’t roll off the tongue in same way. Oh well.)
I sweat, therefore I’m human.
Sweat, my nemesis.
Sisters in sweat. I’ll be your friend, no matter how schweaty you be.
I’m a Sweat Saint.
I’ve earned my Sweat Badge.
(The picture doesn’t accurately picture the sweat I felt along my hairline.)
I love youse.
Until next Friday. Sweat on peoples! (I’ll be searching for fans, drinking ice cold drinks and finding the closest air conditioning vent.) Love you loves.
Gastric Bypass Update:
I’m inching closer to 60 pounds of weight loss, depending on the day I weigh myself. I’ve been sick this week. The first time in a long time. It was my time to break down, while on vacation. When else?
I’m struggling with, The Acceptance of Weight Loss. I’ll explain more next time.