B is for...

Fat Chick version

B is for Bread - I really don't miss much foodwise from my pre-op life. I never really ate desserts. A piece of pie from Julian Pie Company once a year when I drove up to our local mountains and cookies when I felt like breaking out the Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer and getting all Martha Stewart at Christmas time. The last birthday cake I had was when I was 7. I wasn't into them. I always wanted giant pizzas or something else savory. So I've never really lamented the loss of sweets like some RNY-ers do. I do however miss my evil nemesis Bread. Most days I don't. I eat a variety of yummy dishes and it doesn't cross my mind but every once and awhile I think about my old frenemy. Now I'm not talking about those wishy washy sponges that come sliced in a polka dotted bag although a fluffernutter is best made with that. I am talking crusty and crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside homemade or artisanal breads. I was not to be trusted around bread like this... turn away and 1/2 a loaf might be gone. Who needed butter? I often ate 1/2 the loaf driving from the bake shop. Bread was what I wanted when I didn't feel well. Bread was what I wanted when I had a rough day. Hell bread was what I wanted when I had a great day too. Who am I kidding?

I dedicate half my ass to you dear bread. I had to say goodbye to you because like an alcoholic going to a winery what's the point?

Post Gastric Bypass version

B is for Booth - It was an unbelievably awesome feeling the first time post gastric bypass surgery when I slid into a restaurant booth seat. I looked down and there was so much room between me and the table. I sat in awe with a stupid grin plastered over my face the entire meal. Before surgery I used to cringe going out with a group of people when the hostess guided us to a booth seat I would hang back so I could be the last to sit down (and hang off the edge) because sliding down to let others in (if even possible) wasn't going to be pretty or fast. I didn't want to call attention to myself by requesting the group get a table. Like if I didn't say anything no one would see I was fat. Yeah... the fantasy world we create. Sometimes I would get lucky and it would be a movable table and I could give it a shove to gain some extra space but usually it was bolted and I would have a table shoved in my gut giving me the Heimlich maneuver my entire meal. Bolted tables suck.

I write this to always remember. Although I believe I will never forget there are just some things from my fat life are unfortunately seared into my memory... memories like this keep my head in the game and remind me to never go back.

If you are wondering what this entry is all about catch up here.