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Tuesday, October 23

Last Dance


This past weekend, I attended a family wedding. I was very excited because it’s not every day that I get to dress up and pay a babysitter to watch my kids while I dance the night away with my husband.  When I’m getting ready, I curl and tease my hair into a big poof and I start taking “artsy” pics of myself in the mirror with my smartphone. I am careful to make sure that my chin isn’t double. Because I have what I call massive Jersey Shore hair, my face actually resembles the face that I remember, the face that is me.  I have big, long black hair and dark eyes and lucky for me my husband is a big Kardashian fan.  I am taking pics of my big hair because I am stalling putting my dress on.

It is always stressful when I put my dress on because there is that moment for fat girls where in the back of your mind you are just hoping it zips. My dress does zip but because of the empire waist, I feel like I look pregnant. I’m not, of course, and my family and friends know too well that it’s not a possibility, but I LOOK pregnant and that pisses me off. I am past the point of being embarrassed by it and I’m just pissed.  What is pissing me off is that I now have a difficult choice to make. I can either wear my spanx and shrink down my belly but be left with a major muffin top and back boobs….or, I can wear some ginormous slenderizing underwear to smooth out what I have and just try to ignore my 7-month faux baby bump. I opt for the smoother because quite honestly, I would rather someone I don’t know across the room mistake me for being pregnant than think my back needs a bra.

When I see my husband after he has dressed, I am reminded of a few things.

1.       I am damn lucky to be with such a hot man (as you know not many men don’t look hot in a suit and tie)

2.       Even though my husband can stand to lose a few himself, the fashion industry allows him to wear pants and a coat that could make jaba the hut look studley.

3.       He looks hot and I don’t.

I am frustrated, pissed at myself, and crabby about the whole situation. And then, then as we are driving to the wedding, my glittery heels in my lap because my feet are like stuffed sausages in them, I remember something very important….

This is my LAST wedding pre-lapband.

The next wedding on my calendar is in May, it’s the one that my daughter and I are standing up in together. Assuming everything continues to go as planned, I should be having surgery in January which means that I will have four months to adjust, recoup, get back on my feet, and LOOSE WEIGHT.   No matter what I weigh at the next wedding, if it’s less than this one, I will feel like a boss.

After that realization hit me I didn’t give a shit anymore. I danced my ass off the whole night.  I slow danced with my husband and enjoyed the scent of his aftershave. I fist pumped with my family and “got low”. I enjoyed the wedding cake and high-cal cocktails and I decided to have a great time.  Because after all,  at the end of the night when the dress is hung back up and the heels are back in their box and my husband’s suit is on the way to the drycleaners the fact still remains… today I am HERE.

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