Mfhmschnimanopoly

And that is how I'm feeling today.

Which makes it sound like I'm upset. I'm not. I'm discombobulated (which, by the way, is a word I have always loved. If folks are allowed to hate on "moist" I'm allowed to love on "discombobulated"). Have you ever had those days where you feel like you're supposed to be doing something, but you can't quite put your finger on it? Not one of those days where you have a check list, and you forgot to get laundry detergent...again...and so you're afraid the mountain by your hamper (because who actually does laundry every time that thing gets full?) might contain actual living creatures soon if you DON'T remember the laundry detergent and do some dang laundry like a real live adult. Not that. Not that I've ever experienced that.

But the days when you look out your window and think, there's something I'm supposed to be doing, and I'm not doing it. I'm having one of those days. I would wonder if I were the only one, but quite frankly Belle sang a song about it, so at least Alan Menken, Howard Ashman, and I are on the same page here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUhOzf0KQXU

Can we all just agree that that song is one of the best parts of the entire movie? It's like 1:20 of my journal, if I were ever disciplined enough to actually write in one.

Speaking of...hi. This is me writing. About nothing. And so much more than nothing. Because so many people in my life tell me I should write. And, because I love writing. But I'm terribly, terribly, shy about writing. True story. And, half the time I have little to nothing to say. It's like my heart is full of a thousand words that all come out like "mfhmschnimanopoly" when I want to start putting fingers to keyboard. So I just look at the screen, shake my head, and click "cancel".

I think I've just changed my mind. I don't love "discombobulated" anymore. "Mfhmschnimanopoly" is so much better. How do we go about making that a real word? Spoiler: I had a completely different title to this blog when I began it.

This is one of those moments. I have literally typed three paragraphs worth of words in this exact spot, and deleted them all. I don't want to sound self-congratulatory. I don't want to sound angsty. I don't want to sound dramatic, or morose, or unintelligible, or a million other things that I fear sounding like every time I write. I just...

I think sometimes I just want to reach over through the internet, lock eyes with someone, and say "you too?" Because I don't think Belle and I have the market cornered on thinking there's something that we're supposed to be doing, that whether it's fear, insecurity, lack of planning, or provision, whatever the deal is, that we're just not doing it.

So there you have it. More than a facebook post, less than a book (thank you Tonia). Life somewhere in the middle. Dreaming in the field, wondering what's past the wind. This blog started out about weight loss...maybe it'll stay that way? Maybe it won't. I. Have. No. Idea.

I have words. I'm Irish...I was born with about 8.4 million words as genetically passed down from one Irish person to another. It's a qualifier for sure. I just have to get them out. And for some reason, people tell me they want to hear them. So...help me stay honest here friends. Maybe I just need to get involved in that "d" word I said up there earlier. The "discipline" of putting fingers to keys and just typing, whether I have anything to really say or not.

Or maybe it's that other "d" word..."dreaming". Nope...that one is scary. Let's go back to discipline.

Mfhmschnimanopoly!!

How Did I NOT Just Die???

I easily just had the hardest work out of my life. And that's saying a lot considering I used to work out with 180 extra pounds on me. 

I've been working on a 21 day challenge an amazing friend and Fitness Professional gave me. And when I say fitness professional, read also "he's a body builder, so I might die". My goal is to complete every single work out he gives me, and burn no less than 600 calories per work out. 

And. I. Have. Been. Killing. It. 

Hey look!! I said something nice about me! That's different! 

So Thursday morning I woke up with a massive migraine. Like the bad kind that has you wishing someone would just shoot you and be done with it. Let's just say I didn't get my work out in. Friday I had the risidual effects of said migraine, so no workout then either. Which started to pile on the typical shame I've come to know so well. 

But today is Saturday! And Saturday I woke up with zero pain. So back to the gym I went! I thought, I could start on day 8 (where I had left off on my work outs) and see how I do. So, on to the elliptical I went for my 15 minute warm up. 

Then I did this workout:

Usually, this alone would be enough to kill me. I mean...those are a lot of reps!!! YouTube 21's if you don't know what they are. I did, and thought, clearly Adam wants me to die. But this was week 2 already, and believe it or not, the work out was a lot easier than last week. Still working my way up to a 60lbs power clean, but I'm getting closer!! 

After said magical work out of bicepy goodness, I went and sat in the sauna for 15 minutes. I always consider this the dessert portion of working my butt off so hard in the gym. It gives me time to just sit and think about everything I've just done and dream about everything I'm gonna do. 

Only this time was different. Usually I sit in the sauna with my eyes closed, or staring down at my phone or one particular spot on the wall or floor to avoid awkward sweaty eye contact with other ladies trying to squeeze out a few more calories in their work outs. But today, I was looking up, and a woman walked in who absolutely blew me away. She came in an started shadow boxing. In. The. Sauna. 

It's like 100 degrees in there! And she's doing cardio! I was doing well to sit and breathe, and here she comes in running in place, throwing punches, dodging, and kneeing some imaginary bad guy in the face, and I'll admit, I totally stared. 

I tried to avoid it at first. I would watch then look away, then watch again, etc. Eventually I just gave in and watched her for the last few minutes I was in there. I just kept thinking "how the heck does she even know what to do?? What combo is that? Holy crow did she just get faster?!? Oh. Now she's running in place. Dude! I WANT TO BE HER WHEN I GROW UP!!!" As I left, I looked her square in the eyes and said "You. Are a bad ass" and walked out. She smiled and bowed a little and said thank you. She was amazing. 

Fully inspired by my new fitness idol, I decided to take my already exhausted body, and go tear it up some more. Remember, I had already worked out for an hour, so I thought: I'm just going to do the whole thing again, only I'll do yesterday's work out that I missed! So I hopped on the treadmill and did this:

In case you missed it...THAT'S A SUB 20:00 MILE!!! 

So, in high school, clearly I was not in athletics. I was in PE. And in PE, you have to eventually do some sort of fitness test to see if you can accomplish what even the bare minimum of athletic expectations might be. Part of this is the dreaded 20:00 mile. Basically the coach brings all of the hooligan non-athletes like myself out to the track and says run around this thing 4 times and you're done. Most of the other boys and girls finished in 15 minutes or so. It took me about 30. 

I remember the coach walking the last lap with me, trying to encourage me to go faster. Telling me how far behind I was and how much I needed to make up. Maybe she thought I was just blowing it off. I wasn't. I was just a 300+lbs teenager who couldn't keep up. 

Every. Single. Time. I've trained in the past, I have tried my hardest to hit that goal I got when I was 16. And Every. Single. Time. I've failed. I've come close, mind you. I've hit 21:45 more often than I care to admit. Even got to 21:00 once, but could never quite hit a 20:00 mile. 

Today, after working out for an hour already, all of that changed. I hit 19:30. Eighteen years later, 16 year old Kelly hit her goal. I passed the test.

I'm normal. 

No. I'm a bad ass. 

Because AFTER my work out, then my performance record, I then went on to do my Friday work out. This: 

Which means when all was said and done, I had worked out for this long:

And burnt this many calories:

Which means while I started out like this: 

I ended up like this:

That's probably the least flattering picture of me ever. But I don't care. Because today...today I was a bad ass. 

Lies I Believe 1

So I made this post Lies I Believe (part) 1, because honestly, I think know there are a LOT more than just one to two lies I believe. I know they are lies. But do I? Because I believe them. And if I do know that they are lies, but believe them anyways, what does that say about me?

It probably says that I need a whole lot of grace.

Or mental help, but you know, hey, I'm good with that.

I've been playing around with this idea for a little while about writing about LIB (because if I really type out "Lies I Believe" 4,200 times I will get seriously seriously tired of typing). Why? Because I think know I'm not the only one who believes something about myself, or the world around me that simply isn't true. And like I said in my last post, this blog started out as being very much about me and for me, but then suddenly morphed into something I never saw coming, and that was something about me, but for you.

My soul is railing against that last sentence. Like everything inside of me just welled up and called myself a pretentious jerk. How arrogant am I to think that I have something to put out there that could help? I'm no hero. I don't have a single thing figured out. Who am I to talk? Just sit back, and shut up. (Internal Kelly needs a Snickers or SOMEthing. Daaaang internal Kelly!)

But maybe that's one of the first lies I believe. I don't matter.

And here's the truth of it. I don't. This is not some sort of self-deprecating sentence that is suddenly going to have everyone going, "wait, I liked the Rocky analogies better!"...we're getting there. But first, let's be real. I am one single human being in a world populated with billions and billions of human beings. I am a part of one generation on a planet that has housed more generations than I know how to compute, and has Lord knows how many generations to follow. In the grand scheme of things, I truly am insignificant.

If that doesn't do it for you, then let's expand even further. I am in one spot on one couch in Lewisville, TX, Planet Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, Known Universe, Unknown Universe. I'm also pretty positive I just stole that from something...like a play...or something. I'm not sure, but I'm positive if I hit publish on this post my Literary or Theatre minded friends will jump all over me with references from Our Town, or...wait...is it Our Town? Since I'm botching the quote completely, I don't know how to look that one up.

Gotta love that I totally just interrupted myself.

So here's the deal. When I went out to the beaches of Mexico last fall, I saw miles and miles of sandy perfection. I mean, waves upon waves crashing so majestically against layers and layers of white sand. Sometimes pushing it further inland, and sometimes sucking it back out into the water. It was spectacular. And nobody on planet earth can tell you how much sand is there. Oh, they can guestimate how many cubic tons, or whatnot there might be. But no one can say, why Kelly, there are "72.687 gajillion grains of sand on the pacific coast of Mexico alone". To which I would just smile and say, "yeah, but I was on the Caribbean side". And that's just one country! One little spot compared to the entire coastline of oh say, Australia, or Asia. Any rational human being would say "a grain of sand is insignificant".

That is, until a grain of sand gets in your shoe (or worse, your swimsuit) and starts to rub against tender flesh. Now what was insignificant becomes extraordinarily significant, what did not matter, becomes preeminent,  and no amount of outdoor showering is getting rid of the burn it left behind.

It mattered. Not because it was one of gajillions of grains of sand, but because it connected. Not with the 8 billion people on planet earth during this generation alone, but because it somehow wound up in my flip flop, between my leather strap and the top of my foot.

Could any grain of sand fill that spot, and do just as well at scraping up my sissy foot? Sure it could have. My callouses are on the bottom of my feet, not the top. But it wasn't just any grain of sand. It was that grain, or those handful of grains.

Insignificance obtained significance. At least to me.

So. Do I matter? In the grand scheme of things? No. I don't even register as a blip on the radar of existence. It's why we are in awe when we stare at mountains and oceans and star filled skies. We feel small. And we should remember that we are small.

But do I matter? Oh yes. Yes I do. I matter to so many friends, so many family members that I bounce up against, and sometimes even rub the wrong way. To my dogs I am the bringer of food, and affection (probably prioritized in that order). To my family I am the eternal little sister (no, really, I swear I'm actually an adult guys!), daughter, granddaughter, cousin, niece, aunt. To my friends, I am goofy, or serious, kind, or kind of a pain. But to everyone, I am Kelly, regardless of my relationship status with you. Just Kelly. Intrinsic and Extrinsic value. Value because of who I am, and to whom I belong. And I'm ok with that.

And Kelly struggles with lies she believes, like that she doesn't matter. Like, she shouldn't write, because who would care? But there's some sand in Mexico that proved otherwise, and a little scar on the top of my right foot that says, "even the littlest guy matters".

The smallest effort. The one last minute, last rep, last bite of food. It all matters. Because it matters to me. I wonder what life would look like if we all believed that what we did, or even more personally, who we are, actually mattered. Not in some moralistic behaviorism sort of way, but in the real deal day to day.

I'm pretty positive that's what every Dove commercial on youtube is about. And I think that's why they all make us cry.

You matter. I matter. Don't believe the lie.

Shake it Off

Why hello again. It's been a long time.

Ok, that was verging on creepy. But here's the truth: sometimes I have SO much to say, I have no idea where to start. And so what winds up happening is I open my mouth, and awkward comes out. But don't worry, I usually have a point, and very rarely does it remain creepy. Though awkward is NOT off of the table.

Let's try this again.

I kind of hate writing that. Can I just be really really honest for a second and say that I *hate* having to talk about new beginnings every few months, because it seems that I get all inspired, peak, and then come crashing right back to old bad habits, only to get inspired again, and repeat said cycle. As if y'all can't read that every time I write about "coming back".

I hate come backs.

But then again, don't we all need them? Like, aren't we actually kind of head over heels for them? That sense that that last failure wasn't the final nail in the coffin, and we are done for? That hope that maybe, just maybe, the 42nd time we screwed something up, that somewhere out there is someone willing to say, "Yep...let's go for 43! I bet 43 is your magic number! You can do it this time".

I don't know about you, but I need that. I am desperate for it.

I love come backs.

So this is my come back story. Not just to the world of getting healthier, but honestly to all of it. The writing, the sweating, the cooking, the cleaning up of life. It's spring, and that means renewal. That means attempt number 43 without so much as an eye roll from my friends and family, let alone from me. Ok...maybe I have rolled my eyes at myself a time or two. Possibly even while writing this.

So, I have some confessions to make. This last silent period was somewhat intentional. Goodness that sounds attention seeking. It's really not. I was intentionally not writing (instead of it simply slipping my mind). Why? I pretend you ask. Because I got terribly discouraged as a writer, and I'm just not angsty enough to turn discouragement into good writing. I'm lucky to turn a natural runners high into good writing. The culprit? Something I absolutely love. Something that makes me giggle constantly. Something that when I'm frustrated at work, I'll actually google in order to laugh at my desk for 10 minutes before getting back to the frustration. That something? Someecards. Yes, that's a real thing, and no it's not misspelled (I have it up in my web browser now).

I adore those hilarious little bastards. They make me laugh like nothing else, and there are about 800 of them that I would love to post at any moment if I weren't afraid that Liberty University would snatch back my Biblical Studies degree in a heart beat if the alumni association saw me post them. But the truth of the matter is that they make me laugh. A lot. So I look them up all of the time.

A few months back, on Facebook, I noticed a few of my friends posting one particular card over and over again, or some version of it. Whether they actually posted the card itself, or posted their own status update with something similar, the basic theme was this:

And all of the sudden, I wasn't laughing. I was a little embarrassed. I have a blog, nearly entirely devoted to me writing about dieting, working out, and the struggles therein. Have I just been embarrassing myself by thinking someone might get encouraged by it? Have my friends been rolling their eyes thinking, "Yep, there's yet another sweaty picture of Kelly on Facebook. Gross."

The answer I came to tonight was, "maybe".

As a people pleaser from way back, that still stings. As someone who finds a lot of her identity in how others view her, that's a little bit crushing. And as someone who struggles, oh so much, with trying to get up again for another round that will just knock me in the face, it honestly just hurt.

And so for a few months I went quiet. Worse than that. I was quenched. Like wet blanket on a fire, quenched. I was wrung out and discouraged, not just from working out, but from wanting to write at all. From thinking "who the heck cares what I have to say on anything"? I'd love to say that all of that came from a dumb someecard, but the truth of the matter is that would be way too simple. All of that came from my own fears, my own insecurities, my own weaknesses that creep up into my soul and whisper to my ears that I am a failure, disappointment, fill in the blank.

And it's crap.

But it is So. Very. Universal.

And while this blog very much started out as just my means of being real, of being vulnerable, and letting some stuff out there into the great internet cosmos of friends and strangers...it somehow morphed into something more. It became a thing where friends would write me messages or comments, or pull up beside me in the back alley of our neighborhood, and say "hey, that meant something to me. I was encouraged. I was inspired." This blog that was very very much about me, and for me, became about so many people and for everyone.

Because don't we all struggle? Don't we all have insecurities? Don't we all fail? Am I the only one? I don't think I am. Whether you are on chance number 43 or 453, I think we all need another shot. Another serving of mercy to lift up our faces and say, "It's ok. I still believe in you".

Whether that comes to trying to write, trying to work out, trying to lose weight, trying to lose insecurities, trying to get along with your spouse, or not kill the kids, trying to get out of debt, or get out of town, trying to make it in the world, or make it out of bed. We are all just trying.

And that's something worth sharing. Not because I've arrived. But because I need another chance too.

So, no, I didn't fall off of my treadmill. I got back on it. For the 453rd time.  

A Lesson in Fainting

So, one of the things I've struggled with in 2014 has been consistency of any kind. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm incredible at consistently being self indulgent. Case in point: I was just at work the other day talking about how I was about to start getting serious about my work outs...literally SECONDS after said conversation I'm volunteering to go on a DQ run. Because what people who are serious about building muscle and losing weight are all about are Pumpkin Pie Blizzards. Oh Lord those are good. So. Very. Good. 

So, the last time I was here I was mapping out a whole diet and exercise plan that was going to just kill it for me. Then next thing I know I go into some kind of crazy flu like plague, so I don't make it beyond the first couple of weeks. I went ultra low carb and started to work out consistently all for the first time really since dropping so much weight. So during this crazy flu like time (where I'm feeling ok...ie no actual fever), my body was getting crazy hot, but I was freezing. All. Of. The. Time. A friend at work suggested I was menopausal. I gave her an AMAZING "go to H E Double Hockey Sticks" look and not so gently reminded her that I was only 33. Then promptly cried into my beef jerky while my body roasted in an ice cube. 

The crazy inferno blizzard all came to a head on a beautiful June night (yes those can happen in Texas), when a sweet man I met a few years ago invited me to walk on fire. As in, light wood on fire, let it burn, and then spread the embers along the ground, and walk BAREFOOT across them. On purpose. Of course I jumped at the opportunity! I had done one of Charles' fire walking events once before, and this was perfect timing for me. I was starting a new journey of intentionally busting out those last 100lbs, and now I was given the chance to stare down some fire and overcome fear, overcome anxiety, overcome the pain, overcome every obstacle, and I was stoked. I cannot more highly recommend it if you ever get the opportunity!!

So I pulled up to his home and by the grace of God and some amazing guidance from the fire walking instructors, I walked. 

And then I fainted. 

Like true blue fainted. 

One minute I'm swaying to the music thinking about how excited I was to face this challenge, and the next minute I'm falling forward (TOWARD the fire mind you, because, you know, I'm me and I've got to mix it up a bit right???), falling into someone's arms, all to the sounds of a beautiful Baritone voice singing This Is the Moment from Jekyll and Hyde. 

I was SO embarrassed. The folks at the fire walk were AMAZING. Genuinely. But my soul had just gone from Rocky Balboa defeating the Russian, to Rudy getting pulverized by something twice my size. From the mountain top to the back alley in one broadway show tune. Everyone was so gracious, so concerned, and so generous with their support. I, however, went right back into my routine of beating myself up, and just wanting to hide.

So beat myself up and hide I did. All because I fell.

I immediately increased my carb intake back to normal human levels, and stopped working out. Mystery fever went away, and I went a little crazy. Every diet that has ever worked for me historically has been a low carb diet. But what I never knew back then was that I was diabetic, or on my way to becoming one.

Now I was not only NOT diabetic, I actually run a little low most of the time. I went from blood sugar levels in the 600's to blood sugar levels in the 60's. Then, I was actively working out 1-2 times per day (that's right...two-a-days), now I was working out like 1-2 times per quarter. In other words I went from 0-90 in about 3 seconds and for some reason my body didn't like it. So I fainted.

If only I had been so gentle with myself back then. I might not have waited 4 months to update my blog with my results.

So, here it goes...it's been four months, and I have gained, yes gained 12lbs. I was 262lbs, now I'm 274lbs.

I ate whatever I wanted, became paranoid about what diet would work for me, and seriously contemplated shutting down my blog. I can't tell you how many times I laid alone in bed wondering if I had taken off 180lbs (down from the ultimate high of 450lbs), only to gain it all back by next Christmas. I would look at my loose size 24s and wonder if I needed to save some money to get my 34s back.

I just knew it was all too good to be true. 

Then things started to change. One of my best friends, Bobby, got a job where he was working from home, and I started to think through all of the ways I would change my life if I got the opportunity to work from home. I would start cooking again (something I truly miss). I would use my lunch breaks to work out (because who cares if you're a stinky sweaty mess on your couch?). I would regroup, refocus, and try again.

Then something truly crazy happened. I got the opportunity to work from home. Not every day, but a couple of days per week. And. I. Love. It!

I got to sleep in an extra 45 minutes without my commute, shower, or basic practice of human hygiene. I got to snack on chips and salsa while working on reports, and run to the Sonic by my house for lunch. I got to gain more weight.

So Friday I was sitting at home reading emails when I remembered. This isn't what I was dreaming about. What happened to the girl who would be marinating chicken to grill? Or doing bicep curls in-between emails? What happened to the hour long lunch on the treadmill, and the Tabata squat fest break. That's right, I said squats, Tabata style! Where was Rocky?

Where was the Kelly that cared, and yes, might get beat up, but Got. Back. Up?

She was here. On my couch. Eating chips and queso.

And for the first time in months, I grieved.

I grieved over my feelings of failure, my feelings of shame, my fears that I wouldn't make it. I grieved over the loss of my Dad and some of those catalysts that got me in the 200's. I didn't cry, I grieved. And I got back up.

I logged off for my lunch break and got on the treadmill.

I went into the workout room and lifted weights.

I got back up.

Because we ALL get knocked down.

Relapse is absolutely a part of recovery. It's not about whether or not I fall. I absolutely will fall. But will I get back up?

This time I did. And I'm better for it.

Someone ring the bell, it's time for the next round.

30, 60, and 90 days o' fun!

So...it's been 14 months since my big surgery day, and in that time a few things have changed. I got a promotion, I bought a boat, my first ever new car, and a tiny little vacation property in Hot Springs, Arkansas that I'm absolutely in love with. My latest nephew, Colin came into the world, I went to Ireland with my brother, and in just a couple of weeks my oldest niece will be a teenager. I rode my bike more, kayaked for the first time (totally thought I would die when I flipped out of the kayak and learned the hard way that rivers keep flowing whether you are in your boat or not), and walked a 5k with my oldest brother (who skunked me, but I was still over 300lbs, and he's 6'1" and I'm 5'4", and...and...well, he skunked me). Oh, and I've lost 144lbs. 

So basically I've lost a lot of weight, and a lot of my savings account. But man has it been fun! 

My weight took a HUGE dive during the first 8 months or so post op, and then slowly yet surely I hit plateau after plateau. At first I was dropping 10lbs per week! Biggest Loser numbers without the joys of Jillian yelling at me to puke, or die but keep walking. Then after that point everything kind of just stopped. I'd stay the same weight for a week straight, gain a pound or two (how the heck does one GAIN weight after weight loss surgery???) for a week, lose that same pound or two for a week, wash, rinse, and repeat for the last 6 months straight. 

So, sometimes I'd want to blog, but wouldn't because I thought, "I haven't been that successful". Or I'd think, "man, I'm under 300lbs, I should blog!" But then I'd look at a picture and think I didn't really look any different, so I wouldn't. There were times when I thought "I should do a year in review", but then life was just busy with all of the kayaking, spending money, and whatnot, so I wouldn't. 

For the last week or so I've really been struggling with seeing the change. I look in the mirror and think, "I know I've lost weight, but do I still look like that 450lbs girl?" People still come to me and say they see a difference, but after 3 months of the scale telling me there hasn't been a difference, I can't help but think, maybe I haven't done as well as I thought? Next thing I know I'm staring at myself in the full length mirror in the bathroom at work, while drying my hands, thinking, "all of this change, and yet I'm still huge". I just don't see what they see. 

I know I'm probably just dealing with some body dismorphia, but knowing that's true, doesn't change my reflection. 

So, I decided to heck with the scale! It's time to hit up some new goals. Before I had surgery I was a beast in the gym. I was strong, determined, and steadfast, and I want that again. I also ate like a caveman, and felt great about it. 

So the other day a friend of mine at work and I were talking. She wants to lose some weight, and at 268lbs, I've still got plenty to lose myself, so we decided to do a friendly competition. Careful to not make it scale centric, I said, "why don't we take 30 days and stick, hardcore, to a diet? No cheats, and we have to log every single meal on My Fitness Pal before we go to bed at night. So that if I see you in the morning and you haven't logged your food, well, you better not have gone to sleep since yesterday! If one of us cheats, or forgets to log, we have to wash, and detail (interior and exterior) the other person's car! Whatever the scale does, who cares. In the end, we'll have totally changed our health, and worked on atleast one great behavior". Lara bit, and the competition starts tomorrow. What's funny is that since the goal isn't to be better than, or beat the other, I really get to be her biggest cheerleader in this, and vice versa. Competitive Kelly on the softer gentler cycle. I kind of like it. 

So, I'm starting my first diet since surgery. 14 months later and I'm finally going back to the healthy way of eating. I don't know if I'll lose a single pound, and honestly I'm not sure if I care. What I do know, is that I'm going to be a heck of a lot healthier than I was 30 days ago. 

My diet has one rule so far: stay under 40 grams of carbs per day. That's it. My body is VERY carb sensitive. Like flaming diabetic with blood sugar levels over 600 at one point carb sensitive, and I never EVER want to go back.  So reducing carbs has ALWAYS been beneficial for me. I would never recommend that for everyone else. I mean seriously, if I don't even use the same shampoo as you because we have different hair types, why would we assume our diets should be the same? I just know I feel very very healthy on a high protein, high fat, low carbohydrate diet, so for 30 days I'm going back to it. Carbs will be in the form of veggies, and fruit. In that order. Which is the part I dread. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, right? 

But wait! There's more! 

While that's it for the diet challenge with Lara, I'm also going to take the next 90 days and take advantage of the fact that I live with a Personal Trainer (Lord help me). The first 30 days (June 16th - July 16th) I will be developing habits of working out five mornings per week at 6am, and doing yoga two nights per week at 6:15pm. Yep, that means a two a day work out twice per week (except of course at month end...I DO work in the mortgage industry after all). Great habits, and a full month to remind my body what sweat smells like. 

The second 30 days will be spent specifically on building muscle. That means lifting. Heavy. Which also means that I. Will. Be. Sore. But it'll be good. I've lost a lot of my old physical strength, and I want it back. Plus, I ain't gonna lie, now that I can see and feel bones I've NEVER seen nor felt, I kind of think they're weird looking and would like to put some pretty pretty muscle on top of them. July 16th through August 16th is my muscle building time. A lot can happen in 30 days, and I don't have any unreasonable expectations that I'll come out of it looking like Sarah from Chuck, but it'll help, right?

The third 30 day challenge for me (August 16th - September 16th) is for me to work on becoming the thing I've wanted to be since kindergarten. A runner. I've always been slow. I've always had terrible endurance, and month three is the time to change that. Month three is how long and hard can I go. Endurance month. My dream is that after a month I'd be able to run a full mile. 

So, Lara's on board, Erica's on board, and I know I've got the loving support of so many friends and family members. If you want to follow my food on My Fitness Pal, send me a friend request. 

Here's to the healthiest Kelly I've ever been in 90 days! This one ought to be a lot easier on ye olde check book at least. And here's to saying "screw you!" To the mirror when the girl in it lies.

After all, it's just a piece of glass. 

Before challenge pictures today. 

Height: 5'4"

Weight: 268lbs

Tank Top: Size 22/24

Capris: Size 24

Oh, and I NEVER wear a tank top in public...basically because I hate my arms. Buuuut I wanted to have some before pictures that showed my body. Just be thankful I didn't post the ones of me in my sports bra. 

And with THAT mental image...I hope you are all having a very Happy Father's Day!!! Hug your dads.

I'd give anything in the world to be able to hug mine again. 

Free Clothes! Annnnd I'm now accepting Gift Cards....

Hey Everyone! 

So I was going to post this as a Facebook status, but figured I talk WAY too much for that. SO, with that being said, here's a blog post for ya. 

I'm finally cleaning out my closet today. Which is both therapeutic, and possibly something that might lead me to therapy. It's hard to have always been the big girl who couldn't ever find clothes, to just yesterday I was at JC Pennys looking for sheets and glanced at the Women's section and found clothes that would be too big for me. I wasn't the biggest size they carried. I'm smaller than that. In other words, I'm getting more and more normal. 

And that's a little scary for me. 

So my bedroom looks like a tornado hit it. That tornado is called Kelly needs to get rid of anything and everything bigger than a 28. Why a 28 when I'm pushing a 24 now? Because my brain can't wrap around that number, and quite frankly I own like two things in a size 24 or smaller, so if I get rid of everything above a 24 I will either be doing laundry every two days, or extremely naked and stinky. And nobody wants that. Trust me. 

So my once overflowing drawers are becoming extremely bare. My once annoyingly full closet is getting very very empty. And it feels great. But it also feels terrifying, because I don't know that I've settled into my skin yet. The skin that lets me shop at JC Pennys. Or the skin that actually looked decent in a dress the other day. That's right facebookland, I, Kelly Lynch, wore a dress, and it wasn't for a wedding. 

I've actually always loved wearing dresses! I know, no one would believe that since my entire wardrobe has consisted of pants, but I love wearing dresses. I've just never worn them because I was self conscious about my body. My legs, my knees, my hips, and waist. 

Dresses don't hide body parts well, they accentuate them. And I've spent my entire life hiding my body, ashamed of how it looks. So, dresses couldn't be a part of my repertoire. Only last week I decided "screw this, I have a pretty red dress that is quickly getting too big for me, and I want to wear it at least once before I give it away!". So I put that dress on, did my hair up, and put on make up and went to work. 

And I almost pulled into Kohls to buy an outfit before walking in. 

The entire drive into work I did one of two things: I listened to Glee's version of I Feel Pretty/Unpretty, and I talked to one of my best friends on the phone. He was sweet with me. He listened to me drone on and on about being afraid that I would never be more than the side show circus freak, and also being afraid that I might really be pretty, and just never know it. Would I ever accept myself? Would the mirror ever show me kindness? In truth, would I ever show me kindness? 

The answer last week was though my emotions, my brain might be telling me that I was ugly and needed to hide, my actions, my will, was to put on a red dress and show up to work. I decided that though I wasn't feeling it in the slightest, I would act like I was owning that outfit. Fake it 'til you make it, right? And so I drove past Kohls. I walked right up to my office, and in I went to my desk. I didn't even make it to my chair before people on my team were making a huge fuss. I smiled, blushed, acted like it was no big deal, and hung on every word they said. 

I was pretty. 

They thought I was pretty. 

Here I was exposing myself in a way I had always tried to hide, and rather than being mocked, or laughed at, or worse, I was being appreciated and even complimented. I wish I could own that for myself. I wish I could look at me and like Rondale and say "Whaaaaat???" in a way only Rondale can, or like Cynthia say, "Ummm, hello Gorgeous!!" or have Leroy's constant belief that if I look good, I have a hot date. Heck, I still don't think any man would give me a second look, let alone be my hot date, but Leroy thinks I could. Or Bobby, who told me I was owning that dress. 

And I smile, and blush, and act like it's no big deal, while I hang on every word they say. 

But it's not just about wearing the dress. What about all of the comments and texts I've been getting from people telling me how good I look when I post a before and after picture on facebook? They chip away at those walls up around my heart and start to let a little light through. A little light that says, maybe you don't have to hide. Maybe the mirror is a liar. Maybe the mirror is just a piece of glass, and you've been really mean to yourself for a really long time Kell. 

So, today I'm cleaning out my closet. I'm getting rid of all of my size 34, 32, and 30 clothes because I'm not that girl. That was all just a shield to hide who I am. And I'm still trying to figure out who that girl is, but I'm spending less time trying to hide her. I'm a solid 26 now (really I'm a 24, I just don't have very many 24's), and I'm trying to learn how to be ok with that. 

The sad thing is that that red dress was already too big for me. So it's now folded neatly in a black garbage sack to be given away. I only ever wore it once, but I hope it does for some other girl what it did for me. I hope it makes them feel pretty. 

Speaking of...if you or someone you know wants my old clothes, send me a message. I personally know how hard it can be to find clothes that fit, and I've spent more money than I care to share on these clothes (especially since plus sized jeans don't come for anything less than $60 a pair). If you want them, they are all your's! If not, they are going to Good Will this week while I go off to Ireland. And when I come back, I get to be the new Kelly. Well, at least I get to work on being her. 

With a slightly emptier closet. 

This Just Practically Stopped my Heart

September 2012 - 7 months prior to surgery

February 4th 2014 - 10 months post op. 

I think I'm done for the day. Completely blown away. I genuinely didn't know how far I had come. Wow. 

Oh Blogger My Blogger

So I logged on to my blog again today. It's been a while, but after more than a handful of my very kind intentioned friends came to me and said, "Hey crazy! Remember back when you used to write? You should keep doing that" I thought I'd log in and see if this thing still worked. And since passive aggressive is one of the many ways to my heart, right up there with cheesecake and guacamole (though not together...although I say that now, and suddenly I'm wondering if an avocado cheesecake might ACTUALLY be the answer to world peace), I bring to you my latest blog. Hope you enjoy.

Where have I been? Well, this time I have a good excuse, and by good excuse I mean I don't only have the excuse of being lazy. Shortly after I wrote last, my company called upon me to go off to St Louis, MO for three months straight. During winter. That last part was just mean. From October 17th through January 17th I lived out of a suitcase, ate gourmet McDonalds, and met some truly truly wonderful people, all while missing the heck out of my friends and family back home and even my gym. Heck, I even missed my scale, snarky little thing that she is. Every Monday morning I woke up way too early to head to the airport and every Thursday or Friday I came home exhausted hoping I had accomplished something good for my team that week. Every Saturday and Sunday was laundry and sleeping time, only to wash, rinse, and repeat for the next week. I decided I love travelling, but maybe not THAT often.

A lot of times I thought, "Gee, I should write a post about this", or "man, that'd be hilarious on my blog", etc. But most of the time I just worked, or watched Netflix, or talked on the phone in my hotel room. And that's a bit of a shame because there was a lot to catch you up on. So here's one of the stories I wanted to tell you that we missed:

I bought new clothes. Clothes that actually fit. It's amazing what having clothes that actually fit can do for you, and man, I have the BEST built in clothes shopper in the world in the form of my sister in law JoDee. Seriously the only thing that could make her better is a British accent, or a catch phrase like, "make it work". I am now giggling to myself imagining her coming up with catch phrases...most of which would not be appropriate for a family blog like this one.

I have not gotten rid of old clothes yet. I know, I know, I should. I even need to. I just struggle with it. Sometimes it's because I think about the old me and how hard it was to find clothes that fit me, and worry that I won't be able to find clothes again if I get rid of these. Sometimes it's just because I get completely overwhelmed by the size of the task and so I don't do it. "Hey Kell, let's clean out your closet" is beginning to sound a bit like, "Hey Kell, let's go take a stroll up Everest". Both comments are met with an intense level of eye rolling on my part...and in all honesty more than a little bit of, "heck yes!!" from my more adventurous side.

So, what about those clothes? When I walked into Torrid that afternoon with JoDee I was wearing a size 34 pair of jeans. The largest pair of pants I owned at any point in time was a size 36 pair of khaki colored jeans that are now folded neatly in a hall closet so that I never forget, but most of the time in my 400+lbs body I was comfortable in a size 34. Right before surgery though, I was pushing the boundaries of those jeans, and even my 34's were leaving little red circumferences begging my midsection to shrink down just a wee little bit. By the time JoDee and I went shopping, I was spending a good deal of my time walking around holding my pants up lest I get ticketed for public indecency.

JoDee had me try on all kinds of clothes. Casual clothes, clothes for work, etc. I learned the joys of what a nicely layered jacket over a cute blouse with the right structural support (read also "a bra that actually fits" and "Kelly bought her first pair of Spanx") can do for you. But it was the moment when JoDee handed me a pair of jeans and told me to try them on that I wanted to freak out. It's not that I never wore jeans, I practically live in them as soon as I get off of work. It's that these jeans were a size 26. Twenty six. Veintiseis. Vieght-six (according to my French speaking friends...friend...well, Erica who took lots of French....nevermind). The last time I had been a size 26 was in high school when I was a 26/28. All of the sudden my fun time shopping with JoDee was about to become real, and I was going to be met with the mortifying failure all over again.

A little back story (hey, these posts aren't exactly known for being short!)...I had my surgery in April 2013. Earlier that year in January I had gone shopping for jeans. Remember how I said that those 34s were getting a little bit tight? Well, they had gone too far and started getting down right uncomfortable, and every Friday my company allows us to wear jeans, so off to Avenue I went in search of a little bit wider cut version of the 34's. Unfortunately Avenue doesn't carry size 34 jeans. I was bigger than the plus size store. Not allowing that to break my heart too deeply, off to Catherines (another plus sized women's clothing store for, let's say, the more mature vintage of plus sized women) I went to see if I could find a pair of size 34's. Catherine's had always been a good back up, especially if I wanted something that might make me look like I was a grandma. I went in the store empty handed, and I walked out of the store in the same manner. They had 34's, but none of them fit.

While all of Nationstar Mortgage would be able to enjoy jeans on Friday, I would not. 

Because I was too big. I was bigger than big. I was too big.

I came home that night and told Erica that I couldn't find any jeans in my size, but that it was alright, because I should probably wear dress slacks all week and impress the big wigs anyways.

Truth was I was just embarrassed.

So here I was in Torrid with all of these emotions swirling up inside of me as JoDee handed me a pair of 26's. I said, "Do they have any 28's? I really don't think these will fit me. I wasn't even a 26 in high school". To which JoDee confidently said, "Just trust me and go try them on". So trust her I did. Well, sort of. I walked defeatedly into the dressing room, and looked at my newly shrunken body in the mirror. I stared at my smaller hips, and sucked in my ever loosening belly in hopes that I might actually be small enough. And then I just sighed. I knew that these jeans wouldn't fit me, and I looked myself in the eyes and said, "Kell, it's ok if they don't fit. It's ok. They'll fit soon enough. Give yourself time. They'll fit".

Then slowly yet surely I pulled the jeans up.

First step. They fit around my thighs. Heck, they even made my thighs look slim? Huh? THAT'S weird.

Second stop, my hips. No way on God's green earth would 26's come around these "drop a baby like it's hot birthing hips" and yet they slid up and around my hips no problem.

Step three, oh lovely step three, the button and zipper.  Friends, if you think my being able to buckle the belt on an airplane inspired dancing, you should have seen the way I jumped up and down in that dressing room when my new favorite pair of SIZE TWENTY SIX jeans zipped up and buttoned WITHOUT, might I say again, WITHOUT the need for a pair of pliers, or a crowbar of any kind. They zipped, and I almost screamed. Of course screaming in a dressing room is more than likely socially unacceptable, and I didn't want to embarrass JoDee (she was my ride after all), so instead my hands flung to my mouth and I jumped up and down like an idiot in a pair of dark blue size 26 jeans and a bra.

At this point I was done. I was willing too drain my entire savings account and buy every article of clothing this lovely lovely store would sell me, simply because I could. Several jackets, blouses, jeans, slacks, and one adorable red pea coat later (for St Louis of course), I can say I didn't drain my savings, but I did spend more in one shopping trip than I ever had. In. My. Life. But to this day, I get compliments on nearly everything JoDee picked out for me.

Speaking of to this day. I'm wearing those adorable blue jeans right now as I type this. And they are getting a little baggy. I tried on a pair 24's the other night and they fit. I don't even know what to do with that sentence.

I went from 36's to 26's.
I went from 450+lbs to this morning I was 287lbs.
On April 2, 2013 I was 412lbs. That's 125lbs lost in less than a year.

It might be time to clean out my closet.

I wrapped up my traveling at the end of last week. I already miss my team out there, though I'm perfectly content with my Texas weather. My dog has finally stopped giving me attitude for abandoning him, and I'm ready to put my suitcase back in my closet until March when my brother Damien and I are going to Ireland. I'm back to my life, and so I'm back to my blog. Thanks for being patient with me. I have lots more stories to catch you up on, so for now we'll just take them one at a time. Until then, as always, thank you for your love and support. Thank you for being a reason that I smile. And thank you for listening and always giving me a reason to say, "I should write a blog about that". I still haven't figured out a purpose behind this thing at all. I don't have a mission here, or a reason to it, other than just to share my story with you. So, if you're reading this, thank you for being enough of a reason for this shrinking girl to write.

And JoDee, thanks for telling me to "just put it on". You change my life without even knowing it. I should tell you that more often.

Like Riding a Bike

I am currently sitting on my couch a little hot and sweaty and stinky. That might be TMI, or maybe just a deterrent for any future house guests, but it's true. My heart rate is taking a steady slow down, and not just because I'm watching the Virginia Tech Hokies beat up on Pittsburgh, but because I decided to take most of the third quarter to air up my tires and go for my second real bike ride in about 20 years. 

And It. Was. Great. 

I am the proud owner of a mint green Electra Townie bike that I got for my birthday a few years ago. It was my very first bike to have gears, zero streamers, and a complete lack of cartoons on it. I'll admit to being a little sad about the lack of cartoon characters, but happy that I've reached the maturity level where the streamers had to go. 

The day I picked my bike up from Richardson Bike Mart, I had visions of triathlon training dancing in my head. I just knew this bike would only last a few years because I would spend day after day and night after night just wearing it out. It was time to get to know a good repair shop after the hundreds of miles I'd put on those fancy pants gears! Right after I learned how to use them that is. 

So I unloaded my bike from my Ford Escape so excited to finally put the Sport in Sport Utility Vehicle, and set my new weight loss buddy on my drive way. I sized up my new toy:

Extra wide seat

High handle bars

Step through design

Everything a 435lbs girl could want. 

So step through I did. Very suddenly I  realized I hadn't been physically on a bike since I was about 13 years old, and here I was 17 years later with my visions of Century Rides suddenly shrinking down to, "Do I know how to get out of my drive way?!?" Isn't remembering how to ride a bike supposed to be like, well, riding a bike??? 

Spoiler alert, when you are 435lbs, nothing is like riding a bike. Or, maybe as I learned that night, everything is. 

I did make it out of the drive way that night. I made it down our back alley (about three houses in length), and around the corner to the next street over, and I had to stop. I had gone a sum total of about 50 yards, half a football field, and my quads were on fire. I just physically couldn't push myself any further. My extra wide seat was pushing so hard back agains my pelvis that I was actually in pain, and I had silently walked myself through the signs of cardiac arrest more than once in my five minute ride. 

See, when you're 435lbs, not only are you having to push down through that weight, but every time your legs rise with the peddles, you are also pushing through probably 80lbs of pure gut sitting on your thighs. When you lean forward slightly (even on a high handle bar bike), you have the weight of you back, and the girth of your chest pressing on your lungs making it difficult to breathe deeply enough to control your heart. When you're 435 lbs you worry about how you look sitting on top of a dream that is being crushed with every cycle of your now flattened tires. 

So I got off. I looked at my roommate with shame in my eyes and admitted I just couldn't do it. Erica, being the eternal optimist said, "no, you can do it, we just mark this as your next goal. Next time we make it one more house". 

I politely smiled and nodded and walked my bike home knowing I would not get on my bike again any time soon. 

I had been handed a key to my weight loss prison only to find out that someone had changed the lock. 

My mint green Electra bike collected dust and cobwebs for three years. 

Until a couple of weeks ago. A couple of weeks ago I got this wild idea. It was about 75 degrees outside and everything in my screamed that I needed to be out doors! So I looked Erica in the eyes and said, "I want to try riding my bike again". 

I grabbed a towel in the garage and dusted the neglect off of my dream bike wondering if this time around the story might change. My hope and anxiety rose as we put all 26 pounds per square inch of air in the tires, and lifted the kick stand. I had lost 88lbs, and it was time to try dreaming again. 

I swung my leg around on the bike and sat easily on the saddle. What's funny is it seemed like my bike had shrunk and my seat had grown. It wasn't difficult at all to mount the bike, and the handles seemed perfectly placed to keep me in an upright position. I had asked Erica to jog beside me just incase something happened and I took a tumble. I was still 324lbs and you can do a lot of damage when 324lbs meets concrete. So with every confidence that my friend would be beside me, I pushed off. 

Next thing I know I am 13 years old again soaring through the neighborhood with very little effort! My legs are moving with ease. My lungs are breathing deeply the fresh air, and rather than moaning and groaning, I. Am. Laughing. 

I started riding faster than Erica could run. 

I waived at the people in the neighborhood rather than wishing I could hide from them. 

I'm living my dream. 

I'm normal. 

I went about three quarters of a mile that day because Erica was on foot, and I was taking pity on her. But I could have gone further. My quads still ached, but it was because I had worked them, not because I had abused them. My lungs burned, but only because I started to wonder how fast I could make myself go, not because I was moving at all. 

This morning during the third quarter of the Hokie game I looked at Erica again and said, "I want to ride my bike. This time you ride too. I want to see if I can go a full mile, but I only want to go a mile because I need to have a goal and achieve it, not immediately belittle it". Erica understood my fine line I constantly walk between hope and shame and jumped up to get dressed to accommodate. 

And we rode. 

We went one mile, up hills and down them. I learned the difference between 1st gear (for the steep ones), and 3rd gear for the flat road. But we rode. And I laughed. 

And I began to dream again. 

Happy Birthday to Me

Cats on a Plane

So this week had a few firsts for me: 

I was in St Louis all week for work, and it began to become a town I love. Seriously, there were street dancers at one point. It was like living in a musical, which, I'm not gonna lie, would probably be my version of Heaven. Not that I think St Louis is Heaven, but I'd love to see Chuck Berry there so I could show off all of my cool Richland High School dance moves to Johnny B Goode. Let me tell you. They. Are. Cool. 

So on my way back home I'm at the airport, and I notice that my typical window or aisle seat has somehow become the dreaded middle seat. Even though I have fit better and better in my OWN seat, the thought of inconveniencing two people, rather than just one with my inordinate girth causes a girl to stress just a bit. 

So, I asked if there were any window or aisle seats available and they got me one at the back of the plane. With the equivalent of my Golden Ticket, I trotted off to the gate and waited for my ride home. 

I walked down the aisle of the plane increasingly amazed at the fact that I didn't have to turn sideways like so many times before, and found my seat. Because I had checked my bag, I was one of the first groups to board, so I sat patiently waiting for my partner on this ride to show up. He was apparently in the last group to board because I was there for a while. 

As I waited, I began to fidget with different things on the plane sometimes I swear I have the attention span of a gnat.  Glance through the latest issue of Skymall, check. Play a game of solitaire on my Kindle, check. Stare at every passenger that comes by me in a halfway apologetic look that they may be the unlucky soul seated in 26A, check. Then I did something very different for me. I attempted to put on my seatbelt. Ok, so if you've never been in the 400+ pounds club, one thing you might not realize is that not every seatbelt in the world was made with you in mind. Some cars don't fit, and airplanes NEVER do. But airplanes have something that cars don't (which is awesome), called a seatbelt extension. You know those things they do your safety presentation with? Yeah, they actually let you have one to connect to your existing seatbelt to allow some more room. I've had to use one on every single flight I've ever been on, and I've been on a LOT of flights in my life. Granted the length of the extension keeps getting smaller and smaller over my last few sky taxi rides, but I still need it nonetheless. 

So I'm sitting there waiting for my mystery man or woman to show, and I decide to gauge just how far away I am from the seatbelt fitting this time. That way I know that maybe my next trip out it'll work. Or worst case, when I fly to Ireland in March, it'll fit me just fine. Whatever the case may be. As I'm pulling the strap across my hips, guys, the most insane thing happens. I'm sure with all of this build up you've already guessed. 

It CLICKS!!!!!

Cue Queen's We Are The Champions. I swear streamers fell from the oxygen mask's storage area, and a round of champaign was available for all. 

After receiving congratulations from every passenger on the plane (in my imaginary world of course), I noticed a nice looking fellow walk up and stand beside me as he lifted his bag in the overhead compartment. 

Oh no!! I just buckled my seat belt!!! What if after he sits next to me I'm not able to do it again! This was my first time ever! Go back to the front of the plane!!! I left a nice middle seat open about 15 rows up for you. Don't make me take off my seatbelt, I might not be able to get it back on, an I JUST retired my membership to the seatbelt extension club. 

Dang it. 

So I unclicked my favorite seatbelt on planet earth and stood up so that he could grab his window seat. I gave my apologetic smile as he ambled past me. 

Down my butt went to my new seat of disappointment. Surely my moment of celebration was over. But I was going to give it another shot. I wiggled a bit, sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold, and

IT CLICKED!!!!

Re-cue We Are The Champions only this time with my seat mate joining in with a cigarette lighter app on his iPhone. No sense in going crazy thinking we could have a live flame on the plane. 

Today seatbelt, next flight...tray table!!! Yeah, I gave it a shot, and no, that still doesn't quite go all the way down. But hey! My seatbelt clicked clicked clickitty clicked!! 

84 pounds makes a difference. 

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention? I'VE LOST EIGHTY FOUR POUNDS!! As of this morning I'm 328.0 lbs, for a grand total of eighty four pounds of Kelly gone. 

So back to the flight. As I was sitting  there basking in my skinnyness, the plane began to leap into the sky, and I heard a meowing.

All I could think was "WHO THE HECK DIDN'T TURN OFF THEIR CELL PHONE?!?!" All of my Kenpo lessons started coming to mind as I thought about how I would take down this teeny bopper terrorist with the meowing cat ringtone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, Kelly Lynch, would have been the hero. I probably need a cape as I already had the theme music from this flight. 

Then I heard the flight attendant come on the speakers: "excuse me ladies and gentlemen, would the owner of the cat currently walking down the aisle of the airplane please retrieve your passenger?"

Every head on the plane suddenly leaned in to see the most adorable white kitten walking lost down the middle aisle of our ride. I'm not sure if she was taking drink orders or not, but I thought to myself, "the only way this flight could possibly get any better was if they handed out winning lotto tickets at the baggage claim back home!!!"  

But I was wrong. As the lady behind me jumped from her seat to grab the cat and wrestle her back into her "carry on" a second (I can't make this up) cat emerged and began the same trek down the aisle of the air plane! He only made it a couple of rows before the guy in front of me caught him and passed him back. 

Seriously. I had lost 84 pounds, fit in a seat belt, AND snuggled an adorable kitty cat on the best flight of my life. 

Welcome Home Me!!

Catching Up

I feel like I've written a thousand blog posts. But I haven't. They've all been in my head. 

So in my head I share with everyone about how I went on an airplane at the end of July for the first time post op, and how I didn't even touch the person next to me. 

Or I just know I wrote about how hard getting back in the gym has been, and how soul crushing it can be to see how much weaker I am. 

In my mind I wrote about taking my nieces to LegoLand, and how I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to ride the ride in there, and even if I could I wouldn't be able to peddle. I was so afraid of being embarrassed in front of them that I was having a mild anxiety attack in line. But then I got on, and I fit. I fit, and I peddled my heart out the entire way. 

I was almost sure I had a blog or two about training for this 5k and how far I had fallen behind. And about the constant battle in my brain between determination and shame. Maybe one day I'll actually learn mercy in the middle. 

But then I logged on just now and saw that none of that was there. It was all just in my mind. And truly, I'm ok with that. 

Except that I'm not. 

Because I think this blog, as silly as I genuinely believe it is, has become something so much more. It's become a place to share my heart. Throw all of those thoughts and feelings into the nebulous web, and you, yes you, actually give a damn. Partially, I think because you just care about me, your friend, your sister, daughter, cousin, co-worker, whatever I am to you, but also because I think that in throwing all of this out there I get to just say "sometimes life is hard", and that's something we can all relate to. 

So, yes, my journey is to lose dang near 300lbs, and maybe you've got 20 to lose, but both are seemingly impossible mountains. Maybe it's not weight at all. Maybe it's getting over fear, or shame, or just knowing that there's a stinking goal in front of you that you want to run through, and reading this blog simply means nothing more than you're not alone. 

But that's saying a whole lot, isn't it? 

You're not alone. 

I'm here. And I'm sorry I haven't taken the time to write more. Please forgive me.

This morning I got an email from a woman who doesn't know how much she has meant to me. Her daughter was my first best friend when my family moved to Fort Worth. Her son one of my brother's best friends and therefore one of my first crushes at the age of 6. She and my mom were best friends, and because of that I got to see a side to my Mom that I grew up idolizing. They were fun together, they sang and laughed, rode horses, and I wanted to be just like them. 

I don't know what happened, other than just life. Time and distance can part the closest of friendships, and I kinda hate that, but I also understand. So this morning when I got an email from her I was instantly excited to see what was going on in this wonderful woman's life. What I read crushed me.

She has cancer. 

It's treatable. But it's cancer. 

She has cancer, and in her email she is encouraging me to keep writing and sharing my journey with her, you, and everybody. Some stupid blog about losing weight, which half of the time I still think I cheated on by having surgery, except that the surgery saved my life. 

But then that's when I realized that this isn't some stupid blog about losing weight. 

It's about hope. 

Hope that death and disease doesn't win out just yet.

Hope that even when it's impossibly hard, there is grace. There is mercy. And there is a new day coming. 

Hope that we can laugh at ourselves. 

Hope that its ok that we cry. 

Hope that even if all we can do is breathe and blink today, that there might be singing and dancing to come. 

So here's to you Jody. Here's to you and all of the Jody's and Kelly's out there. Whether its cancer, or weight, or a struggling marriage, or financial trouble, sick children, or just the fear that you went too far to be forgiven this time. 

Here's to hope. 

And to the One who fulfills it. 

Conflicted Feelings

I met with one of my best friends this morning for coffee. We get together every Friday, and it's seriously one of my favorite moments of the week. I don't know if she knows that or not, but it's true. Typically we meet up at my friend's office at 6am, grab our Bibles, catch up for a bit, share the burdens on our hearts, and then hopefully dive in to the Word together. This morning was no different, except for one thing...I forgot my keys to my friend's office. So instead of a conference room we met at Starbucks. 

When we got our drinks (a grande sugar free hazelnut iced coffee with milk for me, and water for her - my drink was far better, but her's was a lot easier to type out!), we made our way to our chairs. Since it was 6am we had our pick of where we would like to sit, and Ginny headed straight for the big comfy chairs. 

I panicked a little. 

See, I've never been comfortable in the big comfy chairs. When you're 400+ pounds, your hips are too wide for anything to be really comfy. But because these are the "big comfy chairs" you can't really speak up because, hey! These are the big chairs! And did I mention how comfy they are? So you sit, and try not to fidget while your hips begin to bruise. 

I can't tell you how many times in my life I've tried not to fidget while my hips began to bruise. And that sentence alone makes me want to cry. 

So I walked over behind Ginny and took my seat. To my utter astonishment, not only did my hips not come anywhere near the sides of the chairs, I could actually put my arms down between my hips and the chair sides. I couldn't believe it. I fit. 

At one point in the conversation, I leaned forward and put my elbows on my thighs. This sounds pretty banal to put in a blog post, but guys, I've always had too much stomach for my elbows to touch anything let alone my thighs. I've only ever leaned on tables. Now I can lean on me! This is a totally new body position for me. 

Every time I drive a car, my first step is to push the seat all the way back in order to give my stomach and butt enough room to cohabit the front seat. This past week I've been spending my time scooting the seats forward. I get to drive with my whole foot, not my toes. 

I've lost 67 pounds, and while I should be thrilled with all of these changes, and for a moment I am, I can't help but feel like a stranger in my own body. Today it has hit me harder than other days. I keep telling myself "I'm still me. I'm still me. Just a smaller version of me. But I'm still me." Only to look down and see so much less of me than I ever thought possible. And I know I'm going to lose so much more weight. 

I've lost just over 25% of my excess body weight. I've felt ribs coming out, run further than ever before, climbed onto structures I wouldn't have even dared 100 pounds ago, and danced around like an idiot at the computer generated voice telling me I was finally under 350. 

And today I have wanted to cry. 

Before it's always been because I was overwhelmed with joy. And I am. I'm truly shocked and excited about my weight loss. 

But today it's because that little joy stealing voice in my brain whispering that I'm not Kelly Lynch anymore. I'm too small. And too vulnerable to be her. Kelly Lynch is a strong woman who can take on the world and come up smiling through the bruises. But this girl. This girl who used to weigh over 450 pounds, and now weighs 345 pounds. She's not me. She can run, and climb, and sit, and stand, and do all of the things Kelly wished she could do. 

Identity is a tricky thing. My identity has betrayed me. I was always just the fat girl. And don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware that I still have 200 pounds to go, but it's not 300 pounds anymore. I'm 40 pounds away from where I was in high school. I tell people I'm 32 and they don't believe me. I can't fit in most of my clothes, but I'm terrified to give them away. Shopping was always so hard when you are the largest size in the plus sized stores. Now I have no clue what size I am, and I'm afraid of finding out. Because it means I'm not that girl anymore. So who the hell am I? 

I can give you a LOT of very correct answers to that. Remember, I have both a degree in Biblical Studies, and a degree in Psychology. I basically majored in Identity in College. Wanna play theological or psycho-social, I can hang. But that 12 inch dive from my head to my heart is a whole 'nother thing. Going from cognition to knowing is a much longer journey. 

So today I keep just telling myself that I'm still me. I'm just a me that understands the attraction to big comfy chairs now. I'm the me that sits a little closer to the steering wheel. And I'm the me that will continue to look like a homeless person if I don't go shopping soon. But I'm still me. I'm Kelly. And I'm not going anywhere. Even if I feel like I am. 

And I can't tell you how much I need a hug right now. 

From Day 9 to Day 61

I am officially two months in!!!

I started the pre-op diet on April 2nd, and today is June 3rd, so I'm two months and one day in. Which is, let me tell you, plenty of time to see a HUGE difference!

My stomach no longer touches the steering wheel when I'm driving.

I can officially run. I have the stamina of a snail, but I can do it.

Someone went in and stretched out all of my clothes. Seriously. I was wearing a pair of jeans a couple of weekends ago, and walking through Austin when I suddenly realized that the only thing holding my jeans on my body was my shirt that was tapered at the bottom. I probably wouldn't be the first person to drop my pants on 6th Street, but it's a club I never had any intention of joining.

Speaking of Austin...a guy flirted with me. At first I thought he was trying to sell me something, but then I realized that he was really just flirting with me. How did I realize this? My much hotter than me roommate came walking up and he shifted gears to her, and clearly flirted...dang her. But he was flirting with me first!

Did I mention that none of my clothes fit me anymore? Except for the old stuff, which people keep asking me if they are new stuff, and I just keep lying and saying "yes" because it just seems like too much to go into the whole thing. So, yes, this is new. Or at least was new in 2003.

At work my new nicknames have become "Slim" and "Skinny Minnie". I'm fully aware that they are being kind, and that it is also an HR violation to just call me "Hot Stuff", so I'll take it.

I have had zero hip, knee, and ankle pain. Zero.

I also dropped some muscle unfortunately. I think my seven year old niece can probably bench press the same amount as I can right now. BUT, I am now cleared to lift weights, so that will change soon.

Oh, and the diabetes? Completely GONE. Zero insulin, and I've been on a completely open diet for a couple of weeks now. In other words, I can eat a cookie and my blood sugar stays well within range. Did you catch that folks? This is huge for me! No oral meds, no injections, no risks for stroke, or going blind, or any of the other crazy things that commercials freak you out about. If this were my only benefit from surgery, it would be enough.

Oh, and then there's that little thing of

I've Lost 50 Pounds!!!!

That's right...as of today I have lost a Border Collie. Two giant bags of dog food. Ten 5lbs bags of sugar. Five of my new nephew Colin who came in at 9lbs 3 ozs. 

As of 7:30 this morning my body no longer holds any of that. And I'm super excited.

This has not been the easiest journey in the world, but I have zero regrets. My original goal was to lose 100lbs by my birthday in October...if I keep this up, i'll have it by August. 

And I can't wait!!!! 

On April 2nd I weighed 412 pound.

On June 3rd I weighed 362 pounds. 

This is what a 50lbs weight loss journey looks like.

And yes, those two weeks in April/May when my weight kept going up and down ticked me off.

But then the scale moved once again. 

This is probably something I should remember.