Warning: Parentheses Ahead!

This afternoon, I had my first appointment with the nutritionist at the bariatric surgeon's office. It didn't help that she was a slender young thing, by which I mean, I've weighed over 200 pounds since before she was born (No lie, she's somewhere on the sunny side of 35...and did I mention she's tiny?).

But she's a nice kid, and didn't badger me, and...well, I managed to gain about ten pounds since I went in for my intake interview last month, so when she asked me to set a goal for this month, I said losing the weight I put on this month. (A lot of which is water...my calves and ankles are a barometer of how much I'm retaining.) I pledged to drink 64 oz of water every day, consume at least 2 servings of fruits and vegetables, and pay careful attention to portion sizes, with an eye to reducing overall consumption. *sigh*

Meaning after the appointment, I got GK to drop me at the store (got a Lyft home) and dropped $52 on groceries, mostly produce (fucking pricey!) and a few peripheral things like salad dressings and olive oil cooking spray--and nut juice (If it doesn't come from a mammal or a coconut, it ain't milk!).

The surgeon/his staff are all about plant-based diets. Me, not so much. But what the hell, I have to lose 10% of my body weight before the surgery (and I suspect it'll be last month's weight that they go by), so if that's what I have to go along with to get there--!

He isn't the only bariatric surgeon in town, but he's got the most experience/best reputation, so even though I'm having to jump through 500% more hoops than Medicare requires in his program, I'm unwillingly willing to do it because you get what you pay for. In this case, I figure my chances of a) not dying, or b) not having complications are better with him, so I'll do what I have to to get that far. Afterward...it's not like he can repossess my stomach, right?

Meanwhile, GK, who is still in red-hot moving mode, has thinned out her closet, leaving only clothes in black, red and blue, making me the recipient of several lovely frocks (and one absolutely hideous one, but one item out of seven isn't bad) and a couple tops and a skirt.

I wasn't lying when I told the nutritionist that I want this surgery for my health. It's true: I want to get off all these damn meds, and I'd like to be able to go places and do things without running out of steam 20 minutes in, but most of all, I'd like to be able to wear drop-dead clothes without looking ridiculous. (I want a killer leather jacket and/or coat--maybe with some wicked knee-high boots. I've been looking in every thrift shop I've been in, but forget being cute in leather at anything over size 16.)

According to the BMI chart in the notebook I was given on my previous visit, the high end of my "normal" weight is around 165. I can't even--! The last time I weighed that was for about six minutes back in 1973, and I wasn't full grown yet. Honestly, I'd be perfectly thrilled with anything reliably under 200. My imagination boggles violently at the idea of 35 pounds (or more) less than that...but it could happen.

I go back again next month, date to be determined. Between now and then, I get to live on salad, work my way through my pantry--I can't afford to just toss it all, regardless of its nutritional deficiencies--and try to simulate enthusiasm for the whole process. Zippety-fucking-doo-dah.

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Domestic exertions

Today's exercise has consisted of assembling all my tools in one place--at least all the ones I can find. This involves moving and bending and lifting and has my back grumbling, but it's done. I have a decorative white chest GK gave me, a flat-bottomed tote with multiple pockets and compartments that was a long-ago gift from AI, and a plain old cardboard box with the overflow. I've moved them all to the big bookcase in the far corner of the living room. (It also houses things like my adult coloring books and coloring supplies and my scrapbooks. The top shelf is currently my Frank Lloyd Wright shrine.)

That isn't a long-term solution, I know, but at least they're all in one place and I can find them. It gives me a chance to get things sorted and eventually organized. What I'd like to do, once I have the dresser done and off the porch, is to replace it with something that will serve as a workbench/place to keep my tools, some kind of credenza or another dresser. I've gotten used to having that nice, flat surface as I come in the door where I can set down bags and bring them inside in relays. The good thing about having drawers and/or compartments is, not leaving anything in plain sight to attract thieves. ABQ, alas, has an awful crime rate.

Yesterday, GK promised that while Mr. GK is out of town in a couple weeks, she'll come by and we'll get the shelf up in my bedroom. Yay, I can get the hats and hatboxes off the breakfast bar! In order to make maneuvering in the bedroom as easy as possible, I need to get the damn clothes boxes out of there. That will make room for the dresser, too, which really will make my life easier!

At the moment/since I've been here, my closet has been full of a bunch of stuff hung up that really ought to be folded in a drawer but isn't, simply because I've HAD no drawers. My dryer is literally a foot deep with a pile of whatever, and I need to do laundry, but first I need to clear off the top of the washer. Hang all that, hang the stuff in the damn boxes...either that, or bale it into the empty plastic bins for now. I know it's a process, I know it isn't going to happen overnight, I know it's going to take effort on my part, I know it'll be worth it...when it's done.

Meh. Time for nosh.

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