beginning

Losing weight is the hardest thing I've ever done. Keeping it off impossible. I am weary of hearing skinny people say that losing weight is easy. Maybe for them. It's never been easy for me.

Here I am, 360 pounds, plus or minus a dozen or so. Gotta have a special scale when you get that big, eh? This is the rebound from a weight loss of half a dozen years ago. Always, it returns. Always.

Is there a solution? I don't know. But I do know that in order to live, I have to get some weight off. If I want to have any kind of a decent life, it's got to go.

And then there are my legs. Led Zeppelin insists that a Big Legged Woman ain't got no soul. Maybe. But she does have big legs and mine, honey, they are whoppers.

I look at women who've struggled with weight and it seems we fall into two varieties: those who have dealt with weight all of our lives tend to have heavier arms and legs, narrower waists and less tummy than our sisters who have only acquired the curse later in life.

In my younger days, I really liked the look of my body. Big ass, round thighs, flat tummy, tiny waist. As I've lost and regained weight repeatedly, more of the fat has settled in the area between ass and knees and it is uncomfortable. It's so uncomfortable that I've begun to think there's something else amiss, lymphedema or lipidema, both of which cause swelling and pain in the limbs. I expect it's the latter. Either way, I have to work up my courage to get some help with that.

My legs hurt. I am fat. I am less fat than I once was but I hurt more. Such is getting older as a fat woman.

Here's the deal: I don't want to end up in a motorized cart because of my obesity. Whatever it takes. Amen.