Be The Inspiration

Now that my body is 2.5 years into its transformation I’m experiencing a new change. Once diagnosed with Hashimoto's the weight loss was shockingly fast, now after a year of a consistent body weight I feel my strength and stamina increasing in leaps and bounds.

My body amazes me, it’s this wondrous machine that constantly morphs and fills me with awe and amazement. Sure last year my body decided to fall apart and send me into an emotional spiral of anxiety and depression, that was ‘wondrous’ too, but more like a – what the fuck is going on with you – wondrous. Now I’m pushing hard and getting stronger and much to my enjoyment discovering inspiration from an endless fountain of awesomeness - and that fresh spring of power is ME!

Several weeks ago while plowing through my Tuesday spinning class I approached my scheduled breaking point…the body wrecking hill climb. For months I visualized Swason powering through her marathon training or Sweets calling out to me “Just a little further, you are so strong!” to pump a droplet of inspiration into my melting body but that day I did not call upon my virtual cheerleaders, that day I thought, “My legs are amazing, they are strong, and not only CAN I do this, but I have done it and I am AWESOME!” That day I became my own inspiration, my body, my soul, my tenacity is what inspired me, and continues to keep my adventure legs pushing stronger and further.

I try to remember how remarkable my powerful body is especially when my eyes fall to the areas of my skin that are scarred from the previous 40 years of body noncompliance. It sucks, and I don’t want to hate my body (I never did when I was larger), but I do have feelings of being cheated by biochemistry. Sure I could pay thousands of dollars for plastic surgery to remove the sagging elephant skin on my legs and tummy (I have stopped looking at my butt, I just like to assume it is juicy and full), but really shouldn’t I get my stupid dead tooth fixed first? Or maybe I should use that cash (that I don’t have) for something fun like a trip to Bali… ya see how that wrinkly skin doesn’t seem so bad anymore… ahhhh Bali.

Recently when a wave of body ughhhhh wafted over me I immediately signed up for a beginners stand up paddle board class and I killed it! I flew past those perfectly flawless skinned chicks and was the prized pupil, garnering praise from the instructor as well as my co-paddlers. My body does things, strong things, difficult things, and I know for certain that one hour of stand up paddle boarding is far superior to one saggy wrinkled tummy. Continuing on my strong body love-fest I did something last week that I have NEVER done before, I purchased a two piece athletic “bathing costume” (feels weird calling it a bathing suit). Even though my middle parts have not felt the warmth of direct sun since the age of 3 I decided to do it – buy an athletic sports bra swimming top and a cute pair of swimmy shorts so that my next venture out on the rental board will be a triumph for both my body and my head – crap I’m gonna need some SPF 70.

Who Am I?

I mean, for reals, I look in the mirror and I’m all “Who is this person”? The update on the weight loss/ screw you Hashimoto's I’m doing the work around on you – is that since mid January I’ve dropped 37 pounds – wholly WHAT!? There has been some tweaking of my prescription after Hashimoto kicked it up a notch. You know sometimes a body that’s been broken for 40 years just does not take kindly to changing its ways, but as of last week my blood work was super fine. I’ve gone from looking into the mirror at the gym and thinking, hmmmmm I’m not this round in REAL life to staring in wonder at my square shoulders and shrinking waist and thinking…. Actually not thinking, it’s a total brain fuck.

None of my clothes fit, they are all about 3 sizes too big.  I know that may seem really cool to most of you BUT I have a HUGE wardrobe with tons of really nice things and nothing to wear. Work trousers that I wore just 9 months ago that fit so close to my hips I sewed the pockets shut so they wouldn’t bulge fell OFF last week when I tried them on. I ended up emptying my closet of all pants/ jeans/ skirts and dresses that were purchased any time prior to July. My bras are pathetic, well actually my bras are outstanding, my boobs are underwhelming, and good lord my ass!  What happened back there?  I’ve bought a few new bras and 2 new pairs of paints, but it is kinda stressing me out thinking about the expense of a whole new wardrobe. What I need now is a Sugar Daddy to support my shopping spree.

I still have not felt any physical changes; it’s all psychological and emotional. I am really pissed off at every doctor over the previous 39 years of my life who decided instead of diagnosing a genetic autoimmune disorder to guilt me, instill poor body image and lecture me about my dooming obesity and  pre -  “whatever” condition they decided to fling at me as a medical scare tactic. FYI – there is no such thing as a PRE illness, either you are ill or you or not. I can’t TELL you how many times my old GP told me, “You are PRE diabetic” until one day I asked, “How bad is my sugar level?” her answer, “It’s fine, in the normal range BUT at your weight you are pre-diabetic” THAT MAKES NO SENSE! I guess I could be pre- anything, I’m a woman who grew up on Long Island and lots of women from LI have breast cancer so go ahead, diagnose me with pre-breast cancer, no not that I HAVE cancer but…. you know it’s all the same.  

 My other ‘thing’ that just recently has been screwing with my head is being called…. Beautiful. Like really sincerely labeled beautiful. The other day a friend flung that word at me, out of the blue, totally random with no pretext and I cried (I’m welling up just typing this). It’s so F’ed up cause I can be called a fat piece of shit and walk away with my head held high with sass, but beautiful, it broke me down.

I saw Swason the other day and she was shocked at my appearance, and I have to admit, so am I. She left for tour and made me promise to stop shrinking, I will try. Also another friend informed me that I can really ONLY hold onto my fat girl kick ass personality for 2 more dress sizes then it’s Bye Bye raucous funny girl and hello vapid introverted boring chick, that’s just the rules… crap!

Get It Together Body!

Nice going body, after I heaped on the accolades last week you up and revolt, great. Yep my blood work came back to reveal, to my doctor’s dismay, that my thyroid is kickin’ the synthoid’s booty. My hormones are so out of wack (again) that my Doctor called to ask, “Are you still TAKING the synthroid?” COME ON, really? Doc thinks that maybe I got a bad batch of meds (that’s frightening) and/ or I need to up my dosage. Looks like my fat ass is all pissed off that my thyroid is burning off all the juicy-ness that it worked so hard to store. Ass… thyroid… can’t you two just get along?

While I had Doc on the line I took the opportunity to share the news of my weight loss to which she responded “Really?” Odd response I thought from a doctor who in January said, “I’m not worried about your weight but I would like to see you lose 10 or 20 pounds.” So now I’m on a new dosage and scheduled to actually SEE my doctor in a month, I guess to prove to her that my thyroid is actually responding to the medication by burning up my brick store house.

I’ve also noticed that body is going though what I can only call “shrinking pains”, thanks again body. Over the weekend my Mom said, “Wow you must feel SO great now that you lost all that weight!” When actually I feel the same or sometimes worse. You see I never FELT fat, I guess some people do, I never did (do). I have always been strong, not fast but strong. I’ve never had a problem on my 4 flights of stairs lugging up everything from my 10 bags of groceries, to my bulging 75lb. suitcase, from my 55lb. dishwasher to my tall wooden dresser. Even when I was 45 lbs. heavier I never had a problem on the subway stairs or walking for hours around the city. I never had the feeling that I was encumbered, nothing hurt, nothing was sore, I wasn’t short of breath or drenched in perspiration. All those stereotypical “fat person” ailments didn’t exist for me. But now that I’m lighter my legs are KILLING ME. No really I feel like an old lady, it’s pathetic.

On Tuesday I asked Dr. Pico to give my knees a poke and he was all “WOAH, your knee caps!” He feels that my knee caps are engaged in a tug of war of death with my leg muscles but with some frequent focused stretches I may be able to release my knees from the fiery fist of my thighs. And again – BODY GET IT TOGETHER – come on!

In my non-medical expertise I blame this knee cap cage match on the proliferation of “squats” that have permeated my week. Why is EVERY trainer coo-coo for squats? I got pulsing squats, slow squats, sumo squats, squats with lunges, squats with weights, you name it… they got a squat for it. And you know what else they got, they got a sadistic streak cause just when my body is on the razor’s edge of complete collapse they yell “GET LOWER” – screw you squat.

Fat Is The New Bed Bug

Mom and I hosted our biennial yard sale spectacular this past weekend at Chez Louis and along with our butt load of exquisite valuables, priced at $4 or less, we stocked our exclusive lady’s salon (AKA the garage) with over 200 pieces of clothing, shoes, accessories, handbags, etc… Funny that even after this MAJOR purge my closets are still bursting – not sure how that happens – however I was really happy to offer up some fantastic fashions (and bargains) for my wide hipped sisters since my mountain of clothes ranged in sizes 16 to 22. Trousers, capris, skirts, blouses, sweaters, TONS of jeans and even a few gala dresses - good lord I could outfit every luscious booty east of The Shinnecock Canal! I couldn’t wait for the masses to arrive so I could play stylist for the chunksters of the east end, but what I got instead was an afternoon of fat shaming – WTF!!??

As shoppers approached the garage entrance I greeted them with a wide smile and announced “We have sizes from Large to Size 22 and shoes in sizes 10 and 11! To which I would receive either a laugh of disbelief or a look of horror. These traumatized women could not turn on their heels fast enough to scurry away from the garage of obesity. It was bizarre. Women would look at me, scrunch up their noses and shake their heads in disgust. Many asked “Size 22!? Who wears a 22? Oh my GOD, that's CRAZY!” Hmmmm.. let’s see… you are standing in MY driveway… with all of MY stuff for sale…. Hmmmm I WONDER whose clothes they may be? THEY ARE MINE you fuckin’ idiot!!! And those GIANT size 10 shoes are mine too, and by the way those size 11 shoes that you just lost your lunch over are my mother’s.

I was shocked by how easily the fat shame flowed off these women’s lips directly into my face. They were visually repulsed just by the thought of being in the vicinity of THOSE clothes and they had no qualms about sharing their disgust with me. I guess now that I don't LOOK like a woman who wears a size 16 (whatever that means) these size bitches felt that I could be “in” on the secret that all women who wear a 16 or greater are to be mocked and shamed but only behind their backs - to their faces they should be pitied.

I’m not delusional; I know women despise lard asses, but I never experienced such a self-righteous outward expression of revulsion pertaining to the physical existence of a clothing size …clothing that was manufactured to fit my body, my size, clothing that I wore, that I rocked.

Odd how so many women get attached to a number printed on a thin tab of cloth sewn into a garment, I just put clothes on my body and whatever fits I buy. The sizing numbers are totally random, my closet houses garments from a Large to a 2X, and they all fit.

Oh and by the way peeps, a size 12 in 1985 is the same as a size 5 – 6 in 2011. I looked up the standard Misses sizing specifically for 1985 because it was a watershed year for me as a fatty; it was the moment at age 14 that I outgrew the Misses department and hence began my relationship with fashion fat shaming. My mother, hoping that she could embarrass and induce enough low self esteem in my obese brain that it would magically melt the fat off my body kept the existence of Lane Bryant a secret and since stores didn’t carry anything over a size 12, I was just shit out of luck. It’s so strange to look back now at the standard sizing measurements to discover that I would have only been a size 7-8 by today’s Misses sizing, but by 1985’s standards I was TOO HUGE for clothes, but perfect for moo-moos. The shame I felt because I was unable to fit into any clothes (besides stirrup pants and over sized sweatshirts) was overwhelming as was the harassment and bullying from my High School classmates (well not really “mates”). But I got through it and found my sass and discovered the world (though very hidden) of plus sized clothing – it does get better. But now here in my driveway 25+ years later I was still battling the perception that fat women should be ashamed of their clothing size and really wouldn’t the world just be a better place if all women over a size 14 be outfitted for a mandatory burka?

On a similar note – even after dropping 40 pounds over the past 4 years I am STILL too fat for the Jitney. Just this past Friday I was once again the LAST passenger to get a seat partner on a packed buss. FOUR passengers looked at the perfectly EMPTY seat next to me then turned and asked the women across the aisle to remove her bag so they could sit next to her, she refused, they moved on to the rear of the bus. Really… really?

Out of Body Experience

Haven’t blogged for a while so I thought I should check in.

I’m still trying to get my head and body around this Hashimoto’s thang. For over ten years I’ve been extremely content with my size and weight, I didn’t even own a scale. My size/ weight fluctuated but what remained constant was my emotional balance. Prior to coming to my happy place I dieted and exercised for 20 years with NO results, except emotional despair, guilt and self loathing. I was accused of lying by family members, doctors and acquaintances when asked about my eating habits and physical activity. Time and time again I was brought to tears by the frustration of it all, not the frustration of the hard work without any results but mostly by the frustration of nobody believing me. My body and I were at odds, completely disengaged, I was so done attacking myself that I finally gave in and just LIVED. I kept going to the gym and shaking my bon bon but NEVER thought of a scale or my pants size, what mattered was that I was out and about, NOT what my body looked like. We could live separate but equal, I would keep doing what I was doing and it could just keep doing nothing. Now that we were on the same page I could manage my expectations (which were nil) and all was rainbows and unicorns.

Fast forward a few years. While in grad school 3 years ago I dropped 20 pounds with no effort. I was totally underwhelmed and emotionally detached for I knew NOT to assign any gravity to this weight loss. My body has a history of untrustworthy behavior so I refused to allow my head to buy into this morph. Looking back I am confident (thanks to my superior self diagnosis skills and google) that due to the16 months of extreme stress I mainlined my thyroid with all those wacky hormones it was lacking thereby turning me into normal person who burns and stores. Now with the addition of my thyroid meds my body is totally changing, pounds are falling off as well as my pants… but… I can’t get roped in. I don’t want to become attached to this loss because I am so frightened that something will snap, my pants will tighten up and I will be left in the gutter broken hearted. It has taken me so long to be happy in my head, detached from the physical, yet I feel that with each fraction of an inch off my hips I am setting myself up for emotional failure. I started weighing myself at the Y, just once a month, but even so I went into a total tail spin a few weeks ago when I discovered that I had gained a HALF a pound. Poor Swason had to text me off the ledge when I feverishly typed out my crazy into my blackberry. Turns out it was a fluke, I actually lost weight, but still…. I HATE that I care. My body is like a mermaid summoning my head into the cold deep waters, I know it’s dangerous in there…but I’m just so curious…oooo sparkly… maybe something good is there… I’m just gonna take a shallow dive under…

Stop Hating On My Lady Parts

Sadness, Perky Bottoms is on a medical leave of absence from the YMCA and while she’s off cooling her heals I am stuck with a substitute instructor that… um… is a douche bag. This interim fitness dude is the same guy who teaches all the hard core boot camp classes and other random sweat till you vomit your right lung through your left nostril nonsense – but ahem…. Pardon et vous, this is a step class so maybe DROP the incessant drill sergeant barking son, OK?

On top of his abrasive bug dog demeanor this guy is also one of my least favorite types of Gays, he is the woman hating gay. Not only does he hate woman he assumes that we also hate ourselves and secretly wish were hard bodied, fully waxed, with a 9 inch schlong throbbing between… ok you get it. I’ve experienced these Gays before at other gyms, they attempt to motivate by yelling at a room full of women, “You don’t want those hips!!!”, “Summer is coming soon, work off that ass ladies!!”, “Pull those arms in closer, you want to lose that chest”. HOLD UP! REALLY? Why would I EVER want to lose my money makers? These round soft spots are my parts that make me a woman, and true though I may not be the preferred dish on the majority of American Males’ menus the discerning connoisseurs that ARE worshiping at this temple would be sorely remiss if I lost my lady lumps.

I am all for getting to a place where each individual feels their best, for some that is flat and hard, and for others it’s curvy and soft – or any place on the spectrum in between. I’m also fine with an instructor utilizing GENDER NEUTRAL verbiage to target body parts, but to listen to a man screaming at a room of woman for an hour about how much they all must HATE their unattractive womanly bodies, and if you didn’t you should now, makes me want to smother this smug tiny tot between my two heaving breasts.

Yoga Ain’t Ready For This Jelly

On Friday nights when I’m not out kicking up a rumpus I’ve committed myself to FAST walking 2 miles on the track and an hour of Family Yoga at the Y.

Last Friday was only my second appearance at Family Yoga but I was feeling rather confident, I mean sure those 7 year olds may be limber but I got focus and my OHMing rocks– eat it kids.

Our class is headed by a very sweet compact Chinese woman who quietly guides us into postures with instructions such as “Pace yor hans on yor ties”. I know it is awful (well awful awesome) but I LOVE it every time she says ‘ties’.

This past Friday we began by perching our bottoms on a firm foam brick, crossing our legs and sitting tall and relaxed. This I got. I sat with my shoulders down, head up, chest out, clear mind, while Miss. Susie circulated around the class of fidgety children adjusting their posture. Once again kids – big deal so you can put your foot behind your head – I can SIT – I rule this class.

Miss. Susie finally arrived at my mat. As she stood at my back she gently laid a soft hand on my left shoulder, leaned in and quietly said, “You should be sitting on a brick”. I turned my head over my shoulder and with a cocked eyebrow I responded, “I am.

”YES my bottom is THAT luscious that I engulfed the ENTIRE BRICK!

Miss. Susie was mortified, I was not. She apologized profusely, stammering, “I don’t see… I didn’t know… you… umm… yes… now I see… I don’t want to embarrass.” I wriggled on my brick as I laughed, trying to convince my mini yogi that all was well. We continued our death match of I’m Sorry – That’s Ok verbal table tennis as the class sat in studied silence watching the insanity unfold until I finally nodded, pointed towards my junky trunk, and said “I have a lot of cushion back there”. Miss. Susie assuming I was exhibiting self-deprecating behavior jumped at this opportunity to bolster my tender ego, “Oh no that’s GOOD”. Shockingly I responded, “I know”

I Love to Hate You

Welcome to the 2^nd full week of my YMCA membership where I believe I’m blossoming into a very well rounded masochist. I’ve belonged to gyms before and have always enjoyed it, sure I’m not a muscle head or a lithe aerobics master with boundless spring and energy, but I push my sweaty ass around laughing between my dying gasps of life. I can think of a bucket load of things that are so much worse than my gym time, actually after experiencing the ‘prep’ for my colonoscopy 2 weeks ago I have a whole new gauge as to what is really not THAT bad. However there is something about going to this YMCA that creates within me a wonderful cocktail of hatefulness and joy, and isn’t that the core of masochism?
Fun House Mirrors – I know there are mirrors created in this world to lull me into a false reality of my body proportions. There are retail dressing rooms equipped with such magical looking glasses that I’ve not wanted to redress for I felt as though I should be sharing this wondrous nakedness with the entire city - I’m a freakin’ Venus! However at the Y, these sadists have installed the reverse of those wonderful mental rainbow inducing mirrors. For the past 2 weeks of class I’ve been taken by surprised to see this woman in the mirror who is wearing my work out gear but is at least 4 inches shorter and totally round, WTF that is SO not me! I didn’t look like that when I left home. It’s odd though because when I look at the other women in the class then look at their reflections their representations are spot on….hmmmm must be the angle.

Perky Perfection – My instructor has the body of a graceful ballerina combined with a rock hard marathon runner. I am confident that her boundless energy can only be the result of a fist full of coke (please just let me live with that delusion) and if it wasn’t enough that she is perfectly perfect physically she is a professional pastry chef… right of course you are. However the other day there was a sliver of light when during our stretch she blurted out to the class, “Ughhh my skin is so dry, it’s disgusting”. For at that exact moment while trying to reach the tips of my fingers to my shins I thought, “You know what, my skin feels rather fantastic – I RULE YOU INSTRUCTOR!”

Random Gawkers – OK I get that this is the Y and because I’m saving cash I have to deal with crap that wouldn’t happen at a real gym that cost some bucks. Well I mean I am TRYING to get that this is the Y and unlike the gym where adults are there for one thing and one thing only – working it – at the Y I’m sharing the space with a multitude of users. Hi piano class! Howdy Chinese learners! Check it out, 7 year olds learning to play the recorder! Now if you all could just stay put in your classrooms and NOT loiter in the doorway of the studio gawking at my red faced sweaty mess we all could get along. Or YOU GUYS I can see your reflection in the mirror, stop leering through the window at the back of the studio and keep running the track! The other night a guy actually had the balls to stand at the front of the class checking us out (?) and after a few seconds the instructor said, “Are you here for class” he calmly looked at her and answered “Oh no, I’m not here for class” and remained leaning against the mirrored wall, well until the instructor pointedly told him to leave.

So that’s just a few of my observations from the past fortnight but oddly enough none of those bitterly annoying things appear to inhibit my level of enjoyment. I get a kick out of attending class and I feel better for it even if the process does tend to piss me off.

mas·och·ism gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others.

My Life In The Fatosphere

If you are totally confused as to why I’m on this route – go back and read my last entry - now continue.

I’m fat, I’ve always been fat, it’s not what I am it is who I am. I’m assuming a good comparison would be people who are gay or blind, it becomes who you are, not what you are.

There hasn’t been a time in my life that I wasn’t fat. I remember several year ago Lu looking at baby photo of me in full happy Buddha glory and proclaiming, “Like your Mom was surprised that you would never be a size 6 ?” (btw – this was not a jab at me) Oh Mom…. I knew she meant well but she didn’t know what to do with a fat daughter. She herself was the daughter of a woman who triumphed in the fact that she never weighed over 98 pounds, even pregnant. Yes this was my Tab addicted chain-smoking tight-assed grandmother who grabbed my 7 year old thigh as I sat shivering in an over air conditioned car and hissed, “How could YOU ever be cold, look at this.” – then gave my squishy leg a squeeze.

Being fat my entire life has formed me into the person I am. At age 40 I could not imagine my life as anything (anyone) different. And would I want to? I don’t know. Sure if I magically dropped 70lbs I assume my life would be easier, but would I still be me?

This influx of self reflection is the direct result of my recent diagnosis, it’s so conflicting to know that even though I am NOW contented with who I am (the majority of the time), was it all an unfair joke of the universe to grow up in this body? I don’t think anybody who has ever been thin would understand this feeling. To them a body is something to be conquered, or changed, or controlled. Mine is not. Mine is like an annoying tagalong that finally became accepted into the tribe out of mere exhaustion.

Last night at the gym while I was losing a lung and ¾ of my fluids I wondered what does it feel like for the people who were once skinny and now fat? I think there is a difference between people who have always been fat and those who once lived the life of a skinny person and now have chunked up. Do they harbor self hatred for what time and age has done to them? Do they long for something that used to be? Is it like how I feel about the bags under my eyes and my bitchy gray hairs, it’s annoying, it’s not “me”, but we age and things change? Maybe they used to be school athletes and now they wish for the past, maybe that’s why they are fighting so hard, to get BACK something. I never had that something, my past body and my present body are one and the same, this is all I know. This is me, it neither makes me happy nor sad, it just is. Over the past 30 years I’ve tried to morph my body, but I’ve never experienced any outcome from my labors, oddly though I’m at ease with this non-result based physicality, or maybe I’m just living a delusional existence in my self created reality.

Now with my thyroid diagnosis and medication I wonder how or even if my body will change. I’ve googled extensively and it seems that the only thing that MAY happen is that I go hyper anxiety wacky (great) or bloat out my belly (hot). **Side note - Yet again my Masters in Childhood Education does NOTHING to help in my non professional internet medical research – one day I will find a use for that 40K piece of paper.** One would think that by shooting up my body with the thyroid hormones it’s been lacking for 30+ years I would somehow jump start the whole system, but strangely (from what I think I understand) your body finds a “home base” and even with the hormones my body will fight the change tooth and nail. Long story short - I’m a store house, not a burner AKA I’m built for comfort, not for speed.

A Turn in Another Direction

I know I’ve been absent from blogging, but you haven’t missed out on much. I turned 40, took a trip to Jamaica, the holidays, winter… blah blah blah. But now I’m back to blog about a new journey I’m undertaking. It’s personal (maybe too personal for the blog) and unlike my past bogging submissions may lack in humor (good lord I hope not). It’s gonna be all about me, my body, and my feelings towards it.

In the past I’ve sprinkled in some funny antidotes (see Too Luscious for the Hampton Jitney) about being a fat woman but now after receiving a medical diagnosis that may or may not affect who I think I am I feel that I need to journal the process.

Immediately after turning 40 I was diagnosed with, Hashimoto's thyroiditis or chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis. Hashimoto's disease is an autoimmune genetic disorder where your immune system thinks that your thyroid is an alien intruder and must be expelled from your body. The thyroid get’s really pissed off by this false accusation but it’s more of a fleer than a fighter so all it does to combat the attack is swell and shut down (see goiter).

Chances are that I’ve lived the first 39 years of my life with this disorder yet no doctor ever took a moment to diagnose me. As far back as I can remember whenever I submitted my body for a physical examination my various doctors would feel my neck, then pause and say with a grimace, “You have big glands”. I never knew how to react to this odd accusation except to say, “I hear that often”. The cycle of medical call and response was finally broken this past fall when at my new gyno she felt my neck, paused, tilted her head then before she could admonish me for my protuberances I proclaimed with a sigh and an eye roll, “I know I have big glands”. Shockingly she shook her head no and with a firm seriousness said, “Make an appointment with your GP, this isn’t your glands it’s your thyroid”.

At my NEWER GP’s office (side note - really why did I resist going to doctors on the Upper East Side for so long, it’s like a country club up here compared to the livestock convention in Queens), she took a feel and said firmly, “No that’s your glands, you just have big glands.” Ok….back to the drawing board. But miracles of miracles 20 min later upon completion of the physical exam my GP recanted her initial dismissal and suggested that I schedule an ultra sound of my thyroid because “Gynecologists are really good at sensing these types of things”.

Two ultra sounds and a few blood tests later my diagnosis was strongly confirmed, Hashimoto's disorder. There is no cure for the disorder; however I can treat the symptoms of my pathetically challenged thyroid with synthetic hormones for the remainder of my life, which I am.

So there it is, the first chapter of many to come. Yet again sorry that this will not be as entertaining as my “Temp Receptionist Stories” or my “On Line Dating Disasters” but sometimes I’m a little bit mushy and introspective and this is just one of those moments.

Too Luscious for the Hampton Jitney

For the past 13 years I’ve been riding the Hampton Jitney to visit my mom in the bucolic sea side town of Sag Harbor. The Hampton Jitney for those of you not submersed in the Manhattan / Hamptons culture is a coach bus that shuttles self important travelers (moi excluded) from the Upper East Side to the Hamptons for double the price of the LIRR. During the ‘season’ the bus is riddled with swankers and hipsters smacking people upside the head with their oversized Louis Vuitton duffle bags as they trudge down the aisle while screaming into their cell phones, “What, What? I’m on the Jitney. The JITNEY? What? Who’s at the house? WHO’S at the HOUSE?” However I being the consummate Jitney passenger travel light, check my bags under the bus and enter demurely only with my purse, an ipod and a black berry set to vibrate. Once on the coach I always choose the perfect window seat, halfway between the stench of the rear bathroom and the subzero air cooled temperatures of the driver’s area, then tuck in for my 3 hour ride.

It’s odd then when you compare my very considerate behavior combined with the fact that I do not spread out an entire NY Times, Dean and Deluca picnic, or any other flotsam and jetsam onto the seat next to me to thwart others from claiming it as their own that I am ALWAYS the last one chosen for a seat partner. People will glance at the very empty seat next to me then as their eyes scan across to me they immediately retreat to find a more acceptable seat partner. “Acceptable Partner” could be the guy sleeping with his laptop and full briefcase on the adjoining seat, or the girl traveling with her yorkie, or really anybody that is not me. True it is nice at times to be the ONLY passenger on a packed bus to have two seats to myself but it’s disturbing after 13 years to still be declared “Too Fat” to share.

My bottom is juicy; it’s one of my three best features (so my fans have attested to) however I do not SPILL into the adjacent seat nor do I take up more room than any other size 16. I don’t hog the arm rest, I’m well groomed and dress more appropriately than the majority of the passengers, I don’t eat, drink, or even get up to the use the bathroom so the only reason I have found to explain this attitude towards me is that fat is contagious.

It is 100% certain that I will be the last chosen on the Jitney however every time I am left alone it still amazes me. Just last Friday after the driver secured the cabin for our 100 mile journey out East I actually stood up and scanned the entire bus to see if I was just paranoid or if I was truly the ONLY person left with an empty… and yes once again the cheese stood alone.

I know I shouldn’t allow other’s actions to affect my own image – and truly I do not respect or admire these strangers nor would I ever want to trade my life for theirs or the lives’ of the faceless tools on the other side of their cell phone conversations – however it’s never nice to be unjustly singled out. It’s funny though when I took the bus down to DC I was one of the first to be chosen as a travel partner and my seat buddy was a young charming international playboy whose parents were delegates at the UN, so that either means that people who take the bus to DC are less discriminating or my under 21 buddy liked him some “junk”.