Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

I was all caught in traffic today and so arrived so late to my meeting that they had already locked the doors and were closing out the register. Fortunately, I had a $10 bill and they had 5 pennies for change so they let me sneak in, pay, and get weighed. I felt sorry to miss the meeting, because I’d like to experience different kinds of leaders, but at least they let me get my benchmark.

The benchmark? I weigh 315.8 pounds. That’s down 9.8 pounds from last week, and 24.2 pounds overall. Unbelievable. I thought it might happen, since last week’s loss of only 0.2 pounds came in the middle of my period, but geez. I just completely sailed past the milestone of “my lowest adult weight” without even sneezing, blinking, or tossing a look over my shoulder.

If my goal is to lose 140 pounds (and, for now, it is), I’m 17.3% of the way there.

It seems that I lose weight from the outside in. That is, I’m seeing visible differences in my very extremities first. My fingers, feet, arms, calves. My therapist (and, granted, she is the only person who knows about all of this and so is the only person that knows what to look for) says she mostly notices it in my neck, shoulders, and jawline. Again, we’re working from the outside in.

My rings no longer fit right. The Superman ring that T gave me 7 years ago (!!!) migrated from my ring finger to my middle finger in 2000 when I went completely no-carb for 6 weeks. This week, it had to be moved from my middle finger to my index finger. I sort of like it there, honestly. It has a very tough, “Just you try that stuff with me” sort of feel to it when I make a fist. But, the point is, my rings don’t fit right. The square, 7-band ring that I bought in Mexico not 3 months ago no longer fits, either. Gotta love those extremities, yes, but this habit could get very, very expensive.

Yesterday, I was driving with both hands on the wheel and, out of nowhere, became completely occupied with staring at my wrists. They seemed so… square. Not round and plump like I’m used to. They are showing the first indications of bone under all that flesh — a strange, hard bump growing on the outer edge of either wrist. My fingers seem long. Tall for their age. Strong. Lean.

My ankles and feet, too, seem to have a new shape. I lie on my bed and lift them straight in the air to examine — it’s the same thing. They look like actual ankles. Like average ankles. With curves and nooks and everything. I mean, I wouldn’t say average per se… but at this, the lowest weight of my adult life, they look more like the ankles you see on TV than they ever have before.

It’s a happy thing, yes, but also a bit unnerving. There I am, heading west on Wilshire, and the only thing I can think is, “Whose arms are those?” Next to come are collarbones, cheekbones, and knees.