Tuck U.

The long awaited time has come.  And when I say long awaited, I don't mean the 9 months since scheduling the tummy tuck.  I'm referring back to 2001 when I made a goal:  "Lose the extra hundred pounds, keep it off and maybe someday I'll get a tummy tuck."  I've spent the past 6 years trying to prove to myself that I'll keep it off. 

There have been a few people who know my struggles with body image issues that have wondered how I can blog this process.  I'll address that below, but I think it's important to keep in mind that I wouldn't be taking 'Before' pictures of my saggy stretch marked belly without operating under the assumption that the 'After' pics will be a vast improvement.  Note that I won't be posting any shots of myself from behind.  I'm not completely insane.

Similar to my other recent adventures, I approached the tummy tuck with research.  It started with phone calls a couple years ago asking the simple question of cost.  Ron and I had an amount in mind that we'd be willing to pay, but everyplace I called was significantly higher than that.  Door closed.  Wasn't meant to be.  I accepted that and moved on, until last December during a conversation with a friend.  Her husband overheard me mention the prices I'd been told.  Having a job related to the medical field, he referred me to Dr. Troha, and gave me a rough calculation as to how much he charges.  Extremely close to our price range. 

*Regarding the cost of my procedure, it's not a secret, but I won't be listing it here.  Anyone seriously interested in that information for themselves can ask me privately or consult the doctor directly.

Next step:  My initial consult.  I no sooner got taken back to an exam room and pulled my gown over my head, then had to go to the bathroom.  The mental debate began.  Sneak to the restroom down the hall wearing an open backed gown or hope we make it through the appointment without him pushing on my stomach...cue the James Bond music as I crack the door open and peek my head into the hall.  Everything went according to plan until on my way back when I walked into the wrong exam room to find the doctor with another patient, gasped and darted back to my room, where I sat trying to look casual when he walked in. 
Hey stranger, long time no see.

The actual exam was simple and painless.  The doctor is really nice and patiently answered all of my nervous questions, although when I enquired about a partial tuck he could have at least acted like that was a good idea instead of quickly telling me that my stomach is the perfect candidate for the full shebang. 
Okay, he said it much nicer than that and explained that for the relatively minimal price difference between the two procedures, I'd be happier with the results of a full.  May as well do this right.

That was back in February and I left there under absolutely no pressure to schedule and was encouraged to take my time and think about it.  After much discussion with Ron, November was the best option in relation to both finances and work schedules.

I had 9 full months to completely immerse myself in obsessive research that started with Google, led to seeking out actual real life tummy tuck recipients, which eventually escalated to a twisted version of 'You show me yours and I'll show you mine.'  Turns out women are much more willing to show you their new belly button if you offer to show them your old one.  I also discovered that when people find out you're getting a tummy tuck, they tend to automatically look down at your stomach while you stand there hoping they don't look back up and say, "Good idea."

Most recently, my obsession turned to the dreaded post-surgical bowel movement.  I've had 3 C-sections.  I know what I'm talking about here and I predict many of you do, too.  That began the string of phone calls to the doctor's office and surgical center asking anyone and everyone their opinion on my idea of some pre-surgical laxatives, most of which were met with a resounding 'NO' and one who actually said, 'Oh Lord, No.'  
Take it easy.  Never hurts to ask.

I feel like I've educated myself on the topic of tummy tucks as much as I could.  I have no idea what the journey holds or what the end result will be, but I guess we'll all find out together.  Ron has been given free reign to document the process with the camera.  We should all be terrified.  Who am I kidding...I should be terrified. 

But I've done my part and now it's time to let the surgeon do his.  My post-surgical instructions consist solely of staying off my feet.  I'll be propped in a recliner, completely dependent on my family to care for each other, the house, the dogs and me for several weeks, not to mention they'll be single-handedly responsible for making the entire Thanksgiving meal for our annual Feast With Friends we host at our house the night before Thanksgiving. 
Things are bound to get interesting.

So in reference to the question as to how I can blog this, I think the bigger question here is, how can I not blog this? 

In the words of my doctor, "Once you hit that 4 week mark, you're free to return to a completely normal life with your family."

He obviously doesn't know us very well.



Until we meet again.

To Be Continued...

Thou Shalt Not

We were long overdue. 

It's been months since our last major blow out worthy of a title,  reminiscent of the 'Worship Your God Fight of 2003' and the ever popular 'Shirt vs. Shirt Battle of 2012.'

As is usually the case, we didn't see this one coming, but in hindsight recognize the groundwork that gradually led to the 'Bible Verse War of 2013.'

Welcome to a peek into the Funny Farm, kids.  We call it home...

It all started at church when I happily returned from the coffee bar to my husband's side with my fresh cup of caffeine to learn that he'd (once again) volunteered me to pass the Communion plates and Offering bowls because in his words, "It's good for me."  Nothing against Communion and Offering, it's just that I always manage to make a mess of it from nerves (read: phobias) of being one of the few standing, while everyone else is sitting, and the subsequent hot flashes and shaky hands when one of my inner voices continually taunts me with the possibility of dropping the tray of 50 tiny cups of grape juice into someone's lap.  That's never happened, mind you, but it's quite common for me to screw up the pattern of passing and end up on the receiving end of my husband's disappointed looks when he gets stuck juggling 2 trays of juice and 2 trays of bread while I stand empty handed on the opposite end giving him the 'what did you think was gonna happen here? gesture.  The sooner he stops with this sick Public Humiliation Therapy, the better off we'll be.

Believe it or not, I still didn't see the fight coming.

We listened to the awesome sermon on living by faith and not by fear where it was pointed out that despite Peter's doubt that caused him to begin to sink in his attempt to walk across the water when Jesus beckoned him, at least he had the courage to step out in faith, unlike the other 11 who stayed sitting in the safety of the boat. 

Still didn't see the fight coming.

We've been wanting a black leather recliner for the rec room and I'd really like to have it before my tummy tuck next week, so I was thrilled when he suggested we make a trip to Value City Furniture after church.  We'd been in the store a whopping 10 minutes and all we could find was groupings of brown leather until I heard Ron yell, "Hey Shar!  There's a black family down there!"  I looked up to see him pointing toward the grouping of black leather chairs he was referring to, but unfortunately, there stood an African American family looking back at him.  We left empty handed.

Now I started to see it coming. 

So on the ride home when he tried to change the subject from what just happened, to the sermon we'd heard, my day's frustrations rose to the surface and I called him a 'Boat Sitter.'  Boom.

His defense:  "Nuh uh!  I've been faithfully giving money to K-Love every month for a year and a half without telling you!"
Me:  "Excuse me?  You've been what?!  Why?!?!"
Him:  *with deer-in-the-headlights face* "Um...because the Bible says that when you give to the needy your left hand shouldn't know what your right hand is doing!!"
Me:  "First of all, K-Love isn't the needy.  Second, I'm not your freakin left hand, we're supposed to be one flesh and you shouldn't keep secrets from your own flesh!" 

A hush fell over the mini-van.  Ha.

We arrived home and went our separate ways.  I went to bed, he headed to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, he came into the bedroom and said, "Oh, by the way, your tummy tuck is sinful."

WTH?!?

He flipped open his bible to Leviticus 19:28 and proudly read, "Do not cut your bodies for the dead..."

Well, then let me clarify a couple of things:
1.  I'm not cutting my body...Dr. Troha is.
2.  I'm not doing it for the dead.  I'm doing it for you and you're alive...at least for the time being...

Note to self;  Thou shalt not kill.

In Answer To Your Question...

There was a recent uproar in the news when a young mother in seemingly great physical shape, posted a picture of herself wearing workout gear (or bathing suit, one might argue) with her 3 young children and the caption read:  "What's Your Excuse?"

She asks women that question as if she knows them and has any right to hear their answer.  But she doesn't know me at all.  So I'm going to take a moment to introduce myself to her.  I'm the almost 42 year old woman who at one point tipped the scale at 254 lbs and who has spent the past 12 years fighting the uphill battle of the genes she was born with and the love of eating she developed along the way.  I'm the woman who this morning weighed in at 160 pounds and 2 ounces.  I'm the woman who yesterday weighed 162 pounds and 8 ounces.  While we're at it, I'm also the woman who can tell you what she weighed on any given day dating back to 2005.  I'm able to do that because I'm the woman who over the course of her never ending weight loss journey, developed a nasty compulsive obsessive disorder with my bathroom scale.

You'd probably pass this particular woman known as Me on the street and think she could stand to lose weight.  Trust me, you're not telling her anything she doesn't tell herself every time she looks in the mirror, or worse yet, at the chart hanging in the doctor's office that tells her she's about an inch short of a "healthy" weight and frequently fluctuates 3 lbs away from an "ideal" BMI.  Thankfully, this woman's doctor is in tune with her and realizes he needs to continue reminding her to stop trying to lose weight because she walks a very narrow line between calorie counting and flirting with an eating disorder, thus qualifying her as the world's biggest anorexic...or as I call it, Gigantor-exic.

So this woman makes a day to day, (or in some cases, minute to minute), choice to ignore the incessant opinions of society, their charts and yes, even the mirror, to focus on a few facts.  This woman has been happily married for almost 21 years and together are parents of 4 responsible, healthy and thriving kids ranging in age from 6-20, neither of which has anything to do with what the scale says.  And as for that pesky healthy weight obsession, this particular woman requires a conscious awareness to view food as the sustenance from God that it is, rather than her source of comfort, joy or even more commonly, the enemy, while doing her best to choose activities that she not only enjoys but that challenge her ever aging and rebellious body whose parts, despite her best efforts, appear to be heading South for the winter. 

Unfortunately, this isn't about one physically fit mom who thinks she has all the answers.  She simply brought to light a bigger underlying issue.  This is about all women, myself included, who at any given moment choose the path of judgment, on and about each other, whether it be her choice of career, husband, mothering, politics, food, workout habits and/or physical appearance.  You name it, we judge it.  But, we need to caution ourselves not to jump to conclusions about someone based on the little to nothing we think we know about her, and when we catch ourselves in the act, need to remind ourselves of this:  You don't know her journey.  You have no clue what she deals with on a day to day basis.  You have no idea where she's been, where she's going, where God plans to take her and how He's going to use her.  Maybe we as women could begin encouraging each other and extending a little grace...that same encouragement and grace we crave when our own personal demons rear their ugly heads along our path.

So I have this to say to the mom who demanded my excuse.
This woman you might look at and label "overweight" is so much more than that.  This woman is on a journey with her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, the only one who knows her whole story because He's the author of it.  Everything about this woman starts there and that's where everything about this woman will finish.  Therefore, I have no excuse to offer you because I answer only to Him.  I'm sorry, but you're not qualified for the position of authority you placed yourself in by posting that remark aimed at other women, and in turn, joined the chorus of negative voices that already exist in our heads.  In your response to the public backlash, you explained that your reasoning behind the picture was purely motivational.  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that your photo elicited an envy deep within for a body that's forever been and ever will be unattainable for me or that when I learned that you're a professional personal trainer, I rolled my eyes and fell right into the judgmental train of thought that I just condemned a couple paragraphs above.  But 'Motivated' doesn't ring a bell.  Had you only left the photo uncaptioned, (I'd still be jealous), but maybe I'd be a little inspired.  Instead, you got personal and threw down a gauntlet causing women everywhere to ask ourselves why we don't look like you and putting us in a position to defend the unique and beautiful women God created us to be. 

So come on, women!  (You too, hard-bodied mom we're all mad at right now.)
I have issues.  You have issues.  How bout we band together in a force of loving sisterhood so strong that our caption might read:

"What issues?"



Upgrade, my S

Most of you might know that when it comes to technology, I'm a complete moron.  I'm not too proud to admit it. 

A couple of years ago, Ron surprised me with an iPhone 4S for Christmas.  Right off the bat, I hated S.  I still can't say her name without it sounding like a growl.  Siri.

For 2 years I cursed her name but became completely enamored with the phone that housed her.  That is until recently when my beloved phone began screwing with me.

I'm sure you can relate when I tell you that the majority of my life is in that phone.  Everyone I know, both personally and professionally, have only my iPhone to thank (or blame) that I'm able to call or text them because they're under my contacts.  My entire list of massage clients, as well as my schedule of appointments is in my calendar.  Every Zumba song I've ever known and the separate playlists for each of the 3 locations I teach, are under my music app.  And every thought, brainstorm, quote and idea are listed in my notes for future writing projects. 
Yep, my entire career is in that phone.

So when that phone takes on a mind of it's own, begins rearranging my playlists, blanking out my schedules and randomly shutting down to "update" itself, I'll go to Verizon and trust that Tristan with the clipboard won't wipe away my identity and cancel my very existence on this earth. 

One should never be so trusting...and one should never put herself into the hands of a salesman with a clipboard on the heels of a celebratory half-price margarita from Texas Roadhouse.

His first question seemed simple enough as he pointed to my 4S. 
"Is that cracked?" 
I said, "Nope" as I beamed with pride at having managed to make it 2 years without cracking my cell phone, which must be a pretty big deal for him to even ask such a question.  I've also managed to bring 4 kids into the world. 

That's when he lowered the boom with his offer to buy back my phone for $200 in exchange for upgrading me to the iPhone 5S.  The part of my brain that hadn't been impaired with margarita smelled a trap, but before it could speak up, a voice said, "OK!"  Enter Chuckles...loving husband and designated driver.  Tristan's face lit up as he picked up on Ron's super-agreeable vibe.  I quickly interrupted his salivating and said,  "Wait a minute.  I need a guarantee that I'm not going to lose any of my information in the transfer."  He replied, "You'll get it all back.  Just don't come beat me up if you don't."  Aaaahhhh...Tristan with the clipboard has now picked up on my vibe, as well. 

Twenty minutes later, it was all said and done.  My 4S sat on the counter, wiped clean of my entire life, and I walked out of Verizon the owner of a new and improved iPhone 5S, which required the purchase of an all new phone cover, wall charger and car charger but was fully loaded...with everything except my schedule, my notes, my Zumba songs, and my playlists...for a grand total of $197.00, leaving a whopping $3.00 from his generous offer to apply toward our next bill.  As an added bonus, my new phone doesn't fit my Zumba speakers and I had to buy a $30 converter. 

Now I'm no math wiz, but by my calculation, Tristan with the clipboard owes me $27.00, 59 Zumba songs, and 15 story ideas, not to mention my dignity for all the massage clients I had to call asking when their next appointment was scheduled.

Thanks to Ron for spending countless hours at the computer, many understanding clients, my wonderful Zumba instructor and a decent memory, I have reloaded my 5S with as much of my information as possible. 

Bottom line; I'm stuck with this new S, I want nothing more than to go back there and kick his, and I already have a game plan for next time.

Go ahead and ask me.  "Is that cracked?"
You're damn right it is.

A Good Sign

 

As you may recall, a mere 3 months ago, I was rather anonymous, which is exactly the way I preferred things.  Many of you who read my blog knew my name, but according to Google stats, many of you didn't.  (Shout out to my readers in Russia, Serbia, Sweden and the Netherlands...I pray I'm not your only representation of America.)

But on June 5th, I publicly introduced myself and I'm relieved to report that my world didn't collapse.  I didn't receive hate mail, knock on wood, and I continued living my days in blissful obscurity, busily filling my time with massage clients, writing and Zumba choreography, all the while excitedly anticipating the release of the first 2 books my stories have been published in.

That is, until it came time to do a book signing.  That's what you do in this industry.  You promote the book, you advertise it, and you brand yourself.  It shouldn't be an emotionally life altering event for anyone...unless of course that 'anyone' is someone who just 16 short months ago was crying backstage at her church, not wanting to do a 2-minute walk down a runway modeling an outfit for a charity fund raiser because people might look at her.  I'm super stable like that.

Don't get me wrong, God has brought me a long way since then, but when push came to shove on this book signing, I may have slightly reverted back to my insecure ways. 

Publicity became nothing short of a hyperventilating nightmare until one of my best friends, Mandi, finally took it over.  Probably as much for her sanity as mine, but seeing as she's the one that started this whole ball rolling one year ago when she said, "I'm going to start praying about your writing," I think she deserves a little taste of insanity.

The closer we got to the event, the obsession became about what to wear, because here's the simple truth about a book signing event as played out in my mind.  Either nobody would show up, or worse...somebody would show up.  So the wardrobe dilemma became, what does one wear to a public library to either sit alone for 2 hours or have people look at you for 2 hours?  Enter my other best friend, Lissa, who saved the day with a shopping trip that had me waiting unclothed in a dressing room while she ran around the store bringing me things to model.  Sometimes life is one humiliation after another.  I blindly trusted her judgment until a pair of 4inch heels made an appearance.  I stood firm on my NO...but then she threw out the word 'badass.' 
She always knows exactly what to say.

I spent the day of the signing with a team of highly skilled professionals, namely Melanie and Juliene, who polished, waxed, buffed, curled and transformed me.  An undertaking similar to the makeover scene in 'Miss Congeniality,' except when I walked out, the song 'Mustang Sally' didn't start up, although I did trip and almost fall down.  Probably because I was walking normal speed in my badass heels and not super-cool-slow-motion.  We can't all be Sandra Bullock, okay?

The feeling in the pit of my stomach as we drove to the signing was distinct and I knew where I'd felt it before.  I could picture the moment in the airplane as it hovered 13,000 feet in the air while I was inched closer and closer to the open door by the man who was strapped to my back.  I knew that day would end in one of two ways.  I'd either live or I'd die.  I wasn't in control and my only responsibility, as spelled out by the man pushing me toward the open door was, "Stop thinking and enjoy the ride." 

So when we pulled into the parking lot, I was overcome by peace as things were put into perspective.  This day would end in one of two ways.  People would either show up or they wouldn't.  I'm not in control and my only responsibility, as spelled out by my God who's not on my back, but rather whose got my back as He gently pushed me toward the door was, "Stop thinking and enjoy the ride."

Ron, Lissa, Mandi and a giant sheet cake kicked off what turned out to be an absolutely beautiful evening full of friends and family who came out to help this often-times-hot-mess celebrate a milestone on her path.  Humbling and overwhelming would be the words to best describe it.  Once again, God carried me over the threshold of a door that He'd opened for me Himself and then He met me in the free fall of the unknown that lay beyond it.

The only slight hiccup of the evening happened at 5 o'clock on the dot, when the signing was scheduled to start.  A complete stranger tentatively walked through the door and approached me.  Clearly, neither of us felt comfortable as she nervously said, "I'm here to meet Shari."  I could feel Ron's eyes boring into me from across the room silently imploring me to speak.  My cheeks felt like they were on fire during the silence that hung in the air before I finally said, "I'm Shari."  I fumbled through our awkward exchange as she bought books and tried to hide my surprise when she asked me to sign them.

When she left, Ron had a piece of advice for me: 
"Wow.  You're gonna need to work on your social game."
Hey.  I didn't burst into tears when she looked at me.  Baby steps.

 

 



Lissa:  Best friend, Stylist & Partner in Crime

 

   

Mandi:  Best friend, Publicist & Prayer Warrior 

(aka:  The Stable One.)

Chuckles:  Husband, Business Manager & Social Etiquette Advisor

Do you have someone in your life who cries with you in celebration because she not only knows your journey, but has faithfully walked along beside you since day one?

I do.  Her name is Susan:  Best friend.  Cousin through blood. 

Sister through life.

So what's your story? 

You know me, now I'd like to know you.

Please feel free to introduce yourself.

That means you too, Russia readers...all 78 of you.

Book Signing Information

El Shito.

After spending seven hours at a very crowded, very hot King's Island for Labor Day with Ron, Kearstin and Caymen, we stopped at one of our favorite Mexican places on the way home.

We'd never eaten at this particular location, but it was very clean, our waitress was nice, and we easily fell into our normal El Toro routine, which is to say, we placed our food and drink orders and then devoured baskets of chips and bowls of salsa at rates of speed that resemble your typical Man vs. Food contest.  We're a delight to our fellow diners.

I ordered my usual.  Pollo Fiesta.  That's fancy schmancy Spanish for boneless, skinless, grilled chicken breast.  Or as my kids call it, "Mom's diet food."  Maybe if I changed the name at home, they'd actually eat it.  What's for dinner, you ask?  Why it's Pollo Fiesta!  And they'd excitedly shout, Olay!  A mom can dream, right?  Anyhoo, Ron ordered the same thing.

You know that feeling in your gut that tells you something is terribly wrong?  You know, the one we're always told never to ignore, thus the phrase 'Follow your gut?'  Well, within my first two bites, I got it.  And I ignored it.  I WAS HUNGRY, OKAY?!?!  It wasn't exactly bleeding all over my plate or anything.  It was just tough with an ever so slight aftertaste you might describe as...foul...not to be confused with fowl.

By the time Ron took a bite of his chicken, I'd already eaten all of mine.  Don't judge me.  I was starving, remember?  I was literally sitting there silently convincing myself that my chicken had been thoroughly cooked when he said, "Does this chicken taste done to you?"  and handed me his fork.  I took the bite of chicken that looked and tasted exactly like mine did and said, "That's what mine was like."  He glanced toward my squeaky clean plate, did a double take and looked at me like I'd just eaten our family pet.  Then he said, "Chef Ramsey says undercooked chicken could kill somebody."  I thought, Chef Ramsey also calls people f-ing donkeys, so if you wanna live in that world, just say the word, Chuckles.  Not everything on reality tv is real, okay?!?  Why must I always be the voice of reason. 

He called our waitress over and told her our chicken was undercooked.  She apologized and immediately picked up his plate of chicken and then reached for mine.  I sat awkwardly staring at her and she said, "Wow.  You must have been hungry."

Well, it would appear somebody doesn't want a tip this evening because the only thing you're getting from me is the fowl I'm about to flip you by way of middle finger.

Fifteen minutes later, Ron was obnoxiously eating his thoroughly cooked and safe plate of chicken while I sat Googling Salmonella symptoms.  Diarrhea, fever, severe abdominal cramps, cold chills, and an incubation period of 5-72 hours.  I mentally cleared my week's schedule.

I'm relieved to report that I successfully made it through last week.  There was one close call Wednesday evening when I might have experienced a Psychosomatic symptom and frantically told Ron, "I think I'm having the Salmonella cold chills!" and he calmly said, "Or, and stick with me here, the air conditioner kicked on."

I've had just about enough common sense out of you, donkey.