Why I'm doing this

Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to turn this into a diet blog, and I promise I'm really not. It's just, well, it's fresh and it's on the front of my mind, and I have thoughts running through my brain that need to come out somewhere. And when that happens I have a couple of choices. I can talk to someone about it either directly or through some type of electronic text communication, or I can broadcast it in my blog. Seeing as it's 2:30 in the morning and even Christopher has probably hit the sack, I'm going to go with door number two on this one.

Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"

I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?

Everything.

I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.

But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.

And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.