I’m still lingering in the 3-5 pound territory above my low; I haven’t updated my weight in several weeks, so I’m starting off with that admission. I did have a bit of a mental war this last week; I’ve been in the habit of weighing every morning, but the scale broke and needed replacement parts. For a little more than a week, I didn’t weigh, and I had to fight the thought that since I didn’t have a way to be accountable, I could just eat off plan.

I didn’t, but I need to do some thinking about why that thought was even in my head. Not having a tool to measure immediate accountability is no reason to go jump off the wagon; eventually, you pay for those indiscretions. I didn’t cave into those thoughts, which is good, but I’d like to be in a place where those thoughts never even occur to me. I still have work to do; of course I do.

If you’ve been a reader of my blog for a while, you know that I’ve gone through my stores of old clothes a couple of times. I have so many clothes that are too small; they tend to fall into two categories: things that I wore before gaining weight back, and things I bought in the hopes of being able to fit into them one day. Regardless of how I got them, there were a lot of clothes to go through. I’ve thinned them out, before, and I’m doing it, again.

When I first lost a large amount of weight roughly ten years ago, it was a pretty fast process; I lost the majority of my 140 pound loss in about a year. (Comparatively speaking, I’m currently at 52 pounds and almost at the year mark.) I needed a lot of clothes in a short amount of time, so I went to thrift shops; it was an inexpensive way to buy clothes that I knew I wouldn’t be in for very long, and for those circumstances, it worked.

Things are different, now. I’m losing slowly. I imagine the rest of my journey will take time, as well. I’m still wearing many of the same clothes I was wearing a year ago, despite a 52 pound loss. That’s the nature of the upper range of plus sizes; it takes a great deal of weight to change size.

One of the downsides of being on the high side of plus sizes is that I often just buy what will fit rather than things I really like. The sad reality is that many large plus sizes are just duplicates of clothes created for woman who aren’t as large and don’t face the same challenges. Cap sleeves may look flattering on someone with thin arms, but not me; finding clothing with short sleeves that are not cap sleeves is frustrating. I have huge arms, and they’re just not flattering on me. But if that’s what’s available, that’s what I have to get if I want comfort. It’s a compromise.

It’s also a compromise to thrift store shop when you’re losing weight and considering how long you might be wearing something. When the lifetime of a garment was only a couple of months, I didn’t worry much about whether I just absolutely loved what I wore. When the lifetime of a garment extends to a year or more, though, it’s time to think again.

I will still have plenty to wear as I decrease in size; like most people, I tend to stick to a small group of clothes that I wear over and over again, despite what’s in the closet. I just recently went through the enormous stash of clothes, again, and made the decision to part with probably 75% of what was left.

And this is why.

Wearing clothes that I don’t love, that I’m wearing just because I already own them and they happen to be the right size, is like punishing myself for being where I’m currently at in my journey. Feasibly, it’ll take years to reach my destination; I will no longer tolerate the thought that I’ll only be worthy of wearing clothing I truly enjoy when I reach that end goal. Wearing things I don’t like just because of current circumstances is just reinforcing the idea that the current me isn’t good enough or deserving enough to wear things that flatter me and that I enjoy.

That doesn’t mean I’m going on a mad shopping spree. (I’m sure my husband, who often reads my blog, will be happy about that.) What it does mean, though, is that when I do need clothing in the future, I’m going to take the time to get things that I really love.

I’m no fashionista, and I’m not an extravagant person by nature — but I need to stop thinking of myself in terms of only being deserving when I reach my goals. That carries over to a lot of things, not just clothing. None of us know how much time we have on this earth; spending too much time looking years in advance, instead of what currently surrounds us, is time wasted.

I am who I am, today, and who I am isn’t at all bad. It’s time to stop making compromises for it.

A quick note: I’m within just a couple pounds of my low — I’m not quite there, yet, but close! I’m happy to have lost the weight gained on vacation fairly easily. I expect I’ll be back in new territory soon.

Last week, I wrote about feeling successful, just by the act of getting back on plan after vacation, when I’d given up on myself a couple of years ago. A change in attitude and perspective helped me immensely — and, surprisingly, much of that perspective was gained by the limitations I dealt with while on vacation.

My husband and I had agreed that since I have limited abilities to walk long distances or stand, that we would purchase a portable wheelchair. I didn’t want to feel as if my abilities were holding anyone else back. If we’d only known what a source of morbid comedy that chair would be!

We decided to “practice” one weekend in a nearby tourist town that has a lot of old buildings, uneven sidewalks, and other tourists, which is somewhat similar to the tourist district in Cozumel. I did manage to live through that experience, thinking that our rookie outing would be the most difficult.

I was oh-so-wrong.

My husband is a pretty strong guy. He does heavy weight lifting. I’m not sure even that prepared him for a week of unexpected surprises, which commenced the moment we opted to use our own wheelchair in the airports and gate check it rather than check it in baggage. At least if we’d done that, airport personnel would have been responsible for moving us between connecting flights.

On our way to Cozumel, we had only a 45 minute layover in Houston, which was further shortened by a delayed departure. We landed at about the same time our next flight opened the doors to board — three terminals away. Stacked with our carry-on luggage and my purse on my lap, my husband pushed me as fast as he could manage, without turning the wheelchair, me, and our baggage over. OJ Simpson jumping over Samsonite luggage had nothing on us, that day; he pushed hard for 25 minutes straight, with me yelling “excuse me!”, “pardon me!” “PLEASE MOVE!” (What is it about people at airports, who wander around like drunk toddlers, stopping in random places for no apparent reason?)

We arrived at the gate just in the nick of time — and as soon as we boarded, the doors were closed and we were on our way to Cozumel.

Let me remind you that Cozumel is, in fact, in Mexico, which isn’t exactly ADA compliant. If you’re unfamiliar with ADA compliance, that refers to the Americans with Disabilities Act, which specifies the specs for handicap access. This includes the grade of ramps, whether rails are available along ramps and staircases, facilities that allow access for the disabled, and much more. We’ve been to Cozumel, before, so I knew that I would face some challenges any time I chose to use the wheelchair.

The staff at the resort was fantastic. I was met with a smile and a can-do attitude when we chose to use the wheelchair in restaurants, and had many offers of help otherwise. The actual challenges on resort were ramps that were difficult to ascend/descend, even for healthy people on foot, and were more like a roller coaster ride for me, hoping the hand brakes would hold.

Off resort, we went on a couple of excursions; one was sailing on a trimaran, and another was a tour of the island. Both were fantastic, and while I wasn’t able to participate in some of the activities, like snorkeling or riding a spinnaker, I still felt pure joy on the bow of the trimaran, with plenty of sun on my face and fifty colors of impossibly blue water before me.

Our last time off resort, though, was an impromptu taxi ride to town, with friends, hunting for a good tequila shop. We went with the intention of finding the tequila and then heading back to the resort, but ended up wandering around a bit, both down the popular shops on Avenida Melgar, and a couple blocks off the beaten path.

If you haven’t been in a Mexican tourist town when the cruise ships are in, then perhaps you can imagine this: a narrow midway at a carnival, where every carny is trying his best to get your attention and pull you in… and you’re wearing a neon orange shirt with a big sequin dollar sign on the front. That would be pretty close to Avenida Melgar’s busy district. While the merchants a couple blocks away are kinder and much more pleasant to deal with, the merchants are more like hucksters on the main route; and being pushed in a wheelchair added an even more entertaining aspect.

Along with the typical verbal assaults of “come in, we have a free gift for you!”, “free Corona!”, and “free tequila shot!”, came the unexpected comments about being in a wheelchair. The first time someone tried to get us into their store with “free parking!”, I thought it was pretty original. The thirtieth time I heard it, my eyes hurt from rolling them. Best comment: “Free tequila for your body guard!” (Because, naturally, drinking tequila makes pushing a large woman in a wheelchair, down walkways that resemble bumper car floors, is a phenomenal idea!)

By the time we flew home and arrived in Houston once again, we were old hands at dealing with the challenges of negotiating with a wheelchair. I’m sure my hubby was extremely thankful for perfectly flat floors and ramps with gentle rises. I’m sure we looked comical; him pushing me in a wheelchair, and me pushing a luggage cart full of dirty clothes and tequila, ready to get to our connecting flight and then home sweet home.

While there were a lot of challenges and a few mishaps (including hitting a wall in a restaurant, and a trashcan near a pool), it was a good experience. My husband just thought he was taking the week off from his workouts. I initially thought I’d feel awkward and stupid, using a wheelchair — and while I felt a little of that at first, it wasn’t an issue, later. We had a great time.

The only event that truly concerned me was a totally unpredictable and unexpected problem I had in one of the pools. My bad knee (perhaps I should say “worse”, since both are bad) locked on me when I was in deep water. This means I can’t straighten it, and it won’t bear any weight at all. At first, hubby was nowhere to be found, and there was absolutely no way I could have made it to our room, where my knee brace was. I got to the end of the pool, sat on the steps, and waited; when he came back, I had him fetch my brace. It can be worn in the water (but not without some discomfort and other issues, or I would have had it on); I was able to get my knee unlocked and get out of the pool. I admit, though, that I worry about not being able to shift it back into position one of these days.

Oddly, dealing with all of these things, whether it was humor, a few bumps and bruises, silly comments from vendors, and even the knee locking, helped me. They are incentive to improve, rather than regress. I have promised myself that the next time I take a trip like this, I will be vastly stronger and more able. That means sticking to a plan, continuing to lose weight, and graduating into an exercise regimen that suits my particular needs and situation.

Believe me, I can often be frustrated and short-tempered when I feel like I should have greater abilities than I do. If I had allowed frustration to rule my emotions, this vacation would not have been nearly as awesome as it turned out to be. Going in with the right mindset resulted in having a great time, with the added bonus of providing incentive for me to get my big butt in gear and keep losing.

I’ve spent the majority of my life as a fat woman — but not all of it. I was of normal size up until I was 21 or so, and then the weight came on. Then, for a brief time, I was close to a normal weight (but still overweight), just a few years back.

I’m fat. I know I’m fat.

If it makes you uncomfortable to read that, please know that I’m not degrading myself; I’m simply addressing a physiological fact. I know there are probably some of you that found that statement unsettling; and perhaps it’s because being called fat is often an insult. While it doesn’t happen often — thank goodness — I’ve been a victim of ‘fat shaming’; a rather trite phrase that’s just recently entered common vernacular, along with any number of other ‘shaming’. Dog shaming, for instance. Or, so help me, there’s even slut shaming.

Indeed.

The idea is that I should feel ashamed to be fat. If someone insults me, and it’s shaming, then perhaps the world thinks I deserve it because I’ve done something wrong. In a society that’s extremely weight-conscious, being fat has become an indictment of personal character. We might call it ‘fat shaming’ in 2014, but make no mistake: this has been around for as long as the diet industry has been making big money off of making people feel badly about themselves — and before.

Personally, I’ve grown insensitive to it. I deal with limitations every day; things that people of normal weight don’t often think about. I don’t see them as insults to me, personally, because I know I’m not of normal size. My size is much a fact of my existence as my eye color and my height. The difference is that it’s a physical attribute that I am in the process of changing.

Still, it amazes me that there seems to be a disproportionately large number of people who feel it’s okay to make fun of fat, like it’s a competitive sport; just yesterday, a local radio station posted a photo on Facebook of a morbidly obese woman who decided to pose naked and cover her private bits with American flags the size of your hand. At the time I dropped in, there were over 500 comments, most of them making fun of her, calling her ugly, disgusting, silly.

I’m not sure what possessed the woman to pose for such a photo in the first place; it could have been a private photo that unfortunately found its way into the public domain. This is one of the reasons I don’t have my progress photos posted in a public place; I fear that someone will misuse them. It’s one thing to be on the butt-end of a critical attitude in person; quite another to have someone take a photo out of context and turn it into something of ridicule.

I’ve had insensitive things said to me; some of them on purpose, some of them not meaning to insult me. I actually had someone say to me, after his wife told me that she was proud of the weight loss efforts I’d made, that he was glad I lost weight because he thought I was fat and ugly before. Believe me, his wife scolded him for saying that — but I think that he probably just said what many people thought.

During my previous large weight loss, I was amazed at the number of people who came forward to say they were proud of the efforts I made; but I was flummoxed the how many of those same people made comments that illustrated, to me, that somehow my previous fatness was a reason to exclude me, and that the simple act of losing weight meant that I was rejecting being slovenly.

I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir; if you’re reading this, you likely know that being fat, in itself, isn’t a character flaw. Being gluttonous is another matter; it’s another form of excessiveness, and yes, it’s a problem. But many of us that are fat didn’t get here by slamming down chocolate shakes and entire cakes in one sitting; the news stories of extreme obesity, where bedridden people are being fed six cheeseburgers at a time, are an extreme rarity — and they do the rest of us with weight problems a disservice. They feed (!) the idea that being fat can only be a result of gluttony. Therefore, people who are fat got that way because they have no self-control and are entirely selfish. So many people think that if you’re fat, you somehow deserve to be humiliated; that’s despicable.

I don’t hope to change anyone’s mind by writing this; it’s just a reflection of what I’ve been thinking about.

As a fat woman, I’m working toward resolving my issues. If someone says I’m fat as a statement of fact, I’m cool with it. Unless and until I lose a lot more weight, it’s still part of my physical description. I will charge on and fight the good fight, regardless of anyone else’s opinion of me.

But if they call me fat in hopes of insulting me, of insinuating some huge character flaw on my part because my size doesn’t jive with their own personal idea of beauty, then I know where the character flaw really is.

I can lose weight — and I am; yes, it’s difficult, but I suspect it’s a lot easier than changing a repugnant personality.

I had this question just yesterday — Did you fall off your diet? — and the quick and accurate answer is: absolutely not. This is one of the torturous aspects of being a slow loser, now, when I wasn’t several years back.

If this seems like it’s whining, it’s really not; just a statement of fact. One of the (many) downsides of being a slow loser is that people can’t easily see a difference in your weight, and it’s a long time between those happy reports of “I lost ___ pounds this week!”, so with no evidence to the contrary, the assumption is that I’ve stopped making the effort. That’s a fair assumption; it’s not like I haven’t gotten incredibly frustrated with weight loss, and believed the most immediately gratifying solution was to just stop making the effort. I’m willing to bet that most of you reading this have been there.

I’m actually in a pretty good place, right now. Yes, I’d love to be able to report to you that I’ve had a drop since last week, but that’s not the case; in fact, I’m carrying water weight that I haven’t been able to shed. I always worry that this is real weight, but I know my body well enough, by now, to recognize when it’s fighting to hang onto water. The bloated feeling, the puffiness, the achy joints. This is how my now-older, now-more-complicated body works, and rather than get frustrated by it, I have to assess to make sure I really am on the right path, and finding that I am, be patient.

Generally speaking, I’m not a patient person. I need a tee shirt that screams, “I Want Patience — And I Want It NOW!” It does bother me when I don’t see progress. It does bother me when people close to me ask if I’m still on my diet. I do get frustrated and angry. I do wish things would move along quicker than they are; heck, I’d like to wake up tomorrow morning and discover I’ve lost all the weight I need to lose. Believe me, particularly when my knees are hurting a lot, like they are now, I question whether I’ve made progress at all.

There are shortcuts I could take, and I’ve had a few well-meaning friends suggest them, but these are temporary measures, and inevitably, I have to learn to live with my body and its shortcomings — as well as learn how to manipulate them in healthy ways.

I also must accept that there are reasons for the slow loss, and perhaps they are good ones; not just physically, but mentally. I had difficulties accepting my body at 140 pounds less; it happened relatively fast, to the point where people honestly did not recognize me if they hadn’t seen me in six months to a year. The weight was fast enough that I had an inaccurate sense of the space I occupied; for instance, I might be in a restaurant, needing to get to the other side, and I might see two chairs a couple of feet apart, and think I would need to squeeze through the space and avoid it — when in fact, I could have easily gone through the space without touching either chair. My brain was still morbidly obese, even if my body wasn’t.

I managed to maintain that loss for a while, even though I still needed to lose about another 60 pounds or so; but my brain couldn’t wrap itself around that much thinner reflection in the mirror, and my inner voice was pretty good at screaming you’re FAT! Failure!, even though I wasn’t failing at all. In fact, I was doing things I never thought I was capable of doing, but inside, I felt like a fake and a fraud.

My brain, more comfortable with that layer of fat to hide behind, still thought of my body as fat — despite all the hard work I’d done. This is one of my biggest hurdles as I continue to lose weight. I recognize this; life is easier as a fat person than a healthy, athletic one. No one expects much of me, even if they’re also judging me as lazy at the same time. No one expects great things of me, and it’s easy to melt into the background and not be noticed.

But at the same time, I am most definitely not the kind of person who’s happy with melting into the background for very long, so I also fight against that tendency to hide. Conflicted, much? Oh, hell, yes. And this is why it’s probably best, for me, to keep on making small successes, even if there are long stretches in between, even if no one notices, even if I occasionally beat myself up for not losing faster.

Hard won victories are the lessons that stay with us. This time, I intend to learn this lesson.