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Seven years ago today we stood on a sleek boat in Newport Harbor; I marched up the aisle to a badly recorded "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" past your crying mother and bewildered friends.

It didn't matter that we'd eventually grow up, enough to realize that emotion wasn't love-- and even love wasn't enough. Nothing would've stopped us.

That overcast day was seven years ago right about this time, and six months ago today I finally left you, calling you on all the times you'd said you wanted to leave, that it was over and we weren't going to make it.

I don't know what you're doing right now, but I know that it's hitting you hard too; the loss of our dream. We always had the dream in common, didn't we? A little place in the country with some kids and dogs and enough money to throw around to smooth out the differences. And now we struggle with the reality of payday loans, visitation schedules and not knowing how to greet each other.

On our first anniversary you bought me (after several detailed hints) some beautiful paper that I've used for every occasion since. I'm down to the last sheet, and surely that means something too. We've grown up, both of us, and moved on past one another. While I can't agree that I abused you, too, I certainly wasn't honest when I stood up before God 7 years ago. I knew you were untested and untried, and I knew how much life was going to slap you around before you decided who you would become. It wasn't love that made me take a chance, it was fear of being unloved and unlovable by anyone except you.

But still I was so full of hope on May 31st, 2001. Today is no different, but the hope is. I hope that you'll take responsibility for the way your life has turned out-and I hope that you will find peace to work on that stuff without thinking it makes you look weak. I hope that I will keep growing and learning to lean on God instead of people. I hope we can be friends someday. I hope I've shed my last tear over what could have been. I'm allowing myself that luxury tonight because it's really the dream I'm mourning, remembering the picture of our eyes bright with unshed happy tears so thankful that someone else loved us. And yes I do, I do hope for a future for both of us, in which healthy people figure prominently and intimately in our lives.

They say all experiences meld together to make us the people we are today. We've always joked about my penchant for making everything a celebration by saying "it's the last time!" when it rarely is the last time. But this...truly is the last. It's our last anniversary, the last year I'll carry your name, the last time I'll allow myself reflection back and look at pictures and wonder what if. I'm sure I should feel celebratory but I just don't. It feels like a failure even though I've learned more through this than any of my successes so far. For seven years of marriage--from the first great year, the next two good years, the next three bad years, and the last unspeakably tortuous one--here's to you, that boy with the stars in his eyes. I thank you for being part of my journey.

Ingredients: 3 pounds assorted cheese, making sure that Gruyere figures in there somewhere. 1/2 pint heavy whipping cream, same qty. milk.  1 T. butter.  Lots of pepper.  4 heaping T. garlic.  Orecchiette pasta 1 16 oz box.

Pour into large skillet 1/2 pint heavy whipping cream and equal parts milk. Heat on low.  Chop all cheese and add in (starting with softest) bit by bit, whisking continuously until all the cheese is added-- except reserve 1/2 C cheese for garnish.

Boil water and drop in oriechetti pasta. Cook until al dente, drain and rinse with cold water immediately.

Combine sauce and pasta. You'll have about 1 C too much sauce--great for breadsticks, rice, peanut butter sandwiches---okay, forget the last one.

Preheat oven to 450. Top with remaining cheese and bake for 15 minutes.

Try to stop eating. I DARE YOU!

At 217 pounds, I am classified as severely obese.  At 275 pounds, I was classified as morbidly obese.  See a problem with that line of thinking?  If I really bought into it I should just give up at this point, after having lost 58 pounds only to find myself still classified as dangerously high-risk, extremely unhealthy.  Yet in the space between "morbidly obese" and "severely obese" I have found the ability to:

Fit in a movie theater seat without spilling over the sides or pushing up the armrests.

Wear a size 18 skirt!!! and a size 14 top.

Look at my face in a mirror without reflexively checking for my double chin.

Walk into a room and not immediately be sure I'm being whispered about.

Be whistled at and feel good, not assuming it was a joke or a taunt.

Walk up 2 flights of stairs without pausing and with plenty of breath.

Have lunch with a friend and actually eat.food.in.public without giving a damn what anyone else thinks. (this is a hard one for fat people, trust me.)

Play--actually play--with my son.

I have 7 pounds to go to be classified as "obese".  This makes me more certain than ever that I hate labels and classification systems, as they really don't take into account any of the unique things that make us human beings.  It's just some bean counter with an algorithm and a judgment call.  You're on the spectrum. You're normal.  You're dysfunctional.  You're not.  You're obese and therefore not worthy of consideration as a sexual being.  You're thin and therefore you are revered even if you are nasty, hateful, and full of diseases.

Tonight I will go home and make my famous homemade macaroni and cheese. I'll post the recipe proudly, knowing there are a zillion grams of fat and 52 million calories, knowing that eaten in moderation...you will smack your lips and enjoy your life a little more.  I no longer feel guilty for indulging in food that I enjoy, because the band does what I cannot do--restricts my portion size to "normal" so that I can have some balance and discipline in my quest to enjoy every taste God created.  Health --physical, mental, spiritual --is important.  But in our mania to make everyone the same, look at what we've lost.  If I never make it all the way to my goal weight 83 pounds from now, I'm more comfortable in my 217 pound skin than I ever was in my high school 140 pound skin.

I've learned, again, that outward appearances have very little to do with the true heart of a person; our culture worships beauty and I'm no stranger to that kind of thinking.  But it's empowering, really--those classifications.  I celebrate my severe obesity, knowing that I can now play with my son and walk up two flights of stairs without pausing.  Knowing that I can eat many more meals of macaroni and cheese before I make it down to "obese".  Knowing that I'm still a fat girl and that I always will be, inside.  And that's okay.  That's okay.

Because my every.single.member of my family insist on voting Republican no matter who the candidate, here's my response--

I'm 99.9% sure that I'm a long-lost Kennedy or something.  It's gotten to where I can't even stay in the room when they start talking politics out of their infinitely white superior wisdom.

Of course finding the coffee peace sign over at cafepress.com got me to see all the other cool hippy-ish peace-ish stuff.  Maybe I can recreate them with puffy paint or something, I'm not paying $20 for one but they shore are cute aren't they?  My friend Mahala has some really neat things over at Cafe Press on her Twisted Mare shop.  It takes hours to get one image created and formatted, so it's really worth your dollars if you like someone's stuff.  It "seems" easy to do yourself, but like everything else in life...not so much! 

At around 3:00 today, the only time I remembered to use the bathroom--the following thoughts ran through my mind in rapid succession:

We need music in here.
I wonder if anyone can hear me?
We really need music. Maybe a fountain! I'll make it out of slate and copper and use those cool river stones...when I get some money. Of course I won't be working here when I finally get some money.

What did the Jews do when they needed to poop and they were all cooped up in their secret rooms hidden from the Nazis? Did they just let it go and apologize to the others for the stink? Did they hold it and get really sick? Did they lose their bowel functions because they didn't eat enough?
Am I nuts for thinking about the Holocaust on a Tuesday in Virginia?
Why does Mr. A's off-again on-again girlfriend keep reading my blog?
Man it stinks in here. I need more fiber in my diet.
Is it normal to have running dialogue with yourself while pooping?
I really need to bring the Preparation H wipes in. But then someone would steal them and I can't handle that right now.
I'm going to be single forever. My poop stinks way too much. And I think about Jews being tortured in the middle of a bright sunny day while I'm pooping. And my heels are just awful and I've got to find some time to exfoliate.

Consider this my public service from me to you. At least in reading how crazy I am you feel a little better about yourself, dontcha? Happy Hump Day manana!

P.S.  No, I don't know why the comments don't work!