mid·night –noun 1. the middle of the night; twelve o'clock at night.  –adjective  2. of or pertaining to midnight.  3. resembling midnight, as in darkness.

rhap·so·dy – noun 1. effusively rapturous or extravagant discourse i.e., rapture, ecstasy 

It is time to start writing again. That was the flash I had in my head sometime early this morning, before any caffeine or street cleaners had a chance to wake me up. I have learned to listen to these messages, because it was a similar message earlier this year that said, “Get off your fat ass and lose the weight you have been carrying the last three years.” There was a tinge of malice in that message, so I listened extra hard.

I am now down almost 65 Peets-pounds, and some folks think I look the healthiest I have in years. I call them my Peets pounds because, for good or bad, I gained all that weight while working in the east bay for Peets. Everything just goes better with coffee. I am working out regularly, have put on a bit of muscle, and am doing something I never thought possible – running. And not the running-for-the-Kogi-truck kind. I can manage five miles in about 50 minutes, an unheard of duration and pace for the former fat kid who could barely finish a mile in 12 minutes back in junior high school. I had a 4.0 GPA back then, but my gym teacher continually gave me a C in P.E. because I could not run the mile in under 10 minutes.  If I saw that man now I would hug him and thank him for being an asshole. And then I would hit him with a Jimmy Choo leather wedge sandal, because I am pretty sure he was homophobic and this would most definitely leave a permanent sting.

These middle-of-the-night revelations happen every so often, and I can never be sure if it is the insomnia I suffer since being a child, or drinking too much almond milk before bed. Either way, something is trying to communicate with me and before I wake up with alien probes sticking out of my ass, I figure I should listen and comply.

So I am back. Who knows how long, since there is a half-finished novel sitting untouched as well. But any writing is better than none at all. It’s kind of like sex, come to think of it. Or chocolate.

In my last entry I wrote about BDD (Body Dysmorphia Disorder).  Ironic, really, to come back now after losing so much weight and facing severe BDD in several aspects of my life. A barista at Starbucks told me today she could see the weight loss really dramatically in my face, and that I looked hot. My best friend, Jennie, said if I lose too much more weight I will have a bobble head. They are both lesbians, and prone to exaggeration, but I wonder if there is a happy medium. I am still about 25-35 pounds over where I think I should be, based on my height. I see areas of my body that stand out like neon colors in a black-lit room. And I am now experiencing a new obsession with my weight workouts. My arms feel like they will never be big enough. My t-shirts are all tight around my chest and arms, and I had a guy grab my pec in a bar the other day proclaiming it to be the best titty he had seen in years. It was a gay bar, so I think it was a compliment.

There is a part of me that is ecstatic to be healthy again, and so active. I have so much energy on the weekends now I actually drive Mike and my friends a bit crazy. I pace the house like an idiot, looking for something to do. Months before I started all of this, I would have been glued to my computer playing Warcraft. Now, I devise new ways to keep active. I actually took a run through San Francisco the other day. It was windy, and I tackled some hills that are sure to give me calves like a Hungarian shot-putter, but it was a glorious feeling to be out and active. Jumping over winos and weaving between the little old Asian ladies doing their shopping along Market is better than the gym!

So here I return, to the writing. I am no guru, but I have a lot to say. Most if it wry and probably toxically sarcastic, but it is all about me, so I figure I am not hurting anyone. I may poke a jab here and there at Poopers but he has a lot of fat and thick skull, so he can take it.

As for me, I am changing. That’s right, Jennifer Holliday, changing! And I am seeing this adventure through to the end this time. I don’t have a goal weight or a set number of words to write, but I will share what I see, hear, taste, and feel along the road. There may be some puddles, or piles of dog shit, and anyone who knows me can vouch that I will share them all. In the very least you can laugh at my stumbles. I sure as hell would.

As I have written about several times before, I am a person of extremes. I have been excessively overweight, and I have been bulimic and starved myself to fit into my size 32 jeans. These days, I am in a place I would label as uncomfortably healthy. This means I am still maintaining a considerable weight loss, but I have a ways to go. I am uncomfortable - my jeans fit but if I pass a mirror at just the right speed, and with just enough lapse in my judgment to ignore the reflection, I will catch the handles that some fool called "love."

And so it is typically when I am in the obsessive component of these "uncomfortably healthy" days that I start focusing on my eating habits more. I try to make it to the gym 5-6 days a week, but that usually ends up looking more like 3-4 days a week. Those skipped two or three workout days represent what I like to think of as my Antarctic Frozen Yogurt. The amount of bargaining and deal making I conduct with my own inner self could probably net billions in sales if were selling Frozen Yogurt to residents of the Antarctic.

Knowing this about myself - that I am consistent in my inconsistent workouts - makes me focus more on my diet and eating regime. I learned long ago that starving myself doesn't work. It isn't healthy, despite how good I think I will look when I drop down a few sizes. I have found that wearing my skinny jeans is really only fun when I'm not falling off my rolling chair from starvation. I have also learned the hard way that fad diets are scary. I followed one diet that called for eating nothing but this vegetable soup made with cabbage, broccoli, and carrots. Since this was proclaimed to be healthy and fast, I thought, "Why not include some of this wonderful diet tea!" An herbal concoction with tremendous colonic irrigation capabilities.

For a week, I ate my soup and drank this tea, with about a gallon of water throughout the day. At some point about 5 days into the routine, the gas started. I was in my little Honda Civic on my way to work when I cramped up so bad, I thought I was about to deliver triplets. Instead, I farted my way through three days of work. When I wasn't farting myself out of my own car, I was running for the nearest bathroom afraid to cough or sneeze - it only takes a small bit of pressure on the colon during those diets and the bowels go completely on strike, releasing their hold on the day's intake. A few of my closest friends who knew I had been prone to bulimic episodes would insist on following me to the restroom, insistent that I was going to lose my food. After listening to the horrific sounds, they usually left me alone the rest of the day.

So starvation and fad diets are out - that leaves me with an eating plan I have devised over the years. It is comprised of many vegetables, beans, and lean proteins, mainly fish and chicken. It works quite well, and I like the food. What I have found is that is hard to be on this plan when there are others involved. My partner is wholly supportive, but he doesn't like the types of food I will eat on an ongoing basis. I will also make something and then eat it at every meal for 3 days. That's not in his repertoire. Here is where my extremes usually turn people off.

I love sandwiches. Put a shoe between two pieces of bread and I will probably devour it. But I found that I loved making these sandwiches out of mashed pinto beans, sauerkraut, and mustard. If I am feeling particularly saucy, I will throw on a slice of fat-free cheese. I created this masterpiece when I was living with my best friend. The problem was she had an abnormally heightened sense of smell. She would walk in the front door and tell me the milk was 3 days past its expiration date and something was dead under the sink, so a sandwich made with sauerkraut and beans convinced her I was trying to kill her.

With the holidays rapidly approaching, and more days in between these feasts to practice a sensible diet, I am coming up with new and tasty meal ideas. I have been making a lot of collard greens lately, and I think I am going to start making brown rice or barley to go with it.

I just wonder if it would taste best on sourdough or rye.

Today I had to wear a lei at work. It wasn't too bad, and I am not all that opposed to leis, but the original plan was for my whole team to wear grass skirts and leis. I took one look at the "one size fits all" grass skirts, and said, "HELL NO."

I think one size fits all applies to a different population of people than me. A t-shirt that offers up the one size fits all label usually makes me look like a 12 year old - the shirt turns into a midriff and cuts off the circulation in my arms so bad, my elbows turn blue. On some people, a tight t-shirt can be sexy and alluring. But on me, a tight t-shirt makes me feel like an overstuffed sausage - all of the filling spilling out through tears in the casing.

Growing up, my mother -- who is also overweight -- convinced me that fat people should never wear tight clothing. I have been raised in a household where shirts should fit like Hawaiian muumuus and the best way to manage back-fat is to drape it in an acre of polyester.

As a child, I was prone to wear corduroy pants. I have since decided that any parent who makes a fat child wear corduroy should be covered in honey, wrapped in Saran wrap, and laid on an ant hill. There are so many things wrong with corduroy, first and foremost is the loudly audible "swish" sound it makes as fat thighs rub together the corduroy ribs. I am amazed I did not spontaneously combust on the playground.

"Nine year old bursts into flames playing dodgeball - source of fire emanates from groin area."

And then there was the lint balls. All of that rubbing together and friction made the corduroy ribs ball up into hundreds of little threads that I became obsessed with picking off. Soon, all of my pants were crotchless and my wardrobe looked like the Spring line for Hookers and Whores Incorporated.

Tight and ill-fitting clothing is one of the worst aspects of living with a food addiction. When I was thinner, I had a hard time wearing tight clothes because it felt like I was still fat - and as I have explained in an earlier entry, I already hike my pants up to just below my nipples to prevent the dreaded "muffin-top."

So any event where I am required to dress in some type of clothing that was unplanned for or spontaneous becomes a nightmare. It ranks right up there with the dreaded "rollercoaster blacklist." That is the joyous occasion of being asked to step off the rollercoaster because the safety bar can't close. That happened to me once on the Batman ride at Magic Mountain. As a result of that horrific moment, I loathe most roller coasters and developed a psychosomatic aversion to anything with a safety bar.