The Ground Beneath Our Feet

Chapter One: Dr. Doolittle

26 yo obese Hispanic female with no significant past

medical history presenting to clinic to establish

care and for annual physical exam.

1. Obesity--discussed lifestyle modification

including diet and exercise, recommended at least ...

I folded the paper in half. Then half again, matching the corners. Then half again. And then I slipped it into my purse, placing it carefully in the designated pocket where I put receipts and other documents.

Obese.

Seeing that word in type, on a white piece of paper in my hands, felt like someone had dumped a pail of ice on me, but that viral ice bucket challenge was years ago. This, however, was the proverbial wake-up call and I'd never experienced such a thing before.

I'd been going on through my days, knowing that I kept having to buy bigger clothes, stowing the ones I'd outgrown in the back of my closet, ignoring my low-grade, constant weight gain. No one other than children outgrew their clothes. Once you reached adulthood, you were supposed to pick a size and stay with it. Well, that's what I believed even though I had been outgrowing my clothes every year. That said, I was plainly an adult and I still hadn't picked a size. Even though I was a lawyer I was pretty good at ignoring the evidence staring me right in the face.

Rather than think about my weight gain, I just sighed when I went to Macy's and grabbed the next size up on the rack. In other words, when faced with a larger iteration of my ever-changing body, I didn't think about what was going on, I just shut it out. I was good at that, after all. Good at ignoring. Good at filing my thoughts away in my brain with the promise that I'd think of them later, that I'd do something later. I never did.

These days I had to shop exclusively in the plus size section. When I went from size 16 to size IX I paused before I walked to a different section of the store.

It sucked but it didn't feel the harsh, cold reality of the way I felt right now, though.

Something about seeing those words—medical terms—written down, in my hands, made me stop and focus on those five letters, o-b-e-s-e.

That meant that something was wrong with me. It wasn't just something that I could shove to the side. Not something I could lie to myself about.

I had a medical condition that warranted a write-up by my doctor.

Oh God my God why have you forsaken me?

Stepping out of the clinic in a strip mall in Los Angeles, the bright spring sunlight hit my face like an insult. How dare it be clear and sunny, highlighting my body?

This was what I got for all of the food I'd put in my mouth. The inevitable just desserts from all of the desserts.

O-b-e-s-e.

I walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot, cars whipping past me along the huge boulevard. I was sure they were full of thin people with happy lives. This is L.A., the land of personal trainers, fad diets, and plastic surgery. Everyone looked good except me.

Wake up girl. Time to get it together. Time to stop ignoring. Time to stop lying to myself. Time to get serious. I mean, I knew what to do. Less food more exercise.

I stubbed my toe on a curb jutting out on the sidewalk. Ouch.

Time to make a change. This time it would work. I'd hit the ground running. No carbs. 1400 calories a day. Find the gym and actually go, every day. Use one of the four weight loss apps I'd installed before on my phone. Wear the FitBit. Make the weight leave me. Beat it off. Force it to go. Do it all the right way.