Number 74

29 Pounds of Progress

I first need to offer up a bit of an apology. In the past, I have been clear about two things: (1) Feel free to ask me questions about my transition. If it's a question I don't wish to answer, I won't. (2) Don't ask me about my genitals. By publishing this post, in which my genitals are implicitly involved, I am guilty of sending you, my audience, a mixed message. That's not fair of me and I'm sorry. But seriously, don't ask me about my genitals.

Six months ago, June 18th to be exact, I had my first consult with the plastic surgeon who will (hopefully) one day be responsible for the vaginoplasty surgery that I desperately  urgently  really badly  want. A quick reminder for anyone new. Vaginoplasty is the fashioning of a vagina, vulva, and other various parts of the female genitalia, using the various parts from a penis and scrotum. Just to clarify, the penis and scrotum parts come from the same person having the vaginoplasty surgery. In that way, it works out really well for everyone involved. Except for Trump. He hates us.

Anyway, my optimistic feelings at finally meeting this doctor quickly turned to scared and bitter tears. He was unwilling to proceed with the surgery as things stood. In other words - I was too fat and too out of shape.

Way back in the Spring of 1988, I was a legit snack. I was a lean, mean, muscled 185 pounds. Unfortunately, as the years went on, I slowly added more and more weight and got less and less exercise. I tipped the scales that June day, six months ago, at an, 'ahem', less than svelte 260 pounds. In my defense, I've always kind of had a "fire plug" body shape, and a tribe of cannibals could survive off my thighs for a long while, so it wasn't 100% obvious that I had let myself go to such an extent.

Even so, part of me knew I was too heavy, and that I needed more regular exercise. At the time I was going to a gym two or three times a week to ride the bike or walk the treadmill. I was kind of trying to eat better, but it was a half-hearted effort at best.

A day or two later, my despair turned to firm resolve. The first thing to go was soda pop - my worst "food" vice - even if it was "diet." Cold turkey, I stopped. Milk and a lot of dairy went. Carbs, too. More importantly, I started counting calories, and was amazed to discover how quickly my normal eating habits took me past 2,000 calories/day. I quickly got to a point where I was averaging between 1,500 to 2,000 calories/day.

I hit the gym with a vengeance. From two or three times a week to 5 or 6. I started to lose weight. one to two pounds a week, but I was only doing aerobic exercise. I was instructed that if I wanted to be in better shape, I also needed to do weight training. So I did - for the first time since college. However, there was a Catch-22. While strength work does get you in good shape, it doesn't help you lose weight. Basically you're converting "bad" weight to "good" weight, but those good results don't necessarily show up when you step on the scale. I stopped weighing myself, because I knew it was a mistake to fixate on my weight alone. I hoped the surgeon would understand that.

Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment. I was a nervous wreck leading up to the appointment. I knew how hard I had worked, but surgeons don't take that into account. I had either prepared my body enough to proceed, or I had not. With trepidation, I stepped up on the scale. 231 pounds. I also knew my weight training had toned up my body considerably.

"Good Work", he concluded without indicating if that was good enough or not. He then proceeded to talk to me about what the surgery entailed, and what complications could happen. I then had a "wait a minute" moment, and it occurred to me that he would not be having this particular conversation with me, if he wasn't willing to proceed.

I had done it.

Now, it's up to logistics and scheduling. I don't know exactly when, but sometime this spring... I left the clinic building walking on air and giggling uncontrollably. What a wonderful feeling!