Well, it all started June 23, 2014 the day after we came back from 3 weeks in Provincetown, MA. Cape Cod? Three weeks? What could have been better than that? Only it wasn’t.
The condo we were renting looked like a broken down college dorm room. The Ikea beds hadn’t been assembled properly and literally fell crashing apart when we lay down on them. The doors stuck. The futon sofa in the living room/dining room/kitchen was covered in a piece of batik cloth to cover up beer stains and pillows chewed on by a dog. The master bedroom bed was a full size, not a queen size as had been advertised; Diane and I are close, but as the weeks passed and the temp climbed from the 40s to the 90s, I found myself sleeping on the floor to try to cool off. The owner said she was an artist and tricked her house out in her own handiwork, but her art included pictures of eyeballs and mirrors.
We were packed into the condo with our daughter, age 5, and my 16 year old niece who we brought as a nanny. Unfortunately, the niece didn’t really hit it off with our daughter. The niece had only just finished a busy year of school, was exhausted, and had probably thought a trip to the beach would be relaxing. Next thing she knew she was sleeping in a bed that collapsed whenever she rolled over, sharing a room with a five year old who got up at the first sign of light in the window (5am anyone?) and trapped with her gay aunties in a total run down shithole with no way to escape. I felt her pain. She coped by spending almost the entire trip texting with her friend Riley and listening to British boy bands on her iPod.
I coped by stuffing my face full of all the goodies that one can indulge in on vacation. If your vacation is a three hour cruise, perhaps I wouldn’t have done any damage. But three weeks of quadrupled sized pistachio muffins from Stop and Shop, three scoop mint chip waffle cones from Sweet Escape, and the breakfast buffet at Fanizzi’s by the Bay, and I was looking pretty...um...I think the word I’m looking for is “blimpy.”
Here’s me in the condo:
I knew things were getting bad. I’d lost some weight the summer before, only to find it again during the school year. Actually, I found it along with about 15 of its friends. I’d already faced pre-diabetes and other health issues. I knew the situation was dire. And I was disgusted with myself. And then, Valentine was patting my belly as I lay in bed in the morning. My shirt had rolled up, exposing my naked midriff, a frequent occurrence. Valentine said, “Oh, you don’t have a belly button.” My belly was so huge and full of folds, she couldn’t find my belly button and figured I just didn’t have one. I think that was the moment that I started to turn things around. I took some pictures of myself naked when no one was looking. I assessed the damage. And then I made a decision.
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