"Honey, Can I pleeeaaaasssseeee get a boob job?"

"If you lose all of your weight, Yes, I'll give in and you can get a boob job."

"O.K., for the record- If I lose my weight, then I can get a boob job, and a little work done on my face..."

"What? What do you mean "work on your face?"

"Well, ya know, just a little bit of botox in my 11's and maybe a little juvederm?"

*insert convo where I explained juvederm*

"Shelley, trust me- If you lose your weight, your face will go back to normal."

Wow. That was completely sobering.

When I first began this blog, I was overweight- but not huge or anything. I loved writing and sharing stories- hopefully to bring a smile to someone's face, vent, or just pass my time because it felt like I had formed a newfound hobby. And through this process, I learned more about myself than I ever knew. I've learned my likes, my dislikes, what makes me happy, sad, and everything in between. And I've also learned that while I am happy and satisfied in my life and pretty much live on easy street, I self medicate.

Ya see, at the end of the day when all is quiet, nothing makes me feel as good as settling in with a loaf of bread and Diet Coke. Or when I have to go from swim team to gymnastics to a playdate within three hours something about a McDonald's run seems soothing to me. With my kids growing up right before my very eyes this past year and no longer being solely dependent on me, food has become my b-f-f. When they are off playing pretend at the park with their friends and no longer needing Mommy every second, I miss it. And when I'm sad that I'm not the only one bringing a smile to their faces, a double cheeseburger calls out my name and "needs" me. And when they are perfectly content with the neighborhood kids and don't need Mommy to lead activities, I can turn to Doritos while sitting on my front stoop. And somewhere along the line, I packed on the pounds.

While I'd like to say it happened overnight, I know it didn't. But it sure feels like it. I honestly never saw how "big" I had gotten until this past week- starting with when I caught a glimpse of my back fat in the medicine cabinet mirror and wondered who in the sam hells body was in my bathroom- I mean it couldn't be mine! But after ten minutes of playing with different body positions and being grossed out by my gut, stretch marks, and everything in between, I saw that it was indeed my own reflection.

Or tonight, when I went to a family birthday party and my cousin took a group picture of us... and then showed it to me on the camera resulting in me nearly threatening her life if she posted it on facebook- As in a real death threat if she even thought about tagging that pic... I saw a girl in the picture- while very happy with a smile on her face... A girl that looked fat and happy. Fat... as in the F word fat.

And somewhere along the line of making excuse after excuse as to why I didn't work out, or stick to my Weight Watchers points, inside this happy gal, lives a woman that really struggles with her weight. Struggles to the point where she is lost and doesn't know where to go from here. Struggles because she knows she needs to do something and yet feels like she has no control or motivation. Struggles because she feels like she's lost not what's on the inside, but what is on the outside. And a woman who would give anything and everything to just once again look more normal.