Disassembled

There is a dilemma that comes with "Life" blogging. Most of you that frequent here blog yourselves, so you probably know what I'm talking about. It's that fine line between putting it all out there and things that should be kept to yourself.

Where do you draw that line? Certainly with things that would be detrimental to your employment or marriage, maybe even before things that while you will freely admit to them, you don't necessarily want it spread around. Things like, oh, someones Dad looks like the Penguin from the Batman movies. Yes, it's funny, yes it's true, but it's also hurtful. So you keep that under your hat and instead tell stories about how much you drink. Or drank. And where you puked as a result. Funny, self-effacing, you know....safe.

But there comes a time or an event or maybe even a person that you need to talk about. Something that is integral to who you are, or where you're going. Something so massive that you can't imagine NOT talking about it.

Except.

To talk about it is to open yourself up to judgement. Because isn't that what the Internet is for? To judge you and everything you do? Of course, you want it to be favorable, but after all, it's human nature to have an opinion and there will no doubt come a time when Mine doesn't match Yours.

Which leads me, Chickens, to this; to now. I tell you kids most everything. Certainly everything that's important or life changing or potentially fraught with potential hilarity. Or at least with stories about poop.

The truth is, my vacation wasn't a vacation. I had surgery. Gut surgery. Specifically a Roux-en-Y gastric bypass. This surgery detaches the majority of my stomach and leaves me a "pouch" of about 4oz. So, as an example, your stomach is the size of a football, mine is the size of an egg. This means that for the rest of my life, I'll eat only teensy weensy amounts of foods. Not baby food, or protein shakes, or even weird diet food. Real food, just little bity amounts at a time. It means that I'll be dependant on vitamin supplements. It also means that my joints no longer ache, I no longer stop breathing when I sleep and I am no longer in the danger zone for diabetes or high cholesterol.

It means that twenty plus years of trying every diet from Cabbage Soup to the Zone is now over. I am no longer hungry. Not even a little bit. Don't get me wrong, Mama still loves her food, but I no longer need it for anything other than nutrition. I don't wake up every morning worrying about eating "good" or "bad". It means that I have to make myself schedule a meal. Because honestly, I could care less. Food isn't my obsession any longer.

Pooping is. For real. I haven't pooped in like, oh, a week. And let me tell you chickens, THAT is a side effect I could live with out!