or more evidence that I have actually lost weight….

I have lost between 35 to 40 pounds, and I have about 60 pounds that I still want to lose, but I am already noticing the impact my weight loss has had. As I mentioned earlier this week, my clothes are looser and sometimes too loose.

But I think the thing I noticed the most is that I am no longer invisible.

When I weigh a certain amount, I become invisible to most of the male species on the planet. As I go about my day, males look through me or around me but not at me. I don’t mind this since I tend not to notice them either no matter what they weigh. I’m just not looking.

But since I’ve dropped 40 pounds and managed to keep my D-cup breasts, I am no longer invisible. I am getting second glances from men I pass. More often than not, I will also get a smile, a wave, a hello, or some other line. I tend to still not be looking, and I end up startled as a stranger says something to me as I’m lost in thought, or I notice the person I am not really looking at is smiling at me and saying hello. I panic momentarily wondering if I know this person, but I usually don’t. This has happened more to me in the last month than it has in the last two years.

And I wonder is it because I feel better about myself and it shows, or is it because I am invisible when I weigh over a certain amount, and I am no longer invisible. I’m not sure. I just know it is happening now, and it wasn’t then.

When I was very young, my dad was a chain smoker, and he drank alcohol daily. I learned to play pool at the age of 8 in the Moose Lodge while my dad drank and smoked at the bar, and my mom watched over me at a nearby table. I knew enough to ask the barmaid or the red-painted quarters to put in the jukebox.

When I was a young teenager, my dad gave up smoking and drinking. He did this by going cold turkey. It worked. I remember he made a bet with my brother-in-law, and my brother-in-law wasn’t able to successfully quit smoking, but my dad did.

He was able to control his addictions to alcohol and nicotine by severing them. I don’t know if the phantom foot of his addictions ever itched, but I do know he never scratched.

After years of being alcohol-free, a doctor suggested to my dad that a shot of whiskey a day would be good for his heart. My dad responded that he had never been able to drink just one.

But you can’t go cold turkey with food.

My dad enjoyed good food. He savored the flavors. He would eat things I would never even consider like frog legs. We would drive for miles to eat in a restaurant in Luzurne that had an all-you-can-eat froglegs buffet on Friday nights. My dad would object when I would order a hamburger and fries. “Get something you don’t eat at home,” he would tell me. I would order the salad bar, and I would delight in the wide range of choices.

The salad bar wasn’t what my dad meant.

When we lived in Florida, we’d sit in a restaurant on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and my parents would eat fresh seafood. I would refuse to try the shrimp. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. I was feeling a little adventurous.

Today, I read several poems that talked about cooking. One, in particular, sounded almost pornographic as the author described pouring the oil in the pan and searing the whatever it was she was searing. What is searing anyway? The description of the eating became even more vivid with flavors bursting.

And I realize I am missing something. I do not talk about or think about food this way. It is not a sensual experience for me.

I have a friend who can get very animated and offer detail after detail as she describes how she cooks something. I cannot comprehend her culinary comments.

I eat because I’m hungry, or people around me or eating. If left on my own, I would forget to eat. I do not enjoy cooking. I enjoy socializing more than eating when I dine out. Eating is something I have to do.

When I do get a hankering for something, it is usually pretty tame. The other night I wanted something to drink with a bit of a kick. I was upset we were out of orange juice because it would have been perfect. Just a plain glass of orange juice.

When I cook, I rarely add spices. I never add salt to my food. If I use ketchup to eat my fries, the fries weren’t that very good to begin with. I prefer my hot dogs plain.

So if I am not obsessed with food, and my taste buds are fairly bland, how did I end up overweight to begin with?

I’ve been reading Teenage Waistland, which is part memoir and part a guide for parents of fat kids on what not to do. Except it seems anything a parent does is a don’t when it comes to a child’s weight. The author, who doesn’t have kids of her own, isn’t very gracious when she comes to analyzing the role parents have in a child’s weight.

Still the issues addressed in this book are part of what started me writing about weight and being a fat man’s daughter in the first place.  How do I talk to my children about weight? How can I teach them about healthy portions without knowing healthy portions? How can I discuss being concerned about weight without making them overly concerned about weight?

Is my obsession with exploring this issue going to drive my own children into anorexia, bulimia or obesity?

Or will someone else’s thoughtless comment going to do it for me?

I’m 36 years old, and I still remember a trip to Houston to visit my sister and her husband. My sister had cable and more importantly she had MTV. I was a teenager surrounded by toddlers and adults and a television that offered music videos and more channels than I had seen in my life. I spent some quality time sitting on their couch watching my very first videos. This prompted her husband to make a comment about my weight. It was probably 20 years ago, and I still remember how embarrassed I felt. It was the first time someone had ever commented on my weight. And I was not fat. I wasn’t even close, but I remember the hot cheeks and shame that I felt with his words.

Last Sunday was Easter, and we were all sitting around the table. Dinner was over, and we were playing cards. My oldest daughter was sitting across from me, next to her aunt. Her aunt is obese. She is almost as wide as she is tall. She needs surgery on her knee, but she can’t have it until she loses weight. She doesn’t look like she’s lost any weight lately.

Sitting next to me is my father-in-law. My daughter grabs something to snack on, and my father-in-law made a comment. I don’t remember what my daughter was eating or father-in-law said. I just know it was a comment about my daughter’s weight, as if her weight was a problem.  I think the same thing prompted my father-in-law that prompted my brother-in-law so many years before — someone very obese was in the house and the comment was meant as a preventative measure. But 20 years have gone by, and I didn’t hesitate as I smacked my father-in-law on the arm and let him know that his comment was not appropriate. I’m not sure if my daughter heard him, a comment my mother-in-law made, and I’m not completely sure my father-in-law understood my objection. I’m not sure I did either.

I was horrified his comment was heard by my daughter and would be internalized when it shouldn’t be. I was horrified his comment was heard by my sister-in-law and would sting with pain and truth. I was hurt that people’s words can be so painful.

The other day my daughter was ill, and I picked her up from school. I was on my way to a job, and she came with me. While she waited for me, she bought four candy bars from the vending machine. Two for her and two for me. I didn’t know about the third and fourth one. I ate part of the first candy bar she offered me. I declined the second one. IN less than two hours, my daughter had eaten all of the candy.

As we drove home, I talked about it. I didn’t say it was wrong. I talked about it in terms of calories and portions and eating habits. I noted it wasn’t something you should do frequently. And I had her read the calories on the wrapper, and I mentioned how many calories a typical day should include. I tried not to make her feel bad. I emphasized she isn’t overweight. I don’t want to make her obsessed, but I do want her to know things I didn’t know about portions and exercise.

I was not an overweight child. I was thin most of my life. I didn’t have a weight problem until I became pregnant. I was pregnant and/or breastfeeding for seven years. I lost the weight, and I took a job that left me little time to exercise. I gained weight. I gained the most weight in 2006. I’ve since lost it, but I am still overweight/obese.

Monday, my husband and I talked to an insurance guy about life insurance. The insurance guy didn’t hesitate to ask my husband his weight. He hesitated before he asked me, but I didn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m obese,” I said. And here I fudged my height, saying, “I’m 5′8 and 211.” I actually hover somewhere between 5′7 and 5′8, but I hadn’t fudged on saying I was obese or my weight, so I will let the fraction of an inch slide for the moment.

The next day, my husband and I were talking about the insurance. He shakes his head as he recalls my response. “Obese,” he said. His head shaking from side to side in denial. I’m not obese, he thinks.

I am. I want my children to know what a healthy weight is and what a normal weight body looks like. My children are in the normal range. The oldest weighs more than her great-grandma did at the great-grandma’s wedding. I know this because the great-grandma told me so when she learned how much my daughter weighs. My daughter is also several inches taller than hr great-grandma, and her weight and height fall in the middle of the “normal” range on the BMI scale - 21.6.

What does it say about me that I’ve checked?