In the middle of the summer, I attended a birthday party for my cousin’s daughter. It was the first time in a while I had seen a lot of my cousins and tíos/tías. They noticed the weight loss and complimented me, asked questions and made some off-color jokes (“are you anorexic?”). As I’ve mentioned before, I’m ambivalent about the comments. It’s nice to see that others recognize my efforts, but I’m still uncomfortable the attention to my body when the comments come from men or are mentioned loudly in a group.

One comment still resonates a few months later.

As I was making the rounds and saying goodbye to my family, my uncle pulled me close.

“You look great, mija. But no more… don’t lose anymore.”

I didn’t say anything as I did the quick calculations of how much I still needed to reach my goal, or even be within the healthy weight range for my height.

“Um, thanks tío,” I said softly and then continued on to say goodbye to my other tíos and cousins.

A few months later, my uncles words still ring in my head, especially as I’m getting closer to the number I arbitrarily set for my goal weight and I’m not sure how I’ll feel once I’m there. I’m also tired of having to buy new clothes, especially with the cooler temperatures.

Maybe I should set a different goal: being able to share clothes with my sister. (My mom already passed down a bunch of skirts.)

Progress photos after the jump.
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I love sweets, but I don’t crave them. I don’t sit around and think, “I need a brownie right now!” I only want a brownie at the moment Lori pulls them out of the oven. Otherwise, I’m okay.

Donuts are my exception. And even then, I’m only tempted when in proximity to a shop. I always want to stop, but rarely do (even before starting WW).

So, imagine how I felt when I got to work a few days ago to find a box of donuts and muffins on my desk. Although I’d miss the going away mini-party for a co-worker, I hadn’t missed the goodies.

Yeah. Uh oh.

My supervisor saw me eying the box.

“Please, have one!” she said cheerily.

I nodded, but didn’t grab one of the two remaining glazed donuts (my 2nd favorite behind cinnamon crumb). I sat down, logged in to my computer and began making some calls. I ignored the box until my co-worker came by an hour later.

“I know you’re trying to eat healthy, want me to move this?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

He moved it to the next desk out of my line of vision.

All was fine until I started to feel hungry at 3:30, a few hours after my lunch. I went back to the box, ready to give in.

All the glazed donuts were gone. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

If you’ve looked at my weekly photo posts, you’ll notice that there are quite a few grainy MacBook Photobooth self portraits. I wasn’t being narcissistic just for the sake of it. Instead, I was tracking the changes in my face as I lose weight*.

The photos are a nice companion of the other signs of my progress: the line graph charting my weight loss from week to week; the bags of clothes I’ve removed from my closet and given to Mamá Toni to take to Tijuana; the new clothes I’ve had to buy; my endurance and strength increasing; skin clearing up as I put healthier food in my body; and unexpected cravings (e.g., my mom’s oatmeal, calabaza).

I’m not quite at my goal yet, so the photos below are not representing before and after. It’s more like before, current and in-between. As you’ll see, they’re all focusing on my face, I’ll get around to full-length photos later.

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I spent a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror today. I examined my reflection in new and old outfits as I sorted through all my clothes and decided what to give away and what to keep. I found a bag of old clothes I intended to give away after a previous cleaning. I must have forgotten the clothes — all one or two sizes smaller — because I still had the bag. I pulled out my old favorite pair of jeans circa 2004, a cute paisley blouse, and some more items. The jeans were too loose, the blouse fit just fine. I kept some of the clothes in the bag and put the rest in the give away pile. In the end, I filled three bags with new-ish clothes and hung up some old clothes.

Later, I went shopping for jeans that fit and didn’t make me look like a teenage guy sagging his pants. Once again, I stared at my reflection in the mirror trying to notice the changes.

Where is the weight coming off? My legs? My thighs? My butt? My arms? My stomach? My breasts? My face?

All of the above.

My friends and family notice the changes too. Some of the comments are funny (are you doing speed?), some make me feel self-conscious (have you had to buy a new wardrobe yet?), and some confuse me.

A few days ago my tía Martha asked, “¿Estás enamorada?”

“Yeah,” I told her, not quite sure what being in love had to do with weight loss. I heard the same question once before several years ago from my roommate’s mom. Is this a Mexican saying? Does it have something to do with being so smitten or broken-hearted that you can’t eat?

There are some things that don’t change. I went shopping yesterday to search for a dress to wear to MEChA de UCLA’s 40th anniversary dinner. I tried on several dresses at a few different stores, but I came home empty-handed. I still don’t like shopping* (shoes excluded).

* Attributed to a combination of (a) not willing to pay $168 for a dress I’ll wear a few times; (b) my codo, see (a); and (c) selection sucks, especially for short women.

Mamá Toni repeats the story every time there’s pan dulce on the table.

“El pan para la noche,” she says imitating me and giggles. “No te recuerdas?”

I shake my head no. All I remember of my trip to El Cargadero that summer was the excitement of being on a plane without my parents, running around the large plaza in front of Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s house playing games with the neighborhood kids, and getting hooked on Rosa Salvaje. I must have blocked out my love for pan dulce and the result.

When Danny and I returned from El Cargadero, I had gained weight. Again, I don’t remember this, but my mom and Mamá Toni insist that El Cargadero was the turning point. I was no longer average. From ’88 on I was chubby/chunky/fat/whatever/insert your own euphemism.

While I don’t remember the result of my trip to Zacatecas, I do remember my First Communion the next spring. I wore the white custom-made dress I wore as a flower girl for my Tía Nellie’s wedding just a few weeks earlier. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, mom talked to Mrs. Millan, my Brownie troop leader. Mrs. Millan complained about finding a dress for her small and skinny daughter. Mom told her she had the opposite problem, but was lucky I had the flower girl dress. I was embarrassed and felt like hiding.
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