The Magic Number, or Mission: Avoid Spontaneous Human Combustion

340.6

three hundred forty pounds, point six.

THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY POUNDS, POINT FUCKING SIX.

I told myself that I wouldn't freak out by the number, I was prepared to hear the number, I had psyched myself up to hear the freakin' number, I haven't blogged in God knows how long because I wanted to give y'all the sonofabitchin' number!

And now, I know the number.

And now...and now...and now...

How did it get here? How did I arrive at this? Shouldn't there have been some bell going off at 300? Some noisemakers, some shofar blowing in the distance? You mean to tell me that I have 40 (point 6) pounds to shed before I reach 300? Three hundred forty isn't a weight, it's a guest list at a wedding in the Hamptons! I didn't gorge myself on every Hershey's product ever distributed, I didn't polish off a 12-pound ham by myself (despite the temptation), I eat corn, for God's sake, could someone please explain to me just how the hell this happened!!!

So, about that whole freaking out thing...yeah. Moving on...

I arrived for an appointment with a pulmonologist because I have asthma and chronic bronchitis, made worse by my smoking. The medical assistant, who was just about the nicest man another nice single gay man could ever hope to meet, was very patient when I explained to him that I needed to be weighed, but I hadn't actually known my own weight for a number of years. Hell, I didn't even know that scales had apparently gone digital. He never broke a smile when I asked him in all sincerity whether the scale would be able to register my weight, and to his credit, he made it as pleasant an experience as he could.
The indication that this was not going to be a good moment in the history of my life probably came when I deduced that I couldn't see over my stomach in order to read Satan's contraption (the scale, for those of you who skip-read). So again, the nice man (to all of my gay male followers, contact me, this one's a keeper!) was kind enough to tell me the number out loud. Upon hearing the number calmly and gently uttered from this benevolent man's mouth, I immediately stopped breathing. This medical assistant, who may very well be the Dalai Lama's illegitimate son, instantly begin pacifying me, letting me know that "it's only a number", and that he's "seen much heavier people on this scale" (because nothing makes fat people feel better than knowing that someone else out there is fatter than you, right?). And then, the unthinkable: with the best of intentions, I'm sure...he gets on the scale himself.
Why this sweet, kindhearted friend of Dorothy felt that putting his own weight out there would somehow loosen the knot firmly ensconced in my chest after hearing my weight for the first time in the twenty-first century is beyond my comprehension, but he did it. And gaily (no pun intended) proceeded to let me know that he weighed 294 pounds so you see, we both have some work to do in order to get well!

The bastard was over six feet tall.

I'm 5'7".

What the fuck did you just accomplish here, mister?

OK, look. I know there's work that must be done here. It wouldn't be much of a Mission if there wasn't, right? It was just a little unrealistic to think that I could be so Zen about finding out how much effort it's going to take to accomplish my goal. This is not a situation I can't overcome, and I will overcome it, but I think it's healthy to freak out just a little. I mean, now that I know what I'm working with, with perseverance and faith, it can only get better from here, right? Right?

(p.s. Happy Halloween and whatnot. I will be avoiding candy, but a cocktail would definitely help.)

And Now, a Little (Lotta) Backstory.

So...hi.

I'm Jahaira.

That's jah-HIGH-rah, for those of you who will unintentionally (but alas, inevitably) mispronounce it in your mind.

There's probably a much snappier, punchier way to rope someone into reading this blog, but since neither snap nor punch have ever been my strong suits, maybe I should just lay some framework here. Let's start by telling you what this Mission (henceforth to be known as MSAPF) is not.

MSAPF is not the melodramatic whining of yet one more obese woman whose husband left her because she was too fat, who can't play with her kids, who can't stand being seen in public, who can't, can't, can't, ad nauseum. MSAPF is not about my quest to whittle myself down into roughly the size of a Dixon No.2 and blow you all away with my gently retouched Auschwitz-esque figure memorialized on-screen in a designer bikini. MSAPF is not a pass-the-buckathon blaming my weight on my mother (well, mostly), my exes, or my life in general. Sorry, it's my cross, and I'm gonna jog with it. OK, maybe I'll powerwalk with it, but there will be some movement involved here, people. Which probably should bring me to what MSAPF is.

MSAPF is me. A girl who is pretty much the life of any party she's at. A girl who commands respect with the kind of presence that only the internally fragmented can manufacture, who entertains almost everyone she's around with acerbic wit and one-liners that would've made Jackie Mason retire before he ever got started, and who's got the ever-faithful sidekick role down to a fucking science.

But inside, she's dying.

Inside, I'm dying.

Dying because I have no recollection of the exact moment when my health no longer became a factor in my day-to-day existence. Dying because I know a girl 5 years younger than me and at least 60 pounds lighter than me who had her leg amputated above the knee due to diabetes. Dying because I now live in a city with far more subway stations than elevators, so I'm praying just to make it up the steps to the above-ground landing on W.4th. Dying because I have honestly wondered if I could get one of those Rascal© scooters because I'm losing mobility in my legs. Dying because tying my own shoes is something I have to internally psych myself up for.

Dying because I'm afraid that if I don't do this, I really will die.

I'm afraid. So unbelievably afraid. I'm afraid of what that scale is going to tell me after years of politely but firmly asking every nurse who ever weighed me not to read the number out loud. Looking straight at the faux-stucco ceiling so that I wouldn't see a number which I knew would only depress me, and make me want to go home and carb my cares away. I'm afraid because in about a week, I'm going to the doctor's to be weighed, just to have a starting number for me (you, us together) to go on. Yes, I will post it here. And yes, I'll be breathing into a paper bag as I do. But I refuse to bullshit my way through this project, so brutal honesty will be the order of the day. Or year. Whatever.

By the way, did I mention that I have a propensity to not finish anything that I start? Yeah, there's that, and the fact that I smoke like a chimney and curse like a drunken sailor. Just so everything's out on the table at once here.

Now I'm depressed. Enough to sleep, but not enough to eat. Maybe that's a good sign.

In The Beginning, There Was Fat.

The Contender: Jahaira Camer, age 30. Newly relocated to New York City from Boston in search of a more meaningful existence. Currently living with her sister's family in a low-income apartment complex, known to anyone within a ten-mile radius as "the projects". Surviving on a fixed income which pretty much affords her the ability to report to you live from the poverty line.
Hasn't weighed herself in ten years, but is more than sure she's seen 300 pounds come and go. Confident about her looks (which is her story and she's sticking to it), but would like to live the kind of life that doesn't involve praying for death every time the need to climb a staircase crosses her path.

The Mission: One hundred pounds. Three hundred sixty-five days.

No surgery, no shakes, no "trainer to the stars", no home delivery, no miracle pills. Real food, real exercise, real results.

Can it be done?

January 4, 2010, one woman makes a last-ditch effort to finally put herself first.

Mark your calendars, people. It's about to be one hell of a ride.