I’ve always been fluffy, save for a brief period in junior high. I fasted for two weeks during the summer between sixth and seventh grades, and walked into the hallowed halls of Eastside Girls’ Junior High School on the first day of class wearing size 5 pants. I walked crooked, because I was swimmy-headed from lack of food, but I looked good. That was a few weeks before my 12th birthday.

Over the years between junior high and my looming AARP membership, my fluffiness has fluctuated between gently rounded and positively rotund, but I took great pride in the fact that I was able to do anything a skinny person could do. I rafted rivers and took long walks. I lived for a while in a second-story apartment, and ran up and down the stairs with no problem. I remained as limber as a wet noodle, and was prone to spontaneous pirouettes in public.

Life has a way of slipping past, and mine is more hectic than most. Over the years, I lost sight of myself, first because there was no time to look, and then because I didn’t want to see what had happened to me. I noticed that people weren’t telling me how pretty I was, anymore. And no one was talking about my smile. I was tired all the time. I couldn’t remember the last time I spent all day in bed with a good book, let alone stayed up all night reading one.

When we went anywhere, Hubby was across the parking lot before I got myself out of the car. I had to decline the water slide on Father-In-Law’s boat, because when I snuck and looked, I was above the weight limit.

Still, I kept my head in the sand until one day last spring, when I found myself chasing a mayonnaise-coated mushroom around my plate while talking about how much I love vegetables. I was with a friend, and somehow, looking at the greasy bit of fungus lolling there next to a giant pile of fries, coupled with her offer of support, I made a decision. With the help of a fitness and nutrition trainer, I took the first steps toward a healthy lifestyle.

Within a couple of months, I started to see muscle definition in my legs, and one day, I shrugged my shoulders at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and wonder of wonders, I could see my collar bones! I wasn’t sure I even had collar bones, and there they were. I shrug at my reflection habitually now. Friends noticed my baggy clothes and the spring in my step. One day, someone I haven’t seen in years stopped me in the grocery store. She kept telling me how great I looked.

I was well into my new routine the day Hubby broke my heart and made me realize how bad things had been. I was gushing over some new workout or other, and he allowed as how he was proud of me. Then, in a hesitant voice, because he would not hurt me for the world, he quietly said, “I was afraid you were going to die.”

How did things get to that point? How did I go from a round lady who was vibrant and bouncy, to someone whose husband was worried for her safety? I’m still working that out, but it was a long time before I could address Hubby’s admission. I think I know how addicts feel, when they realize the havoc they’ve wreaked on themselves and those they love.

Six months into life post-grease, I’m still trundling along. With activity and diet, I’m proud to say that I’ve dropped many, many pounds. And I’m not afraid to say that I have many, many more to go. I have moments of frustration, like the day this week when I had to toss out two varieties of low-fat ice cream. I found myself indulging every evening, and that will not do.

Being several sizes smaller is a wonderful thing, and collar bones are da bomb, but little things like not huffing and puffing my way across parking lots are the biggest rewards. I go to bed later and get up earlier. I used to hate getting off my stool at work. Somebody said that I needed one with wheels, so that I could just roll around after customers. Now, sometimes I stand up when no one’s there at all, just because I can. And if you drive past and see me pirouetting across the shop, honk and wave!