So now that I have lost almost ten pounds, I can starting bitching about something besides my weight. 

Last week, I decided that I am tired as hell of the big-ass spider veins on the back of my knee. I was prone to blame this on childbirth, but thanks to my husband I was reminded that actually, it's genetics. Thanks, Mom. I had them before I gave birth. (The stretch marks are another story. You're worth the stretch marks, G-man, as well as all the other residual damage you caused, details of which go too far even for me. Somehow I think a blog post titled "How my (censored) was blown apart in childbirth" might permanently damage my career. Or maybe just did.) 

So, I rescheduled my life around a visit to the Laser Vein Clinic. There, I was greeted by a nurse with over-siliconed lips, bleached hair and a fake tan. How could I possibly be uncomfortable? Nurse Faux explained to me that they could inject some crap in my leg, and I could then spend two weeks in "compression stockings" and one week not exercising at all to ensure that the injected crap took hold. 

Are these veins ugly as hell? YES. 

But am I ever going to make myself miserable for two weeks to fade them "approximately 80%"? That is approximately 80% NOT LIKELY. 

Come to think of it, I'm considering canceling the torturous pre-vacation bikini wax I have scheduled for this Friday. Sure, it's a nice service for the men-folk and all, but I did just get a new swimsuit with "board shorts" for bottoms, which I can actually wear without looking like hell. Except for the veins. 

A wise friend recently said to me, "Beauty is pain." How much pain should we put up with to look good?

Veruca Salt, if you recall, is the girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory who always gets her way: "I want a golden ticket, Daddy, and I want it NOW." When I lived in New York there was actually a deli guy that nicknamed me Veruca, because I was so particular about my sandwich. 

There was also a guy who hit on me from a manhole in the middle of Park Avenue, a plumber named Carmine from Queens who kept saying "So, ya wanna get tagetha, or what?", and a crazy Moroccan bastard who threw my television against the wall. But, I digress. Those are different stories for a different day. 

Generally, I am not known for being a low-maintenance individual. I pretty much want what I want, and now, please and thank you. Years ago, before I went to work at Carmichael Lynch in Minneapolis, the mandatory shrink evaluation for all new employees concluded in my case that I am "too independent and entrepreneurial to function in the confines of a corporate organization." Yet, somehow, 20 years into my career people still consider me employable. It never ceases to amaze me. 

It's not that I can't be a "team player". I like collaborating, blah blah blah. I know there are lots of smart people in the world/room. I talk on my blog about knowing I'm not the smartest person in the room, but sometimes, that's kind of bullshit frankly. Sometimes I am the smartest person in the room on a given topic. And yes, other times I am not. But in the cases where I am, and I actually do know what the hell I am talking about, I would like to be able to make a fast decision without negotiating endlessly. If there was a Facebook fan page for Committees and Formal Processes, I would not be a fan. 

Which means I am entering the biggest challenge of my career. I suddenly find myself part of a team of five partners needing to build "buy-in", if not actual consensus. (I learned yesterday that there is a difference. "Buy-in" doesn't have to mean you agree, it just means you can live with the decision.)

Can I, Veruca Salt, actually do this? 

Can I grow the massive reserves of patience necessary to fully hear out four other individuals without interruption, on a routine basis, for the sake of having a vote? Can I rise above the destiny foretold by the aforementioned shrink, and function happily within "the confines of a corporate organization", however horizontal it may be? Or am I destined to emerge with nothing but more gray hair, deeper wrinkles, and a bloody forehead from beating it against the wall?

This definitely falls in the category of things that some would consider Too Much Information, for so-called "Personal Branding". I'm calling BS on personal branding, in the name of keeping it real. If someone doesn't want to hire me in the future because I once blogged about what it's like to be fat and feel ugly, then I don't want to work for them anyway. 

I was a fat kid. I love my parents, but why on God's great Earth they thought it was OK to raise us on Cap'n Crunch, Doritos, and Kentucky Fried Chicken will always be a great mystery to me. Seriously, we used to fight over who got to eat the extra skin in the chicken bucket. It makes me gag now. I wasn't, like, Precious huge or anything, but plus sizes at JCPenney and the occasional "custom made" (translation: nothing in the store fits) garment were not foreign concepts to me, or my brother. 

I un-fatted myself during high school, thanks to tennis and volleyball. But still, I wasn't exactly a dude magnet. My friends basically paid someone's brother to kiss me on my 16th birthday. I had crazy-ass Afro hair and not surprisingly, very low self-esteem. 

In college, the A-hole I lost my virginity to told me I was fat after the deed, and seriously, at this point I was maybe 5-10 pounds overweight. If anyone knows a guy from Illinois named Jeff Bertucci, kick him in the nuts for me. 

Post-college, I've always battled with my weight, especially during really stressful times. I've always worked out like a crazy person, yet managed to stay moderately overweight, with the exception of my wedding, for which I counted every calorie for months and managed to fit into my Angel Sanchez sample-size dress, for exactly one day. By the end of the Paris honeymoon seven days later, I had gained seven pounds.

Two weeks later, I was pregnant, and gained a solid 50+ pounds during my pregnancy, which it took me about two years to lose. Six months after I went back to work, a well-meaning receptionist asked if I was pregnant again. I wasn't. 

So now, here I am at 41 years old, married to my former personal trainer (who has put on ten pounds of his own), with a beautiful son who was so worth every minute on the damned elliptical trainer. And I'm fat again. Big changes always trigger it. I've put on nearly ten pounds since I started a new job four months ago. 

So, as per my previous post, I'm counting every damn calorie and on the road to feeling good again. But not nearly there yet. 

All of this is related to a story about today. I went with three beautiful, thin women for a ball gown fitting for the Eisner Museum masquerade ball, which I knew had train wreck written all over it for me. And as it turns out, indeed, nothing they had fit my fat ass. I left with freaking shawl, which will be used to hide my fat arms on Friday night when I try to get over myself and feel good about myself in spite of years of shit. 

It's time for me to somehow internalize that 10 pounds doesn't make me worthless. Anyone have ideas on how to do that? Maybe writing about it, and laughing at myself, is the first step. Thanks for listening. 

I'm off to a late start this year on my perpetual New Year's resolution of losing weight. Lately, I've been referring to myself around the house as Fatty McFatPants. While I find this quite comical, I also realize it's really not and definitely is not a great thing for my (very thin) son to hear. 

So today is day four of counting every stinking calorie (in addition to the 5-6 times a week I already work out), and I am publicly stating my goal of losing 10-12 pounds before my super-sweet beach vacation on March 25. 14 pounds would rock, but that's probably a lot for 5 weeks. If I don't lose at least 10, I expect - and want - to be publicly/verbally flogged. 

The yoga retreat I wanted to take didn't work out. My friend/travel partner, who has asthma, is understandably not into staying in a cabana on the beach in 90-degree weather with zero available A/C. So now we're staying at this insane luxe resort in Zihuatanejo, Mexico, called the Tides. Turns out, they will send a yoga instructor to my room so I can practice every day. Works for me. 

If I'm spending that kind of cash on a vacation (thought we got a sweet deal on a suite), I'm doing it looking and feeling GOOD. 

What kicks you into high gear?