the fat girl's guide to flying

i've been traveling a lot recently and as a woman of XXL proportions, airplane travel always make me a little nervous. fortunately, i have amazing girlfriends who know what the hell i'm talking about when i anxiously mention the dread of having to squeeze my voluptuous keister into an XL seat for three hours. one particular travel-savvy friend sent me the following advice, wrought from her own extensive traveling experiences:

The Fat Girls Guide to Flying

1) Airline seat sizes vary. Airplanes use a few different kinds of aircrafts. When you shop for flights, it will list the type of aircraft each flight uses. Check here to determine the width of the seat on that particular aircraft: www.seatguru.com You want the 18" width; it will be much better vs. the 17" width. Whenever possible I pick my flight times based on this.

2) Get in a loyalty program and fly that airline as much as possible. It is TOTALLY worth it. Get a credit card that gives you miles for that airline. This will let you get better seats (i.e. non middle!), board first, and upgrade to first with your miles.

3) Always aim for a window seat. It allows you to get into the row first (usually), get situated, and lean away from the middle seat. Because of carts and other traffic coming down the aisle, the aisle seat doesn't leave you with anywhere to lean.

4) Seat belt lengths vary. I tend to fly United where the seat belt is always roomy in coach, but strangely, not nearly as roomy in business class/first (even though the seat are.)

Here's how to handle a tight seat belt: immediately recline your seat, slide your ass back, and buckle the seat belt. Then un-recline. In crappier seats you may have to reach back and grab the side of the seat and yank it forward as you depress the button to move the seat back into the upright position. Do the whole recline thing really quickly and no one will notice, they're too busy getting situated themselves. In really small/older planes (i.e. europe), the seat belts are much shorter. Do not go through the drama of asking for an extender. Just bring a jacket with you and put it on your lap. Place the unbuckled seatbelt under the jacket. Put your headphones on and zone out. No one will notice. Flight attendants just want to get the plane off the ground, they are not looking to see if your seat belt is buckled.

sew much fun

i've been totally enthralled with the sewing classes. on monday, i signed up for an additional class on tuesday evenings. we're not quite finished with the babe-a-licious drawstring pants, but i've been having so much fun that i decided to pony up for the shirt making class. much to my delight, this class is substantially smaller - only five of us total. even after the horror of getting measured in front of the whole class, i was so tickled by the idea of tackling shirt construction that i was willing to go through the embarrassment once more - after all, i'd done it once. i knew what to expect. it would be fine! and i would be sewing a real, live, honest to gosh shirt!!


still riding the high from monday night's class, i was anxiously awaiting the delights of tuesday's class. since we were no longer beginners, i expected the instructor to hand out the patterns, measure us, and get right into it. ho no... this time we were going to use a pattern generated from a program and based on multiple measurements INCLUDING WEIGHT AND BRA SIZE!!! kill me now. thank god there were only four other gals in the class... somehow the agony of having to bear the agony of publicly announcing my weight and bra size was lessened by the fewer number of class participants. and once again, i was the absolutely biggest gal in the bunch. i could feel the tightness in my chest start as the instructor measured his first victim... i gotta say, the single measurement of the previous class was small potatoes compared to this round of measuring... the fullest part of our chests, our waist, between the legs from belly button to the top of our ass cracks, neck, and bicep. the first gal handled the measurements like a champ. i could tell she was very uncomfortable - lots of nervous laughter and self deprecating comments. i mean i don't really understand why since she had the whole room silently staring at her, listening to the measurements as the instructor read them aloud. while witnessing this whole horror-measurement scenario play out, i realized that it was likely that every single one of the gals in there was filled with the same dread that was rocking around in me. i made up my mind to just say fuck it and get over the nerves. when it came to my turn, i had a little fun with the instructor... i took the tape measure and pulled it back and forth between my legs while shimmying my pelvis. i think that was the pressure valve everyone was looking for because we all started laughing... and i started blushing... but sure enough, talk of stripper poles sparked light conversation in the room and the tense tone dissipated. i didn't even mind giving my honest to god real weight and bra size. of course, i was as discreet as i could be, but again, i figured fuck it. i'm going to make this godamned shirt and it will fit because i've provided accurate measurements.


before getting measured, i was acutely aware of how hot and bright the shame of my weight burned inside of me. horrible catastrophic fantasies began to take shape and i felt like i would be lost to my peers as me, belly, and known only as a number. i imagined that once they knew my measurements and my weight, i would be forever reduced to numbers, i would forever be known as '51 Inch Hips'. "hey, 51 Inch Hips, could you pass me the pinking shears?" "Please say 'present' when i call your name. Hips, 51 Inches?" yet, this time i refused to be transfixed by the bonfire of my insecurities. fuck it. yes, my hips do measure 51 inches. so fucking what? yay me for being able to provide current, exact weight and bra measurements. yay me for having the courage to playfully poke fun at the tense situation by doing a little stripper dance with the tape measure. after all, if i'm going to continue sewing for myself, i'm going to have to acknowledge the shape of my body!


by the time i got home i was so energized, so full of delight and productivity. i gave myself over to the process of being measured and in return, i received a hella good time. i can't wait for next week's classes.


the real beauty of taking these sewing classes lies not in the fact that i'm learning a craft, but in the fact that i'm learning about me. some of my most vulnerable sensibilities around body image are being challenged. and IT'S OK. i'm discovering that the truth of my weight, the size of my hips, my bust - it's simple fact. these numbers are not charged with emotional anthrax. they simply are. i simply am. i do not crumble when forced to reveal my weight. i choose not to lose myself in the inner whirlpool of anxiety and insecurity. i choose to sew, baby!

sweet home, los angeles??

if i lose weight for no other reason than to fit into the godamned airline seats, that will be just fine with me. the flight to chicago was quite pleasant. fortune blessed me with an empty middle seat and plenty of slack on the seatbelt, but the flight home was not so lucky. not only was the plane completely full, but for some reason i had to seriously suck it in to get the belt buckled. humiliating. and uncomfortable... and to add insult to injury, my lovely full hips/thighs kept pushing the arm rest up... thank god the middle seat occupant was a scrawny hipster who was passed out for the whole flight:)

it was nice to see friends. the movie went well. but i'm glad to be home. i think the next time i go back, i'm going to book myself into a hotel. my folks were kind enough to put me and my guy up for a few nights, but the accommodations were woefully gross and uncomfortable. i probably sound like a spoiled wretch for critiquing the generosity of my hosts, but seriously. i'd bet my eye teeth that crack dens are arguably cleaner than my parent's homes. the problem is that my folks are getting old. in addition to failing energy levels and eyesight, they are in the midst of selling one home and moving it's contents to their vacation/pseudo permanent home. their cleaning lady quit a couple of months ago b/c no one was around and the house was so empty. and my dad is still very much recovering from his heart surgery.

i get it. they have a lot going on. still...

the first nite i got in, my mom picked me up. "where's dad?" i asked. "we're fighting" she said. great. my folks exist in some state of argument 50% of their time... so this was no curve ball. i know how it goes down in their house(s) when they are fighting. internally, i braced myself for all of the shit that i worked so hard to unlearn in therapy, then immediately changed the subject. when we got back to the lake house, i was hungry and tired. i went to the spare bedroom and found some sheets on the bed... i suspected that they weren't clean and my suspicions were confirmed when i pulled the covers back to reveal - brace yourselves - scabs and a few dried blood spots. yeah. that's right. i said scabs. so. fucking. gross. it took everything i had not to keel over in a fit of trauma-induced seizures. clearly, this is where my dad has been sleeping during his recovery. i changed the sheets but still couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bed. i wandered into the office and set up camp on the couch. "why aren't you sleeping in the bed?" my mom asked. "scabs" i said. "god. that's fucking disgusting" she said. "then you better check the couch for scabs, too - he's been sleeping in here, as well."

i did have a nice time with my mom that first night. we reconnected while chatting and laughing. despite the good time, i was acutely aware of the role that food played in our discourse. when she first picked me up she said, "you're losing weight!! you look great." bullshit. and i'm not being an argumentative ass, but seriously. i have not lost substantial weight since the last time she saw me... she just knows i've been following weight watchers and she's somewhat of a sycophant. on the ride from the airport she asked if i was still doing weight watchers and i admitted that i was. when we got to the lake house, she asked if i was hungry and i said that i would forage for something. then she made these super unhealthy little pizza pockets (sabotage!) for us. then pulled out a bag of lindt's dark chocolate truffles and laura scudder's natural peanut butter. "have you mixed these two before?" she said, slathering the gooey peanut butter onto the truffle. "no" i replied, "i have enough bad habits already."

here's the unsettling part for me: why on earth would my mom serve up a gatrillion calorie meal (and by meal i mean 14lbs of enriched flour and 27lbs of refined sugar) late at nite AFTER i'd already told her that i was trying to stick to weight watchers?? perhaps i'm being sensitive, but it all felt a little too much like her trying to sabotage me. for the record, i did not have any of those p.b. and chocolate concoctions. i did, however, indulge in the crappy microwave pizza pieces. perhaps her food choices didn't have anything to do with me. all i know is that the food element didn't feel nourishing and healthy... it felt cloistering and heavy and guilt-laden.

the next day, we did a little shopping on our way back to their other house. it was nice to see my dad up and about. he looks great for an old guy who, just four short weeks ago, had his chest cracked open. we had a good conversation despite my mom slamming shit around us, making loud, angry noises. she refused to acknowledge my father and made it clear that she wasn't happy with us chatting. fortunately, i had dinner plans with my girls and had to pick up my guy from the airport later that evening so i got out of the house pretty quickly.

when my guy and i got back from the airport, we slogged our luggage upstairs to one of the empty, spare bedrooms and set up futons and sheets on the carpet. talk about skeeze city! there were remnants of dead bugs all over the place. the futons looked like they were pulled out of a dumpster and the "clean" sheets that we laid down had a few scabs stuck to them... fucking disgusting.
on sunday evening, i dropped my guy off with his bandmate and left him to a week long recording session. i drove back to my folks place and started packing. that's when i noticed an ant on my makeshift futon bed. further inspection revealed a couple of small, black roly poly looking things wriggling around. i picked up my shit and moved down to the living room and made a little bungalow on the floor. "what are you doing?" my mom asked. "bugs" i said. she grimaced. "yuck. i'm so sorry about the sleeping arrangements. do you want me to kick dad out of your sister's bed so you can sleep there?" ??? what kind of a person would kick a recovering heart patient out of their bed and displace them to the couch?? WTF!? "uh, no. this'll be fine. i have to get up at 5am anyway to get ready for my flight." "are you going to be ok to get up that early?" my mom asked. "yeah, i'll be fine. i'm going to hit the hay soon," i replied, all the while thinking that not even death could keep me from getting on that plane in the morning.

as soon as i left to get ready for bed, i heard my folks start arguing in the living room. SERIOUSLY??? did we not just talk about how we had to get up super early to get to the airport? mom, did you not just express concern about having to get up in 6 short hours? what the fuck are you doing picking a fight at 11:30 at night OVER MY BED!? i didn't know what to do. i was so uncomfortable. there's no where in the house that i could go to escape their fighting. i headed down to the basement and sat on the stairs and called my guy for a sanity check. fortunately, the fight broke up around midnight and i meekly padded in to the living room, carefully checking for land mines or any other remnants from the war, before hunkering down in my bungalow.
anyway, i can't tell you what relief it is to be home... and by myself (my guy opted to stay in chi-town for a week to record another album). i've been kind of floating around in this weird haze. my thoughts are disjointed. i get lost in the dichotomy of the truly great time with my friends and the bizarro world of my folks.

having made three or four trips back to chicago in the recent past has given me new perspective on my current situation. this last visit confirmed some sneaking suspicions in my mind. i realize that i've been glorifying and idealizing "chicago" and my memory of it. it's been tough adapting to a new life, but i gotta say, right now, my chicago life - the streets, the shops, the weather that just won't quit, the city vibe - it all feels very much part of my past. for as much as i resisted settling into los angeles, calling it home, i gotta say it never felt so comfortable as when i got off that plane at LAX and drove back through hellacious traffic on the 405. when did all this change happen?

when the best thing ever gets sullied by the worst thing ever... in front of 11 strangers

tonite i had my first sewing class. i've been looking forward to this class for months... i've tried to sign up for it twice and twice it was full. i thoroughly researched this place and even though it was a bit more expensive, i just knew it was the right place for me.

i moved my whole day around so i could get to this class on time... got up extra early so i could leave work early, planned an outfit that would have enough comfort and longevity to get me through a full work day and a three-hour class, ate a large, late lunch so i wouldn't be hungry during the class...

and when i finally got there, it proved to be awesome. only 12 students so the instructor can spend lots of one-on-one attention with each student. the instructor is a fabulous old queen with more sass in his little finger than one would find in a cranky kindergarten class. and the other students were all gals... of various shapes and style sensibilities.

we started off with a bang. a few jokes about being the next project runway contestants and introductions on sewing 101 how to.

things were going great until we took a short break around 7:30. i went to the restroom only to come back to the instructor talking about how important 'fit' was. "forget size! have you seen what banana republic is calling a 12 these days? GEN-ER-OUS." shee-it. things started to go downhill from there... words from his introduction a few short hours ago were ringing in my head, "i can tell every single one of you what your measurements are - trust me. i've been doing this for that long." i wear a size 22. what the fuck do you think was going through my head after he basically just declared 12's to be ginormous?!

it was at that point that i became acutely aware of trying to not shift in my seat... the least amount of attention i could bring to myself the better... don't let the chair squeak, don't sip from your water, don't look up... just smile... smile... don't betray that anything else is going on.... i was SO uncomfortable. it seemed as soon as the size vs. fit diatribe started, an unmercifully hot, bright spotlight focused on me. i was so paralyzed that i couldn't even look around the room to confirm my suspicions that i had become the center of intense, boring gazes.

the instructor went on to evidence his 'fit matters most' bit by giving a couple of examples of famous women ... who are larger... who always look meticulous. "i've met queen latifah in person and believe me, she ain't a petite gal... but she always looks like a million bucks!!" true, but why use her as an example? why not talk about how bad kirsten dunst looks when she wears rags that hang off her tiny frame?

just when i thought i couldn't take another moment, it got worse. we were handed patterns and told that we were going to be measured for the patterns... right then and there.

WHA????

NOOOOoooooooooo!!!

the instructor started going around the room measuring each gal's hips. he was quick. he gave each woman's number to her under his breath. very polite. very sensitive. when he got to me, he had trouble reaching around me... so it was taking longer than everyone else. and then, when he finally gave me my number (51.5 in a VERY hushed tone) i didn't know what else to do but say out loud, "28?! how lovely!!!" get this... EVERYONE laughed. even the folks on the other side of the room. was everyone waiting to hear my gargantuan waist size?

i was dying from the mortification. i think at that point he was talking more about how to read the panel on the pattern packet... i have no idea what was told to us because i was busy falling down an inner spiral of shame. the fun didn't stop there, though... once he told us how much fabric we needed i realized i was a full inch and a half bigger than the biggest XXL measurement on the package. holy christ. now i have to ask what to do in my situation??

i summoned all the courage i had left and waited till the end of class and asked the instructor. again, he was completely nonplussed by the question and said something about 'wear ease' and how i would be just fine.

i have never bolted from a place so fast. thank god that's over. i'm actually kind of glad i didn't know that there was measurements-taking in store at our first class... i think i would have psyched myself out of it had i known that we would actually have to be measured... out loud... in front of strangers.

despite the utter humiliation, i'm glad i went. i'm glad i didn't lose composure when faced with a surprise measuring... there were definitely unsavory elements about this evening. but i refuse to let it tarnish my long standing excitement about learning to sew.

shelves are for books... not for butts

i'm having one of those yucky days where i don't quite feel like my clothes are fitting. i've been uncomfortably tugging and pulling and trying to cover myself up all day. i was 45 min late to work because i couldn't find a suitable outfit combination that felt good (even my weekly pre-determined options weren't working for me).

i waffled unnecessarily and extraordinarily long about whether or not i should get up and go to subway. my stomach got the better of me and when i finally got to the parking lot, i pulled into a spot, got a little overwhelmed and PULLED OUT TO LEAVE, then pulled back in again... i was so consumed with this idea that i looked SO bad today, that i nearly talked myself out of going into subway for five minutes to get lunch. cuckoo! fortunately, a shinning moment of crystal clear sanity broke through the dense fog of my poor self esteem. confidence! exude confidence and that's all they'll see! besides, seriously? unless you've sprouted a third arm, you look FINE.

after i got back to the office and finished lunch, my neurosis got worse. only now all of my attention was focused on my butt. there is a full length mirror in the ladies room and everytime i went in there, my eyes immediately dropped to the silhouette of my derriere. i carry most of my weight in my ass and stomach and depending on the clothes i'm wearing, sometimes it looks like i have a pseudo shelf-butt. from a side angle, it looks like theres a little pooch that sticks out past the round fullness of my hip/lower back/butt. i cannot stop thinking about my shelf butt. about who's gonna notice my shelf butt. about how all the kids are going to make fun of me and play pranks like set a vase or a gramaphone on my shelf butt when i'm not looking! behold the mysteries of the human body! behold the shelf butt! AHHH!!!

you know that film that my guy did the soundtrack for? it was accepted as part of this local film festival. tonite we are attending a viewing. i'm freaking out, people! FREAKING OUT! what if my shelf butt destroys the place? what if it doesn't fit into the seat? what if someone at the reception mistakes my shelf butt for a side table and tries to place their drink on it?? what if it tries to TAKE OVER THE WORLD??

breathing... breathing... serenity now.

for all my hysterics, i actually feel a lot better having written down all of these feelings... like i just vented all the 'insane' out the cargo doors, leaving the calm to reclaim me. i won't have much time to get ready when i get home, but i've got a plan... just a quick change of blouses, a jacket and some accessories and i'm sure i'll walk out the door feeling 100% better than i do right now...

hurts so good

i've walked through this day with pain pulsing in my bod from head to toe - and i've been loving every minute of it! not because i'm a sick bastard (well, maybe just a little) but because the pain is a direct result of necessary care of my self.

the head pain is relegated to my tooth and gums. i finally went to the dentist. last week i showed up, knees knocking and brave face firmly in place. scared not so much of the dentist or of her medieval array of sharp metal torture devices, but more so by the fact that i might be too fat for the chair. all of my previous nightmares instantly dissipated once i sat down on the big, sturdy, industrial chair. the instruments and lights didn't clatter or shake with my every movement. i had plenty of room in the chair and didn't feel at all like my hips and husks were oozing out over the sides. i was so comfortable, in fact, that i completely forgot about my neurosis once the dentist started cleaning my teeth. piece of cake!

today i went back for round two. i knew that this session was going to be a little more intense, but i wasn't carrying the burden of fear that escorted me to my first session. yes, my gums feel like they were taken into the alley and beat to a pulp, but the long term effects of the work done far outweigh the temporary pain of today.

the toe pain manifested itself in the shape of a huge blister resulting from an ass-kicking three mile walk yesterday. the walk nearly killed my poor pup-peroni and left me hobbling around the house all evening, but DAYUM did it feel good! i'm proud of my blister! it screams, "hell yeah i'm a power walker! a THREE MILE power walker!" ...of course it also screams with pain... but i choose to revel in the excitement and lasting high of accomplishing something really good for my body, rather than whimper about my blister (of which i also took loving care).

so i'm feeling really good today. i can't wait to get back outside for another walk! i can't wait for next weekend to add another mile to my half marathon training! i'm excited and full of hope... and loving every throbbing moment!

crumb-y day

sometimes i really wonder what my co-workers must think of me… i am one tragic catastrophe after another.

around two-thirty today, i happened to look down at my shirt and noticed it was covered in crumbs. i was horrified to find… snacks…that i had unwittingly saved for later…in the folds of my cowl neck shirt. and by snacks i mean small to medium-largish crumbs of the wretched little kashi granola bar i had for breakfast. i’m not bothered so much by the fact that no one told me i had the bottom of a monkey cage stuck to my upper torso and neck. no, i’m bothered more by the fact that for the six hours or so that i walked around my place of business donning my crumb-y getup, i was basically reinforcing every negative image of fat people that exist… you know what i’m talking about – the stereotype of that dirty, stinky, fat office leper who plods around covered in food stains, crumbs stuck to their 2^nd, 4^th and 5^th chin-necks, with a gait resembling that of jabba the hut (which is really less of a stride and more of an oooooozing along), leaving a trail of empty super size doritos bags and econo-sized twinky boxes in their wake. today, friends, that fat slob was me. as soon as i noticed those velcro crumbs clinging to my shirt, i brushed them away with the ferocity of a meth addict swiping at invisible bugs… "get 'em off! get em' OFF!!"

trying to regain composure, i was reminded of another moment, not so long ago, where i was once again left melting in the wake of humiliation, by yet a different stereotype: a snot-nose, scabby-kneed 11 year old boy. oddly, i found solace in the embarrassment of a few crumbs on my shirt (all day long) because that was nothing compared to what happened to me while i was temping…

i got a temp gig shortly after i moved to l.a. (and not long after i became completely demoralized by a fruitless three-month job search). my temp cubicle was strategically placed to accommodate the every whim of five or six office dwellers. my duty was primarily to answer the phone. it was not uncommon for me to bring a snacks and drinks to work because i was shackled to the phone for seven hours a day.

one day, i decided to sate my mid-morning hunger with a pear. it was a delicious pear, perfectly ripe and super juicy. while enjoying my snack, one of the office dwellers ambled by and stopped to exchange morning niceties. i noticed that this corporate slug kept diverting his eyes from mine, his glance darting about my face. was he looking at my cheek? my nose? why the hell did his gaze keep falling to the same two spots on my face? no sooner did he disappear into the dark recesses of his office than i whipped out a mirror to view my visage. what i saw caused me to drop the mirror in horror, grab the sides of my head and shriek bloody murder...on the inside...because i'm professional. instead, i frantically jabbed at my face with a kleenex, feeling the immediate burn of a deep, embarrassed blush begin to blossom on my cheeks and neck. i had not one, but two small booger-sized pear remnants sticking to my ruddy cheek and nose. holy mary mother of god. the pieces of pear looked EXACTLY like boogies. IT LOOKED LIKE I HAD TWO BOOGERS ON MY FACE!! boogers on peoples' faces… (i’m going to have to develop a steely constitution just to type out the next few sentences because nothing, and i do mean NOTHING, is more vile than a random boogie on someone’s face… even babies with the mass of yellowy goo smeared across their top lips is enough to send me into seizing fits of dry heaving.) it is just.so.gross. frankly, i'm not quite sure how i survived the day. i think i blacked out from the trauma of the incident because my recollection of the succeeding events of that day are hazy. needless to say that guy never really talked to me again... and frankly, i couldn't have blamed him. if the shoe had been on the other foot, i would have very likely cut the conversation short to go vomit in the privacy of my office. so gross.

so, yeah. i guess the crummy crumb incident today wasn't all that bad. when i compare it to some of the other recent embarrassing moments that i've lived down, not too bad at all...

how about a fat-girl chair, 1-800-DENTIST?

i am dying to get a ass in to see the dentist. it's been about two years and i could really use a good teeth cleaning. having moved to a new city a year ago, i have postponed this task for one reason and one reason alone:

i'm scared i'll be too fat for the dentist's chair.

i'm thinking about calling 1-800-DENTIST and asking if they can cross-reference a nearby dentist with my one need: an XXL chair to accommodate my XXL butt. surely 'fat-girl chair' is one of the metrics listed in their database ('5,10,15 mile radius from home' ; 'male or female dentist'; 'type of insurance accepted'; 'chair size'...)

of course, this is an irrational fear. i'm not too much larger than i was when i last saw a dentist. i fit comfortably in the chair then. i'm certain (this is rational me talking here) that i will fit comfortably in my new dentist's chair.

but still (irrational me, here), i have this catastrophic fantasy of waddling into the exam room, boom-boom, boom-boom. the ground quivers beneath my short, heavy strides. i squeeeeeeeeeeeze into the chair (because in my catastrophic fantasy the shelf holding the tools doesn't move and is permanently perched over the chair, like a vice). the metal chair groans under my girth, threatening to lurch over, sending me smearing across the feet of the delicate, little hygienist and spilling sterile dental tools across the floor. i barely breathe for fear of shifting the seat, causing the aforementioned upset. fearing my hefty jaw might snap closed on her small hands, the hygienist dons metal diving gloves, the kind that protect divers from the razor sharp teeth of man-eating sharks, before climbing the 'extension-ladder' that allows her to perch over my mass and attend to my recommended routine teeth cleaning.

i jest. i know it won't be that bad. deep down, here's what i'm really scared of: i will be rejected by the dentist because i don't fit into the dental chair and she/he will have to decline to help me. ouch. that would suck so bad. utter humiliation.

well, i'll tell you what, Utter Humiliation, i'm making room for you. come on in. there's room for you to exist in my heart and in my head because i know that the fear driving you is only a means of self protection. i know that your best intention is to protect me from the world. and i love you for that. i appreciate what you are doing. but i'm taking the reigns now. i've got this one handled. i'm going to make a dentist appointment this month because i am taking care of my body and my teeth need to be cleaned. it is not likely that i won't fit in the chair. it is not likely that the dentist or the hygienist will even remember me after my appointment. they see tens of folks a day for recommended routine teeth cleaning. but even if i don't fit in the chair, even if the dentist or his/her hygienist declines to attend to me, i'll take my business elsewhere. and it will be ok.

it will be ok. and if the chair does collapse under me... i'll sue their asses.