volume conversion (on the) table

my stomach is the size of a gallon.

in five days it will be the size of a thumb.

a thumb.

later an egg. but first, a thumb.

i’m hoping for a thumb like mine – long, thick, manicured. a substantial thumb. a thumb with purpose.

my stomach (and your stomach) is the size of a gallon. at least it can hold about a gallon of food and drink when it’s full. that’s not something you usually think about unless you’ve overeaten, unless you have that expanded, bloated, shouldn’t-have-had-those-last-three-bites feeling (because, of course, it was those last three bites that pushed you over the edge into the food coma that seized you last wednesday afternoon).

but when you choose to reduce your stomach to the size of an egg (a thumb, then an egg), you think about how big a gallon is. other things that come in a gallon: ice cream. juice. milk. water. cheap wine. gas.

i’m not afraid of the thumb, or the egg. i’m not afraid of the surgery or the changes, the pain, the scar, the (you can still) “haves” or the (you'd better) “have nots”. i'm not scared at all really, not in the conventional sense. i'm nervous. i'm anxious. i’m nervous about new beginnings, about being healthy and fit, and making myself comfortable in a new body half my size. i’m nervous about being naked and exposed even when i’m fully dressed, but eager to get to know myself. i'm nervous about my body speaking for me, although i feel it does that now (often more loudly than i'd like). i'm nervous about control -- gaining it, relinquishing it, acknowledging how little of it i really have -- and being able to just give myself over to something else driving my decisions.

in five days i will disconnect from 98% of a part of myself to make room for the rest of me.