"Are you nervous?" she asked me, no doubt feeling my anxiety level rising.
"No," I lied. "I'm sure it will be fine."
And it was. Really, it always is. The lesson is that for the most part, the difficulty is in my head. However, my friend and I were meeting up with a woman who I last saw 15 years ago on the steps of my high school, dressed in purple graduation robes. She and I were never close back then, so at best I'm a superficial curiosity, someone to add to the stack of names when getting together with old classmates to play "Guess who got fat and bald!"
I'm really not sure how to address it. One of the first questions was, "what have you been up to for the last 15 years?" and while I was able to rattle off a laundry list of events, I seemingly avoided the elephant standing in the room, which was that I'm 100 pounds heavier than the last time she saw me. How does one say, "oh, and somewhere around three or four years ago, I threw in the towel and gave up on myself. I decided that I was going to use food as my drug of comfort and bear the scars by allowing myself to walk with a waddle and have a self-esteem that bottomed out somewhere in the Sunda Trench? Do I immediately talk about how I've turned a corner and lost 60+ pounds and like myself again? Do I avoid talking about much at all? Do I just ignore it and act normal? I did my best to go with option 3. And after several cocktails, it got easier.
Bottom line, I'm really *really* ready for my body to catch up with my brain. It's just such a long goddamn process. And you can say that Rome wasn't built in a day, or that I didn't put it on overnight so I can't take it off overnight, but man... I'd like to be comfortable taking pictures again.