I am a scofflaw.

For the past seven months, I’ve blatantly ignored the laws of my state. My crime: I neglected to renew my driver’s license. I did this without guilt and for purely selfish reasons.

I could tell you I was busy or I forgot. But I’d be lying.

My driver’s license listed my weight as 260lbs. That was probably also a lie at the time. Or, at least, it was wishful thinking. Optimism, if you will.

My expired driver’s license was a reminder of how far I’d come in my “weight loss journey.” It is also my last tie to the person I once was. I wasn’t ready to let go, yet. In truth, I still don’t think I am.

I won’t speak for all overweight people. But, for me, being fat wasn’t just a weight issue or a body image issue. It was – is – part of my personal identity and it filtered into every part of my life.

When I got married, almost 15 years ago, I made my own wedding dress. I told my mom, who did most of the actual work, that it would be a bonding moment for us. I told my husband I didn’t want to spend thousands of dollars on a dress I’d wear only once. The truth is, I longed to go to a bridal store and try on dresses. I wanted to bring an entourage of well-wishers and girlfriends with me, who would tell me I looked just like a princess as I tried on dress after dress. But, I had heard the sample sizes in bridal shops are size 12. I was a size 24, maybe a 26.

The only thing my husband has ever said about my weight was when he confided that he stayed up at night, listening to me breathe. He was terrified that one night, the laborious sound would just stop.

Everything has changed since then. Before, when I came home from work, I was so tired from spending all day sitting in front of a computer screen, I’d lie down. Now, I rush off to karate or the gym. On days I stay home, I practice my kata, work on the heavy bag or pace the house restlessly. Sometimes, I even clean.

Now, strangers make eye contact with me and smile – for no reason. Before, if someone made eye contact and smiled at me, they followed it up with a flier for their church and an invitation to be saved.

Men hold open the door for me. (Some even stop to flirt.) Strangers talk to me in line at the supermarket. All new experiences.

A small part of me feels like something is missing… lost forever. So much of who I am — who I was — was predicated by being the fat girl. With that part of me gone, I don’t know who I am. And, it scares the hell out of me.

Tuesday night, as I drove home from work, I was pulled over. It turns out, in addition to “forgetting” to renew my driver’s license, I had legitimately forgotten to update the sticker on my license plate. (Oops.)

With trembling hands, I provided the police officer with my license and a copy of my insurance card. He glanced at the insurance card and handed it back, walking back to his SUV with my license in hand.

When he returned, explaining he’d have to give me two tickets (one for the expired license plate and one for the license), I feigned surprise. “Oh, no way!”

“Yah, it expired on the fourth.” I looked at him blankly. “On your birthday.” (Busted.)

“Oh, yah,” I said glumly.

He fingered the edge of my license for a few seconds before tucking it into his ticket book. “I’m afraid I can’t give you your license back. You’ll have to get a new one.” The weird thing is, he sounded almost apologetic, like he understood my reluctance to move on. I wanted to cry.

“You know, if it was a year or more out of date, I would have had to arrest you.”

“No,” I said truthfully. “I didn’t know that.”

He pulled my license out again and looked at it. Tapping it against his ticket book, he said, “When you get your court date, just bring in your new license and the receipt for you license plate sticker. I don’t know exactly how it works, but you might not have to pay a fine if you bring that with you.”

He began twirling my license between his fingers, moving it back and forth between his knuckles. “OK,” I said watching him, fantasizing about grabbing my license and making my escape in some risky, high-speed chase.

He handed me my tickets, reminded me to drive carefully and returned to his car, twirling my license between his fingers the entire time.

Before pulling out, through my review mirror, I looked at the police officer sitting in his SUV. Choking back a sob, I said, “goodbye” and drove away.

Like most women, I have issues with my hair. It’s very thick and wavy…almost curly. I go through Frizz Ease by the gallons and break pony tail holders twice a week. And there’s other women out there, who have straight and/or thin hair, who are wondering why I’m whining about it.

What amazes me is how different my hair looks when I go to the stylist. She’s able to smooth my unruly locks and create a hair style that doesn’t frizz up within minutes. She does this with no more than a brush and a hairdryer and little or no hair products. It’s amazing.

The thing is, she’s has the same tools that I have: the same hair, the same hair dryer, the same brush. But she knows how to work with what she’s given.

Strangely enough, that’s what I like about the martial arts. It’s not about changing your body or who you are. It is about working with what you’re given.

One of Sensei’s favorite stories about bunkai involves an argument between Steve Armstrong and another first generation student. They were arguing about bunkai of a particular move. Each had a practical application that he insisted was given to him by Shimabuku himself. Each was adamant that the other remembered the application incorrectly. Then Armstrong realized that maybe they were both correct. Maybe, each of them were taught a different application of the same move because they were different people with different physical size, weight and reach.

(Now, some Isshinryu history buffs may argue that Shimabuku didn’t teach bunkai. Armstrong and a few others claim he did. I don’t know which is true, but it doesn’t make the story or it’s moral invalid.)

We learn to do a vertical punch to hit an opponent (who is the same size as us) in the solar plexus. Guess what? I’m 5′ 5″. (That’s median height for a woman and I’m one of the tallest women in my family…I make no apologies for being who I am.) But, in practical applications, if I were defending myself against a man, that same punch would probably land much lower: in that delicate muscle between the belly button and the “junk.” (If you’ll pardon the euphemism.) A much taller person could do the same move and the punch could land on his opponent’s face or neck.

How cool is that? The same move means different targets and “bunkai” for two different people. We’re all  working with the tools we were given.

When I was heavier, I was able to use my weight to intimidate opponents. I used to say, “hey, you see a 260-pound woman charging at you, you get the F’ out of the way!” Almost 80 pounds lighter this doesn’t work any more. Now, when I charge at my opponents, they just hit me when I reach them. So, I’m working on new bunkai…or, in this case, I guess it would be actually using my bunkai instead of my size.

In any case, I’m trying to learn to work with my “fuller” hair and height and weight. My goal for the upcoming year is to learn to work with the tools I’ve been given.

What is your goal?