Fat Chance Page 10

  In that instant, something inside my mind clicked.

  What that disposable coffee cup was telling me was that even when I screw up at breakfast, I don’t have to blow the balance of my daily calorie allotment. I could make a fresh start at any hour of the day, and spend the next hundred calories I ate as wisely as I would spend my cold, hard cash.

  The line of thinking is helping me make better choices these days. When I veer off-course, I stop, find the path and move toward it as quickly as my short legs can get me there. Better still, I am learning to plan ahead so that those tangents are fewer and further between.

  Every night, in addition to thinking about what’s on my family’s agenda the following day, I think about how many calories I plan to spend. If we’re going to have to rush from school to soccer practice, for instance, then I know to toss a few Ziploc bags of almonds and raisins in my purse. If I know that friends are having us over for dinner, then I can call ahead to find out what will be served so that I can plan the rest of my day’s calories accordingly and possibly even offer to bring a side dish that I know I can actually eat. If I know that Mike is craving Outback Steakhouse for dinner, then I can figure out exactly what I’ll order. If I know that I am in need of a giant piece of chocolate cake, then I can drop that six-hundred and eighty calories of Betty Crocker yumminess into the plan.

  If you were heading to the mall to buy a Prada purse, you’d probably research how much it was going to cost you first. I’m just suggesting that the same care be taken with food.

  Admittedly, there are times when I walk into a situation unprepared. Maybe it’s a restaurant I’m unfamiliar with. Maybe it’s a venue that doesn’t allow outside food. Maybe it’s a birthday party where I have no idea what will be served, which is precisely the situation I found myself in last weekend.

  A woman I know was hosting a tea party for a mutual friend, and as I eyed the spread before me I realized there was nothing remotely healthful there. The tea sandwiches were made with white bread and were oozing herb butter from all sides. The brownies were covered in ganache and topped with sugared raspberries. Even the iced tea was swirling with excess sugar. What was a girl to do?

  I didn’t want to offend the hostess by refusing to eat, but how could I stick to a calorie count when everything was so bad for me? I decided I’d set a food limit instead. Making my way through the line, I selected four small tea sandwiches and one dessert—and I requested plain iced tea that I could add a little stevia to and be fine.

  All morning I drank as much water as I could stomach, in hopes of flushing out my system, and I avoided Starbucks en route back home. I felt so proud of myself for sticking to my plan that just after noon I went for a three-mile run. One good decision had led to another good decision, and then another on top of that. How much better that upward spiral felt than the downward one I knew so well!

  This is the power of starting right now—wherever you are, in whatever situation you find yourself. Instead of making excuses and putting it off, let this hour be the start of making the change that will bless you the rest of your days. Spend your calories as you would precious hundred-dollar bills, and you’ll rack up a string of good decisions in no time.

  CHAPTER 5

  Psychology 101 and The Biggest Loser Campus

  FOR MOST OF MY adult life I was a huge fan of the sweater-set—you know, a stretchy sleeveless shell topped with an even stretchier button-down cardigan. They come in every conceivable color and at $24.99 on the JCPenney sale rack, it’s well within the reach of many women to own the full rainbow of options.

  For most fat people, their clothes closet starts to resemble a uniform shop over time, and my uniform hinged on the beloved sweater-set. It was comfortable, coordinated and covered a multitude of flaws. Additionally, I never had to think about what to wear each day. The only downside was that I didn’t exactly exhibit variety. If it was a weekday, I’d wear a sweater-set and capri pants. If it was Sunday, I’d wear a sweater-set and a skirt. If it was date-night with my husband, I’d wear a sweater set and black slacks. Easy as pie, right?

  Although I no longer wear sweater-sets, I miss the practicality of that second layer. Still today I never leave home without a jacket; even in hot, humid Florida I’m always the one in the group who is freezing cold.

  When it was time for my final audition for the show, understandably, I was nervous about what to wear. To nobody’s shock, I opted for the sweater-set, but my rationale went deeper than you might think.

  From the beginning I seemed to be positioned as the “stay-at-home mom with PTA hair,” and as I made it further and further through the interview process, I figured my attire ought to reflect the woman the casting people believed me to be. Ever the people-pleaser—some habits die hard.

  I’m not entirely sure how “sincere and sweet” became my persona among production staff from the show, but the common refrain I heard each time I interacted with any of them was, “You’re such a nice person, Julie, and you’re obviously a very caring mom. I’m just not sure … well, I don’t know if you’re cut out for this game.” I’d walk away from those interviews thinking, “What does that mean?”

  The only explanation I ever landed on was that it was more than a little intimidating to tell a group of strangers about my deepest, most heart-wrenching struggles, and something about that process left me more subdued than usual. Instead of being bubbly, effusive Julie, I became Esther standing before the king. I was waiting for the golden scepter to be outstretched instead of barreling my way through. As I look back now, it’s like the other contestants had road rage, and I was the granny in an Impala, just puttering down the road. Easygoing, lovable and happy to be out for a nice Sunday afternoon ride—that’s how I came across, and the implications of that impression would be severe.

  “I think you’re cute and adorable … and America will love you,” I remember the show’s psychologist telling me following my initial assessment with him. “I just don’t know that you have what it takes to make it on a show like this.”

  There was that uncertainty again—were my chances all but shot?

  Shortly after that psych assessment was the red-velvet-chair interview with J. D. Roth and friends. Toward the end of that interview, I was shocked to hear J.D. speak roughly the same words I’d heard from the psychologist. Had they compared notes? Was this a conspiracy to keep me from achieving my dream?

  “You seem sweet and nice …” J.D. began. I stared at his mouth as he spoke but the rest of his words became a mumbled blur. I was tired of settling for less than what I truly was capable of, and something inside of me snapped. They aren’t going to cast me because I’m nice? I don’t think so! I may be a Pollyanna, but I’m not your average Pollyanna. I’m a Pollyanna who has done beauty pageants, which makes me a Pollyanna who knows how to fight.

  Enough, I thought. I’m putting an end to this now.

  As I sat before J.D. and the others, I felt nervous but resolved. “If I perish, I perish,”5 Queen Esther had said just before her big speech that day, and suddenly in that moment, I could relate.

  Still holding J.D.’s gaze, I said with a perfectly straight face, “Don’t let this sweater-set fool you. I did pageants, remember? I know how it feels to pull a knife out of my back.”

  J.D. was speechless. My metaphor had connected. Pageant girls are known for being perfect and polished, but they’re also known for being fierce. You don’t want to mess with them, and in six seconds flat I had assured the show’s casting team that my competitors wouldn’t want to mess with me either.

  I had the mom-bob haircut. I had the ever-stylish sweater-set. And, evidently, I had the attention of J.D. Now all I needed was the chance to prove I had the emotional chutzpah not just to get through an interview, but to win.

  HIGH HIGHS AND EVEN LOWER LOWS

  Life during The Biggest Loser was a roller coaster—complete with high highs, low lows, and stomach-flipping spins. And if a roller-coaster ride is jolting for a nor
mal person, try riding one when you’re morbidly obese. In the first forty-eight hours flat, I went from feeling thrilled about being on the show, to feeling abandoned because I didn’t get picked by the red or blue teams, to feeling exhausted after my first workout in the desert, to feeling elated because I slept great my second night at the budget motel. Up, then down, then up, then down—would it be like this forever?

  A totally unhelpful reality on campus was that the production crew had a snack table that was always stocked. If I had a dime for every diet Sunkist that Hollie and I stole, I’d be a rich, rich girl.

  Over the next three days, I felt rejected upon being kicked out of the gym, imprisoned by the sheer weight of the body I was living inside, suffocated by my mounting insecurities and self-reproach, depressed by the fact that I was still secretly sneaking snacks and utterly alone as I figured out that food remained my only friend.

  From there I’d do a downward spiral into feeling silly that someone as incompetent as I had made the show, overwhelmed by looking in the mirror and realizing just how far I had to go, insignificant when I saw the workhorses I was competing against, guilty because I’d left my family in order to pursue a self-focused dream, embarrassed when I stood on the scale for the first time, remorseful when I recalled all the things my weight had kept me from doing and angry as I recounted all that fat had stolen from me.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  But then, just as surely as the spiral had descended, it would arrest itself and start moving the other way. I felt grateful to have been selected out of the quarter-million who had applied. I felt powerful when I ran my first mile. I felt triumphant as the pounds finally began to come off. And with every baby step I took, I felt freed from long-held fears.

  The physical strain of the game was real, but it paled in comparison to the emotional battles I fought. It’s far easier to whip a set of biceps into shape than it is to strengthen a mushy mind.

  One of Jillian Michaels’ mantras is, “You don’t get fat because of diet and exercise alone.” She knew all along what it took me months to understand, that in addition to physical weight, there is always more weight that we carry. As I’ve mentioned before, Jillian’s theory was that if she could somehow get us to unearth those inner demons, we’d be a heck of a lot healthier as we faced the outer ones.

  The philosophy made sense to me. After all, fat people can’t deny bulging saddlebags, cottage-cheese thighs and the spare tire that’s hanging from their waist. But they can try to deny the stuff that remains unseen. And for a time, my entire team and I did a decent job of denying that aside from our physical weight there was absolutely anything wrong. The alternative seemed unthinkable.

  I’d lived all of adulthood behind the mask of “allrightness.” I was happy Julie, bouncy Julie, funny Julie and spontaneous Julie—Julie whom everyone knew and loved. On campus it seemed that every move I made, every word that I spoke, every emotion I finally agreed to share served only to chip away at the visage that my friends and family knew as “me.” I knew they’d be watching the show from home, thinking, That’s not the Julie we know.

  After my time on campus, I heard from many people back home that they had no idea I was so miserable inside. “Neither did I,” I admitted every time. “Trust me … neither did I.”

  It was agonizing to bare my soul on national TV, but I’d come to my own personal breaking point, and all I could do was just break. And exactly as Jillian had planned, by the time that breaking point was upon me, I was too physically exhausted to keep the emotional tsunami at bay.

  When I watched The Biggest Loser from home I’d get so frustrated with contestants who always cried. What do they have to be so upset over? I’d wonder. That is, until I became a blubbering idiot myself. I had made a sport out of stuffing my true feelings in life, but once I allowed the wave onto shore, well … Katy, bar the door. You’ve never seen so many tears.

  The reason that voting people off the show was so difficult is because all of us were on borrowed time to begin with. We were all considered “morbidly obese” at the show’s start, and when you eliminated a player, most likely you were eliminating one who was still morbidly obese. Most likely you were sending them right back to where they developed hypertension, diabetes and poor eating habits in the first place. And without having had enough time to make deep, sustainable changes, in essence, you were kicking them to the curb. The worst times were when I had to eliminate players who were older or heavier than I was. Those nights I felt like the selfish, inconsiderate clod who stays seated on the bus even when an elderly, disabled woman unsteadily stands there with no place to sit down.

  I cried when I realized that I was the weakest link. I cried when I got on the scale and thought about my mother and all of her friends and my husband and all of our friends knowing my real weight. I cried when I had to vote people off the show. I cried when I thought I might be voted off the show. I cried when my teammates struggled and I cried when I struggled. I cried when I received praise for my hard work, and I cried when other people got more praise than I did, especially when I’d worked equally hard.

  I cried because I missed my family, and then I cried wondering whether they really missed me. I cried when I felt alone, and I cried when I realized I’d made new friends—friends just like me, who “got” what it meant to be fat.

  I cried because God had allowed me to shed all those tears, and then I cried as he wiped each of them away.

  Toward the end of the show, when the pool of contestants had been whittled down to the black team’s final four, Jillian had a running joke she loved to tell. She’d say, “If we were all standing on top of a tall building and I told the four of you to jump off, Isabeau would try to negotiate—‘Can we do it from a floor lower?’ Bill would want to go even higher than the roof—‘I can do better than this!’ Hollie would cuss me out and storm off. And Julie? She’d take a flying leap on my ‘go’ but sob the entire way down.”

  Sadly, she had it about right. I had reverted back to the adolescent version of myself—at best, a wobbly, emotional wreck.

  Tears, tears and more tears I cried, until thankfully, one day things finally clicked. I had been emptied and flattened and emotionally wrung dry. But by his grace, God gave me the tools I needed to strengthen not just my body, but my mind.

  STRENGTH OF BODY, STRENGTH OF MIND

  Throughout my life, many situations should have served as a wake-up call for me regarding my health … or lack thereof. You would think that when I heard straight from my doctor’s mouth that I could not birth another child until I dropped forty pounds, I’d be motivated to change. But nope! That wake-up call I snoozed right past.

  After the twenty-fifth time of hiding behind those racks at Target to avoid friends I hadn’t seen in a while … surely that was a wake-up call. But nope! Still didn’t opt to change.

  How about the sixty-fourth occasion of insisting on sex with the lights turned off? Nope, that wasn’t a motivator either.

  What about my southern-born family saying, “Good Lawd, child, that butt is getting so big!” each and every time they saw me?

  You guessed it: a great big whopping nope.

  As I say, many things should have motivated me in the past but didn’t. And I know I’m not alone in this. I know overweight people who have lost friends to heart attacks and then the following week hear their own doctor say, “You’ll be dead in five years if you continue this way.” Think that prognosis causes them to change? Nope, not even close.

  I know people who try to donate blood and are told by the nurse that their blood is so bad it just can’t be drawn. Surely that’s motivation to change. I wish it were, but nope.

  There are friends who can’t walk up a flight of stairs without gasping for fleeting breath, but even that doesn’t faze them at all.

  Honestly, it would be far easier to judge all those people if I weren’t so much like them myself. Despite what my doctor, my family and my sex life told me, it wasn’t until I was
motivated to change that I changed.

  Still, if I really wanted to achieve my deeply desired goals, I’d have to learn to hear from those who had my best interest at heart.

  TRUST FOR THE TRUSTLESS

  One of the most sobering realizations I made during my The Biggest Loser stint was that I had spent a good portion of my life not trusting a single soul. And while it’s true that I was the only one who could motivate me, at some point, even that revelation would warrant trust. I was about to get schooled in the annoying nuances of trust—for my trainer, my team and myself.

  When you are separated from your family, your friends and all indications of home, and you can’t yet trust the competitors you’re trying to outlast, you seek out whatever lifeline you can find. Whether I liked it or not, Jillian was going to have to do.

  Because of her stick-to-itiveness with contestants who appeared on previous seasons of the show, Jillian had proven her worth to me vicariously. But at the beginning of our time together, I wasn’t sure I trusted her with me. She seemed ruthless. Harsh. And lacking a certain southern charm. But over time I’d look past all of that. The day would finally dawn when I’d see Jillian as someone just like me.

  PLACING TRUST IN MY TRAINER

  Early on in the show, the black team gathered together under a tree after an afternoon of normal, challenging workouts. We were all still getting to know each other, and getting to know Jillian as well.

  She pulled us all in for a team huddle because we had a weigh-in the very next night. “Guys, Bob’s a great trainer, and I’m sure Kim will compete hard, so I’m going to lay out for you the only advantage I see for us,” she began.