Fat Chance Read online

  When I returned from campus, I remember thinking, “So this is what it feels like to have the right person in the right role with exactly the right plot.” I had become the person who should have been living my life all along.

  In the same way that The Biggest Loser experience had summoned a more fully alive version of me, the experience called out a brand-new Mike as well. While I was preparing to live a new life, he was graciously planning to help manage it.

  Take today, for example. During my airport fiasco I called Mike, which surprised neither him nor me. And Mike did what he always does: He listened to me, and then he agreed with me. (Husbands, take note. That one step will get you anything your little heart desires.) But it didn’t stop there. After intently listening to my detailed description of the annoying ticketing agent and the three flights I would not be on, and graciously agreeing with my assessment that life was unfair and that airports are awful and that regardless of what happened I clearly would be missing the video shoot in Louisiana at three o-freaking-clock, my husband then slid into solution mode faster than you can say “irrational woman.”

  Knowing that my real concern was disappointing my publisher and the team of people who had set up this whole deal, Mike’s first words were, “Babe, do you need their numbers?”

  God bless his soul.

  “Yes,” I said with an exhale. “That would be great.”

  It came as no surprise that Mike had those numbers on hand. He always has the numbers on hand, as well as any other microscopic detail I could possibly need to know. Mike has tremendous administrative gifts, that, candidly, I have zero use for. I like things like spontaneity and risk—you know, things that stick their tongue out at the stuff of “administration.” To give you a sense of how afflicted my darling man is, he actually feels honored when people mistakenly assume that he’s my full-time administrative assistant. There are probably support groups for people like him, don’t you think?

  Officially, my husband is a public-relations director who works for the government. But in addition to possessing skills that make him incredibly successful in his “real” field, he also is a stellar graphic artist and a ridiculously organized and efficient man. Let me give you just one example of how I know this to be true.

  Whenever I am due to leave on a trip, Mike presents me with a folder prepared for my review. Inside the folder are pages containing every possible nuance of my travel, ground transportation, hotel and speaking arrangements. I kid you not. What’s more, the pages are formatted with beautiful fonts and bright colors and laid out in the most intuitive way, complete with page numbers in the corners and everything. Truly, it’s a work of art.

  However, I should point out here that this morning as I was rushing to get myself and our two boys out the door and into the car so that I could eventually get to the airport, I shouted over my shoulder at Mike, “Do you have a bottle for Jaxon?” Of course the answer was no. For all of my husband’s gifts, mothering simply is not on the list. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been headed to my mom’s or my grandmother’s house for them to watch the baby, and there has been but one pitiful wipe in Jaxon’s bag. “Don’t you think he’ll require more than one wipe?” I ask every time. “And perhaps a diaper or two?” I’ll make my way to Jaxon’s room to grab wipes and diapers while scrounging through his bag to see what else might be missing. “A single jar of applesauce? Really?” I’m then forced to rant. “He eats real food, Mike. He’s a person, not a critter. He has to be fed. He has to go to the bathroom. He has to be cleaned up after he goes to the bathroom. My word, husband. Have you been living under a rock?”

  But back to this morning. “He needs a bottle, honey,” I said in a slightly reprimanding tone as I made my way back inside the house. “And his blanket.”

  I returned with Jaxon’s essentials, climbed into the front seat of the car, exhausted from the flurry of activity, and then heard Mike say, “Honey, do you have the itinerary I printed for you?”

  Um, that would be no. Back inside the house I went. Seriously, if my head weren’t screwed onto my neck, I’d probably misplace that too. But given the fact that I am married to Mike, I could just say, “Sweetie, where’d I leave my head?” To which he’d reply, “Ah yes, your head. I spit-shined it and left it there on the kitchen counter for you.”

  Friends who know me best can attest to the fact that the only reason I ever make it to a speaking engagement, TV interview or conference call with my publisher is that Mike whispers my to-dos as he’s heading off to work. “Hey, Jules,” he said just yesterday in his kindest, most helpful tone. “Don’t forget your call at three.”

  “Huh?” I replied.

  “Yep. It’s on the calendar. Don’t forget.”

  Of course he was correct.

  Mike has undeniably natural talent in this area of planning and organizing, but he wouldn’t want to do it for just anyone. At least that’s what he tells me. Several months ago when I could see that his helpfulness was destined to be a trend, I said, “I just want to thank you for all that you’re doing to keep my world straight. You have been so helpful, and I can’t really figure out why you do all that you do, and with such a happy heart.”

  His response stopped me short. “Julie, this is my dream job! I love you. I’m proud of you. I want to make life easier for you in any way that I can. And think about it, what could possibly be better for a public-relations guy than to be able to do PR for the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with?”

  Really, now. How sweet can you get?

  Still, assuming I ever make it to Louisiana for this weekend’s festivities, I guarantee I’ll return home, walk through the door and find two very smelly sons. “Noah,” I’ll whisper to the one son who can speak in complete sentences, “did you bathe this weekend?”

  The answer won’t surprise me one bit. “No,” he’ll whisper back. “Daddy didn’t make me.”

  And that will be the truth. Daddy won’t have made Noah bathe, but Daddy will have laid out my agenda for Monday morning. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Largely because of my husband’s investment, I have found my way back home. Now if only I could kick to the curb the stuff that’s mine alone to overcome.

  FLESHING OUT THE CHANGES I’VE MADE

  People tend to think that when you lose weight you also lose all the insecurities that come with being fat, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. It was startling and sobering to me that while so much about me had changed during my months in LA, more about me had stayed exactly the same.

  It’s true: I had gained strength of mind, body and soul. But even today the frightened girl can be found deep within, the one who is terrified of letting myself down, of letting down those I know and love. That fearful one battles daily with the fighter who lives inside too—the girl who shouts, “I’ll show them!” even as she understands that this is new territory, this path marked out by change. She has no idea what she’s doing, but she takes it one step at a time, trusting that the training she received for four months straight will prevail somehow, some way.

  As all of my personas wage war, I navigate as best I can. And on most days, I do quite well, thank you very much. It’s just that a fat person spends so much of her life knowing that she’s not quite enough that even when the weight is gone, the enoughness-thing still remains. When I had all that time to kill this morning, for example, I dropped by a jewelry store in the airport. The saleslady obviously recognized me from having been on the show and said, “Did you lose even more weight? Compared to last time I saw you, I’d say so!”

  She meant those words as a compliment, of course. Why else would she deliver them with such joy?

  The thing is, I heard only the insult side of the equation. If I looked thinner now, then obviously the last time she saw me I had weight left to lose. And if I had weight left to lose, then obviously on that occasion the thought ran through her mind that sure, maybe I’d done something significant on the show, but I
could still stand to drop a few pounds.

  Sick, huh?

  The demon of enoughness comes to me in random jewelry-store interactions and in connections with good friends alike. I’ll sit down to eat dinner with a girlfriend and be greeted by, “Oh, you’ll never guess who I ran into today!” The rest of the story is always a variation on this theme: “So-and-so asked if you still looked good, and I told her that yes, you still looked great, and she’s so happy for you!”

  Again, the story is told to affirm me. But that’s not at all how I take it. To me, the mutual friend’s question reflects a deeper assumption that I don’t look as great as I did right after the show, that of course by now I’ve failed. Each time, I want to look into my friend’s eyes and say, “Next time someone asks how I look, tell her to catch a clue. She’s not the only one waiting for me to fail. I’m waiting for me to fail too.”

  Interestingly, losing nearly half of my body’s weight was just the beginning of this transformative journey. I don’t particularly enjoy being eyed up and down everywhere I go. I don’t particularly like it when people ask the waiter what I ordered or when they stalk me at the grocery store and judge the stuff that’s in my cart. But evidently these things are what we refer to as “part of the deal.” If only I could take hold of the positive and release everything else that is not. But such is the life of the recovering obese. In some ways it feels like I will have to prove my transformation every moment for the rest of my days; that is, unless I can somehow learn to stop caring more about what other people think than about what I know to be true.

  Thankfully, in the past weeks and months I have been gifted with a few coping mechanisms, courtesy of God himself. Like, for example, the ability to thank him for my Shar-Pei Puppy Thighs.

  Each and every day, I make a conscientious decision to be thankful for my body. Granted, if you’re Heidi Klum, the decision isn’t so remarkable. But when you’re me, and despite lots of progress on the physical front, you still retain a massive swath of deflated skin, the decision is impressive to be sure.

  These days I view my excess skin as my battle scar. You read of people who come home from fighting in places like Afghanistan or Iraq and who take solace in the proof of their faithfulness—to God, to country, to themselves. In some small way, I get that now. I get what it means to fight the good fight and come home with the proof of the battle you’ve won. My skin used to carry everything that I hated and was the culprit for my being called names like “Thunder Thighs.” I still don’t have great legs, but I’ll take Shar-Pei Puppy Thighs over Thunder Thighs any day of the week. My spirit is full today primarily because my skin is not.

  Another way that God helps me to stay on transformation’s path is to remind me that there are little victories waiting to be celebrated each and every day. I am motivated to get up early and eat a nutritious breakfast. I’m actually interested in working out. I can get through that workout without feeling overwhelmed or distraught. That workout can fuel my training for a 5K or even a 15K—whichever one I want. Noah and Jaxon have a mom who wants not only to watch them play but to include herself in their playtime. I can fit into clothes I previously only dreamed of wearing. And on and on it goes.

  As often as the sun rises I sense God spurring me on, all along this path toward becoming the me he desires me to be. I sense it in Noah’s hugs. I sense it as I carry Jaxon here and there without becoming winded. I sense it when I try on a pair of slacks that Mike has surprised me with … and they actually fit. I sense it each time someone asks for my diet-and-exercise advice. I sense it when new friends say, “I never would have guessed that you were ever overweight.”

  I sense it each time I lay my head on my pillow and fall asleep without feeling a single twinge of pain.

  Because of the opportunity God granted me, I made my husband, my trainer and an entire nation proud. The part of the nation that actually liked me, that is. But more importantly, I made myself proud. I didn’t whine, I didn’t complain, and although it nearly was the end of me, I didn’t despise the pain. I took it. I took every ounce of the pain that was dished out, because I knew that in the end it was pain that would lead to progress. It was pain that would pave the path to my discovering the life he’d planned for me all along.

  Still, I’m a real woman who lives a real life, complete with real victories and valleys alike. I remain my worst critic, and I recognize that although I was tan, muscular and a tiny 121 pounds on the day of my The Biggest Loser finale, sometimes I just won’t look like that.

  The moment my publisher called to schedule a cover photo shoot for this book was a low point in my day. She offered up a whole host of reasons why it needed to occur this month, and with every syllable she spoke, my spirits fell. “I’m not ready!” I wanted to say. I immediately thought that I hadn’t been paying enough attention to my food or my workouts as I normally would when a photo shoot was on the books. I had been good, but I hadn’t been perfect.

  I know what it takes to get a decent picture of me. I require good lighting. A proper angle. Several hours in a salon, getting blonder, tanner and ready to roll. The truth is, photographers could have shot me hanging upside-down on monkey bars at the Season 4 finale, and I would have been elated over the results. But now? Now that real life has had its way? I needed more time than I was being given, and an understanding publisher too.

  As it turned out, neither would be made available. The shoot was a go for sure.

  The location for my photo shoot was a very cool salon in Jacksonville called The Beauty Lounge. In the middle of my session some of the staff decided to order “the best pizza in the world” from next door. “While I’m trying to be cute and skinny?!” I wanted to say. I could have died. You know how I feel about pizza.

  I stood in seriously high heels for four hours straight on the evening of my photo session, determined to play nice and hopeful they’d get a decent shot. Amazingly, when I saw the result of that night’s hard work, I felt proud. I wanted to send the images to everyone I know, not because I looked great, but because I looked great for me. The woman looking back at me represented confidence, contentedness, real progress made. I spent so much of my life hating every photo that was ever snapped of me that to actually feel drawn toward one was more satisfying than I can possibly convey with words.

  It’s not looking good regarding my making it to Louisiana today. In the last ten minutes I have been told via the blaring airport loudspeaker that my flight now has been moved to twelve-fifty, which means I’ll certainly miss my Atlanta leg and will likely be spending the night in Georgia. For the love!

  But logistical nightmares aside, I’m still excited about this trip. I’m ready to meet the woman who won the contest, the woman whose profile I’ve read and whose story I know all too well—mostly because it’s so much like mine. Like I had, she’s reached her midthirties without ever truly knowing good health. But also like me, she’s reached a point where she is really ready to change. I can’t wait to have one-on-one time with her so that I can hold her hands in mine and say, “You’re not one of these tiny high-school cheerleaders who then ballooned as an adult. I get that. I lived that. You’ve always been chubby, and you’re wondering if you’ll be overweight every day from this point forward. Which brings me to why I’m here.

  “This is you now,” I’ll continue, “but this won’t be you forever. I’m here to help you dream up an image of who you’ll become so that one day, you’ll be the one flying all over creation and ringing strangers’ doorbells with the message of hope that they need. You’ll be the one who will have a compelling tale to tell, the story of how you once were fat but now you’re thin, how that was you then, but this … this is who you are now. This is the real you.”

  A great band called Something Distant recorded a song called “The Real Me,” and each time I hear it, it’s like hearing my story being sung. “It’s been so long,” the lyrics go, “I’ve been held down / It’s taken until now / That I could finally breathe.” The so
ng continues this way:

  I’m not placing any blame,

  I’m tired of playing the same old games,

  In this moment, I’ve got to move on,

  And all along, I’ve had the strength to carry on

  So hard to believe,

  That I’m actually free,

  All I want to be,

  Is the real me.

  The last four lines of the song get me every time. “As I breathe, I can finally see. Through all the things I’ve been, this is the real me, the real me.”18

  What a gift this woman in Louisiana will soon receive, the gift of an entire team of people who are committed to finding the real her. It’s that same gift I’ll never forget.

  MY BEST ADVICE

  Believe That You Are Worth It

  Years ago, author Max Lucado published a story about the Wemmicks, a population of small wooden people who had been hand carved by a woodworker named Eli. The Wemmicks were as diverse as you’d expect any community to be—some had big noses and small eyes, others were short with big hands—but they had all been made by the same carver.

  Day in and day out Wemmicks went around town handing out stickers to one another. People who had pretty skin or who could run fast or jump high or carry a decent tune were given stars, and people who said silly things or had chipped paint—well, they were only given dots. Punchinello was one of the “dot” people, and as a result he believed he was something of a substandard Wemmick—a Wemmick not worth his wood.

  But then Punchinello met Lucia, and Lucia had neither stars nor dots on her. “That’s the way I want to be!”19 said Punchinello. “How do you do it?”