Fat Chance Page 8

  Prior to my The Biggest Loser experience, the only form of physical activity I engaged in was the kind that involved walking from the living room to the kitchen for a refill on snacks, or from the car to the house after picking up Noah from school. I guess there were other examples, but they reflected accidental exercise at best. Clearly that had all changed drastically, now that I was on the show.

  The worst part of being on campus wasn’t the fact that I was denied my French fries and fizz. Nor was it the fact that Jillian made me complete a near-fatal run. It’s that those things happened not just once but on a sickeningly daily basis. In the spirit of referencing Bill Murray movies, it was like I had been dropped onto the set of Groundhog Day, where every twenty-four-hour period mirrored the awful day you thought you’d already lived through.

  As a frame of reference, for my entire life leading up to the show, dragging luggage through an airport represented the most rigorous workout I’d known. Well, that, and sweating my way into a swimsuit during those dreaded pageant days.

  A typical day on campus involved getting up at seven-thirty, grabbing a bite to eat and hitting the gym before Jillian arrived so that once she was there, our homework assignment was complete. Typically that homework involved an hour of cardio—such as spending twenty minutes on the stair-climbing machine at level eight, followed by twenty minutes on the elliptical machine at 150 revolutions per minute, followed by twenty minutes on the stationary bike or the treadmill. After that, we’d engage in one-on-one workouts with Jillian. And oh, how I hated those.

  Some of my teammates actually looked forward to the individual attention, but for the life of me, I don’t know why. I’d refuse to make eye contact with Jillian each morning when she’d ask our team, “Okay, who’s up first?” Thankfully, my teammate Hollie typically jumped at the chance to get her “Jillian time” over with; from the safety of my treadmill I’d watch every exercise Jillian put her through so that I’d be prepared when I was called on. When it finally was my turn, my ever-present thought was, “Great day, let this be over soon.”

  After those excruciating one-on-ones, we’d have to log another hour of independent exercise before we could take a short break for lunch. Our afternoon schedule looked strangely the same: individual training with Jillian, followed by an hour of work on our own. Talk about exhausting! My flabby little self didn’t know what to think, after all I was asking it to do.

  The most intense days of all were the ones that involved a challenge in addition to the normal stuff of campus life. We’d be awakened at 3:00 AM and told to get “camera ready” as quickly as possible, which usually involved a shower, team-colored workout clothes and an attempt to look at least halfway awake.

  My teammates and I would plod downstairs to eat an apple and some almonds, even as I offered up a silent prayer—“Seriously, Lord, if you’d deliver me a cinnamon roll, I’d be far more pleasant to be around.” We’d then pack a lunch for ourselves and climb into a van that would drive us to the challenge location ninety minutes away. I always thought I’d be able to sleep during those van rides, but my plans were futile at best. Between the chatter of my teammates, the potholes in the road, and the rising sun casting bright beams across my face, it was no use.

  Once on-site, we’d spend another hour preparing for the physical part of the challenge. Sports-training staff members would tape our feet and ankles, give us instruction on the nuances of the challenge and then set up cameras and microphones. By the time the challenge actually started, the sun was high in the sky.

  The single common denominator uniting a very diverse group of eighteen original contestants for Season 4 was that nobody ate breakfast prior to their time on the show. Eat breakfast, people!

  Each challenge took thirty to forty-five minutes to complete. If the show’s host, the lovely and talented Alison Sweeney, was asked to redo certain shots because of audio blips or lighting issues, it could take longer, but usually we’d be done in less than one hour’s time. Afterward, each contestant had to sit for interviews about the challenge itself, answering questions like, “How did you feel when two blue-team members outlasted you?” and “Walk us through your initial strategy… why did you think you might win?”

  I was incredibly enamored with Alison Sweeney at the beginning of the show because I had seen her for so many years on Days of Our Lives. She still starred on that show while she was working with The Biggest Loser, and often she’d come to our set immediately after leaving the set of her soap. We all loved to harass her after her flashback scenes on Days; she’d arrive at our show with hair that still boasted a 1950s bouffant or 1970s flyaways.

  It took more than two hours to run everyone through the interview process, so when it wasn’t our turn, we’d grab a seat and eat our sack lunch. When everyone was finally done, we’d load back into the van and head home. Incredibly, even after a tiresome morning like that, we’d get back to campus and have to unload the van, empty the coolers and put everything back in the appropriate kitchen cabinet or refrigerator drawer. So much for being TV celebrities! Since when do stars do their own chores?

  Then, into a fresh set of workout clothes and on to the gym we’d go.

  After our painstaking series of workouts, we’d then head back to the house. We would prepare and eat dinner, which seemed always to consist of a small grilled chicken breast, half a cup of veggies, a small side salad and a glass of room-temperature water—again. Oh joy.

  We’d clean up the kitchen, moan about how exhausted we were, wait in line to do our “confessional” recordings on camera, write a few letters to family members who were cheering us on from home, update our online Bodybugg, moan some more about how exhausted we were and then whimper our way to sleep.

  The Bodybugg is an armband device that measures your caloric intake and expenditure. We would have loved them, except for the fact that our trainer could log online and tell whether or not we were burning calories while she was away. Made it a wee bit harder to cheat.

  It was a far cry from the life I’d known in Jacksonville. And things would only get worse.

  THE TROUBLE WITH JILLIAN

  When the black team was still operating incognito in the desert, a production assistant approached Jillian with a video camera during one of our workouts to ask her about the strategy she employed when training a team. “Tell us about your approach, Jillian,” the guy said. And in response, Jillian shed light for millions of Americans on the truth of what makes her tick.

  Contestants weren’t allowed contact with loved ones until well into the game—no phone calls, no letters, no e-mails, no nothing. Finally, by week eight, I was allowed to call Mike. No sweeter sound had my ears ever heard than that particular “Hello?”

  “My plan is the same, season after season after season,” Jillian said as she then punched one fist into the palm of the other hand: “Beatings, beatings, beatings. And then some more beatings.” Whether or not we appreciated her approach, evidently it had been working well for her. At this writing, out of the six seasons that Jillian has appeared on, a member of her team has won every single time.

  Jillian Michaels also has won every season of The Biggest Loser Australia on which she has appeared, which makes her an international training threat.

  Still, on those frequent occasions when I needed a way to ease the pain that she so fervently loved to inflict, I’d dream up new reasons to detest the trainer who has a strange affinity for abuse. While I could write an entire book on the trouble with Jillian Michaels, I’ll try to contain myself to a top-ten list of sorts. Here they are, in no particular order.

  SHE CAN’T COUNT

  On a near-daily basis Jillian would lead a small group of us in cardio drills. She’d say, “Okay, everyone, twenty jump-squats, starting now.” She’d begin counting as we obediently crouched down low and then sprung up high, but when we got to twenty, mysteriously, we were not done. “Five more!” she’d holler, just when we were pulling back to take a break. “Really, Jillian,�
�� Hollie would protest. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Obviously, she was not.

  The extra five would become an extra fifteen in the end, and my teammates and I would despise her even more. The first twenty were tough enough, let alone an agonizing total of thirty-five. I stand by my case: She cannot count. But that was hardly the worst of her quirks.

  SHE IS NEVER WRONG

  The only thing more annoying than a person who thinks she’s always right is a person who is, in fact, never wrong. Enter Jillian Michaels.

  For instance, it would be mere hours before a weigh-in, and I’d say, “I think I lost six pounds this week.” I mean, I know my body best, right? Jillian would shake her head immediately and say, “Nope. You only lost three.” Or, “Are you kidding? You clearly lost eight.” Of course, come weigh-in time, she always was dead on.

  Jillian also knew our personal limits better than we did. During one especially awful workout, Isabeau was running on a treadmill when Jillian came into the gym. She made a beeline for Izzy and said, “Harder! Faster, Isabeau. Move!” Through labored breaths, Izzy panted out her reply: “I can’t, Jillian! I’m already going as fast as I can go!”

  Jillian, of course, took that response as a challenge. She reached around and punched buttons on the treadmill’s control pad until Isabeau was nearly flying, she was running so fast. As soon as Izzy successfully completed the thirty-second interval, with Jillian counting down every single stride, she heard Jillian shrieking at the top of her lungs as she left the gym, “ I AM NEEEEVVVVVER WRONG!”

  Jillian was so concerned about my polycystic ovary syndrome that she made contact with some of the world’s most renowned doctors to find out how I could convince my body to lose weight. The meds I was taking were being used preventively—to regulate my hormones, mostly—and those doctors and the show’s doc agreed unanimously that if I was going to begin normalizing my hormone levels through better diet and exercise patterns, then I could discontinue my habit of popping pills. Thank goodness!

  Closer to home, weeks into my The Biggest Loser experience, Jillian decided to take me off of all of my medications, which included Ortho Tricycline to combat the effects of my polycystic ovary syndrome, and Metformin for my glucose intolerance and prediabetic condition. Understandably, I was nervous about it, but she assured me that in three weeks’ time my body would adjust. Twenty-one days later, you guessed it: My plateau of piddly two- and three-pound weight-loss weeks was jolted, and I finally began to see results.

  Never wrong. Never, ever, ever wrong. It’s annoying, but it’s true.

  SHE CLEARLY LACKS COMPASSION

  If you’re overweight, it’s tough to tip yourself over and walk on your hands and feet, but “bear crawls” were one of Jillian’s favorite exercises from day one. She’d divide us into duos and wrap resistance bands around the waist of one member of each team. “Get in back of them,” she’d holler to the ones without the bands strangling their bellies, “and don’t let them get up the hill!” Talk about misery. With us pulling against them, our beloved friends and teammates would then tip over into the bear-crawl position and try with all their might to ascend the hundred-yard hill.

  I remember one situation when this was the drill du jour, and all was going well. That is, until Hollie cried. Keep in mind, Hollie was not much of a crier. But on that particular day she’d simply had enough.

  Jillian noticed Hollie hesitating, and so she grabbed the resistance band that was wrapped around Hollie and said, “Are you going to do this, Hollie? Or are you going to quit?”

  The rest of us kept moving and tried to avoid eye contact with Jillian. We hated to see Hollie get picked on, but it was better her than us.

  Through the corner of my eye I saw Hollie tip herself onto all fours, her heavy, heavy weight coming down hard on her hands. Her neck looked constricted as her chubby cheeks covered her eyes. Sweat ran down her face and pooled on the ground below.

  But still, she forced herself up the path.

  In the face of an emotional breakdown, I’m sure some trainers rush to the person’s side, wrap a loving arm around the person’s neck, and say, “Oh, you poor thing. Here, let’s have a Snickers and take a break.” But not Jillian. Far from it. She’d rush to your side, all right. But only so that she could fire a closer-range shot that was sure to take your sorry self down.

  SHE HAS NO CONCEPT OF TIME

  Jillian would send one of my teammates or me to retrieve something from the house during a workout and become irate when we finally returned. “You should have been back in three minutes!” she’d accuse whoever had been sent on the errand, forgetting entirely that it was a five-minute walk from the gym to the house … and therefore a ten-minute walk round-trip.

  SHE POSSESSES ZERO PATIENCE

  Jillian would tell us to eat lunch when we were between workouts and then thirty seconds later, obviously angered by the fact that food was not finding its way to our faces yet, say, “I thought I told you to eat your lunch!”

  “Hello!” we’d fire back. “We have to cook it first!”

  SHE’S A SNEAKY SABOTEUR

  Once we finally did get our lunch prepared, Jillian would control our portions through the use of condiments. If she felt like we’d had enough to eat, she would upend the ketchup bottle or unscrew the salt shaker and destroy the remainder of our meal. And she wanted to be our friend?

  SHE IS CONSUMED WITH ALL THINGS “IMMUNITY”

  Whenever our team competed in a challenge or a temptation activity, Jillian only wanted for us to assume risk if we would be guaranteed immunity. The reward could be a priceless video made by a loved one, a much-needed full-body massage or five thousand dollars in cold hard cash, and still Jillian would not budge. Family meant nothing and money meant nothing, because there was only room for one goal, and that goal was immunity, immunity, immunity. “Who cares if you win five grand, if it costs you a week in this game?” she’d rant. And as always, Jillian was right.

  SHE HAS A SPECIAL DISDAIN FOR SEATS

  Jillian loved to lead our team in “spin” classes. She’d circle up the stationary bikes, tell us to take our pick and find a seat and then promptly proceed to remove them—the seats, that is. She’d rev up all the bikes as high as they would go and then come jump on my front wheel. There I’d be, pedaling as though my life depended on it—because it did—huffing and puffing out prayers to God and fending off Jillian’s added resistance until the magical moment I heard the word Stop.

  SHE INSISTS ON FOOD GOING IN …

  From day one, the black team was instructed to bring snacks with us to every workout. If you forgot it, sweet heavens, the universe would utterly come to a halt. “I asked you to bring your SNACKS!” Jillian would roar upon discovering delinquency in the ranks. I’m sure that camera operators and production assistants stationed in the gym who heard that little reminder thought that Jillian was looking out for our own good. “What a kind and thoughtful trainer she is,” they must have thought. After all, wouldn’t any trainer worth her biceps want her trainees to eat healthy, frequent meals?

  But that wasn’t Jillian’s motivation at all.

  In reality, Jillian preferred to beat the snot out of us, and she knew we needed nourishment to withstand it.

  Beatings, beatings, beatings—she was a woman of her word.

  …AND DOES A HAPPY-DANCE WHEN FOOD COMES BACK OUT

  On the heels of one workout in which Hollie did, in fact, remember to bring her snack, Jillian circled up the black team and asked us to have a seat. We were all exhausted, and as Jillian stood in the middle of the circle, giving her best attempt at a pep talk, I couldn’t help but notice the teammate sitting directly across the circle from me.

  Evidently Hollie had brought her food in a plastic grocery bag, and now the empty bag was hanging around her face, its handles hooked over both of her ears. I snickered a little at the sight of my friend, which caught Jillian’s attention. “What’s so funny?” she said, genuinely curiou
s.

  She swiveled around to see what I was looking at, and when she took in her trainee with a barf bag on her face, she just had to know more. “Hollie, honey? What’s up?”

  But of course Hollie could not reply. For days on end our bodies had been detoxing from all the “clean” eating and incessant workouts we’d endured, and Hollie had some business to tend to. With all eyes on her, she drew her knees toward her chin, and, able to hold her cookies no longer, completely and thoroughly barfed. Which sent Jillian into full-fledged dance-mode.

  I’m not sure when it began, but by our season on the show, Jillian had crafted a puke-induced dance of joy. Why was she so elated about such a terrible turn of events? Because it meant that her beatings had taken effect, that her poor, suffering contestant had actually worked out that hard.

  It’s a little difficult to describe without nonverbals, but essentially she squats down, throws her hands in front of her thighs, thrusts her butt into the air and swings her hips in ever-widening circles while squawking out strains of sheer delight.

  Try though we did to contain ourselves for Hollie’s benefit, my teammates and I finally dissolved into a fit of laughter. By the time we composed ourselves, Jillian was on the floor in happy-baby position, kicking her feet in the air and crying hysterical tears. “That’s fantastic!” she cheered over poor Hollie’s condition. “She’s carrying a puke-purse on her face!”