Fat Chance Read online

  Surely you’re with me here in deeming our trainer a little unstable at best. For all the reasons I’ve cited—not to mention a training philosophy that includes not one or two or three but four occurrences of the word “beatings”—I dare say Jillian is just a little south of sane.

  Still, for all her craziness, we loved her. She was our trainer and confidante and yes, she’d even become our friend. Her commanding presence had commanded us, and our trust for her ran deep.

  INSANE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

  The implications of working out that long and that hard, for that many days in a row, were many.

  After about two weeks, every bone in my body felt like it was made of Jell-O. I knew I’d hit an all-time low when I realized that for four days straight I had been crawling on all fours to the bathroom because I was too exhausted to carry my own weight. Exhaustion can do funny things to a girl, making trips to the bathroom and showering incredibly difficult.

  Surprisingly, I grew accustomed rather quickly to having a video camera in my face twenty-four hours a day. I just hoped one wasn’t rolling each time I crawled my way to the ladies’ room. How pathetic.

  On the night that my teammates and I found out we had been cast for Season 4 of The Biggest Loser, J. D. Roth, the show’s executive producer, told us that contestants from previous seasons eventually found themselves facing such significant physical pain that they could no longer wash their hair. They simply could not lift their worn-out arms that high.

  One evening when Hollie and I happened to be in the communal showers at the same time, I saw my friend cave to the trend. Too fatigued to move her arms, she instead grabbed her bottle of Pantene, gave it a good squirt toward the wall, let her head fall forward and rotated her neck in small circles until the blob of shampoo found its way to her hair. Talk about exhaustion.

  Hollie doesn’t remember the episode today, which is testimony to God’s grace. I liken it to women who forget the pain of childbirth right after it happens, which is pretty much the sole reason we don’t have a world made up of families with just one child.

  The next morning, as was the case nearly every morning, another exhausted teammate, Jim, served as our alarm clock. Who needs a buzzer when the guy sleeping thirty feet away from you wakes you up every day with deafening moans and groans? “Ow, my knee!” he’d cry as soon as his feet hit the floor. Or, “Oh my back, my ankles, my arm! Ow, ow, owww!”

  There actually is no such thing as a “last-chance workout” on The Biggest Loser. The term was cooked up just for TV. I wish we would have had them, because that would have meant that other workouts were less intense in nature! In actuality we worked out six to eight hours a day every day, and every hour was just as hard as the one that had just passed.

  Still, despite our body’s creaks and groans and wails and pleas, toward the end we wanted to win the grand prize so badly that we would do the craziest things.

  We would watch the other teams come into the gym, and if we caught wind of the fact that they were going to work out for an hour, we’d stay in there an hour and two minutes just to mess with them. Who cared if we were in excruciating pain? It was worth it if it meant that a black-team member would win!

  Before The Biggest Loser, I could barely walk for three consecutive minutes without becoming winded. Every time I go to the gym in Jacksonville these days, I find it odd that people leave after “only” working out for an hour. My, how things have changed.

  My teammates and I also started staking out our favorite equipment, such as the calorie-blasting stair-climbing machines. If Hollie got into the gym first, she’d hop on a stair-climber and throw her towel on the one right beside her. When a blue- or red-team contestant approached it, intending to climb on, she’d say, “So sorry, but Julie already called it.” In fact, I hadn’t already called it. In fact, I was still in the kitchen eating breakfast. But what are friends for, if not to keep everyone but your team from taking home the ultimate prize?

  Once on the coveted stair-climbers, my teammates and I would stay put for as long as we could convince our legs to move. With every stride we were keeping someone else from losing weight. Ah, the splendor of a little spirited competition!

  Somewhere along the way various players even participated in voluntary workouts, on top of the already ridiculous workout regime our trainers had established for us.

  One morning, blue-team member Neil snuck off to the gym at 5:00 AM to get in an early workout. To his surprise, he found my teammate Bill sprawled out on the floor. Bill evidently had been working out all night long and must have caved to utter exhaustion. “Oh my gosh,” Neil thought, “he’s dead!”

  Wasting no time, Neil stepped right over Bill and mounted his beloved tread-mill. I told you, didn’t I? Crazy.

  Surely you remember Neil. You know, the guy who water-loaded one week and gained seventeen pounds, only to lose thirty-three the next week and make the rest of us so mad? I know, I know: It’s a game. Still, we were mad.

  Later that day, several of us hunted down Neil and demanded an explanation. “Really, Neil? You didn’t even check to see if Bill was alive before you worked out?”

  “Hey,” Neil replied, “I figured, at least there’s one down.”

  We were becoming insane, every single one of us, which was fitting, given where we happened to be living at the time—at a bona fide former insane asylum. Read on.

  Every contestant on Season 4 thought he or she would be competing at The Biggest Loser Ranch, site of Seasons 1 through 3. Far from some dusty primitive campground, this ranch was actually a posh mansion. So, while we knew we’d be absolutely tortured while on-site, at least our surroundings would be pretty.

  You can imagine our dismay when we realized that Season 4 was going to be billed as “The Biggest Loser University”—complete with cold and sterile dorms.

  Come to think of it, real dorms would have been better than where they chose to house us in the end.

  In passing, we had learned from one of the production assistants that our “dorm” was actually a former clinic for the mentally ill. Sometime during that first week on campus, long after the rest of our team had fallen asleep, Isabeau and I were talking to each other from our respective beds. Suddenly we noticed that some of the windows had sawed-off bars on them. I sat up in bed and took in the long room that we stayed in, eyeing the series of beds that lined the wall. “This was the hospital ward!” I whispered. It felt like we were in a war scene, where all of the injured soldiers are lined up in a row—a metaphor that wasn’t lost on me at all.

  Oddities abounded at the asylum. Old pharmacy rooms still had those Dutch doors I remember from childhood Sunday school classes, where the top and bottom halves work independently of each other. The hallway that ran down the middle of the facility seemed to span forever. On one side were various rooms that had been used as wards, and on the other side were cages where they probably had performed lobotomies. Nearby were still-operational vegetable fields, and depending on the way the wind blew, we’d wake up to the smell of either strawberries, which was great, or onions, which was less than great.

  Contestants from past seasons would drop in for visits every once in a while and rub in our faces just how atrocious our living conditions were. Until that point, we hadn’t really noticed. It was like living in a third-world country and having someone show up and say, “You know, in America we have running water.” And you go, “You do?”

  We had a comfortable room, a paved walkway that led to fully outfitted gym, and teammates that were becoming more like family every day. Despite the rigors of our routine, like little Mary Lennox in her lovely Secret Garden, who found a little slice of serenity in the most unlikely of situations, the asylum was our refuge—for us, a home-sweet-home.

  WHEN PAIN GIVES WAY TO PROGRESS

  My team and I not only got used to our mad surroundings, but eventually we got used to Jillian’s madness too. And truth be told, some of the lessons she taught us I will carry with me
all the remaining days of my life.

  There is a sign that hangs in The Biggest Loser gym that says, “Feel the fear … and do it anyway.” It’s a quote from Jillian, and a philosophy I would come to embrace. Through her constant encouragement—if you can call it that—I would learn that progress doesn’t show up unless discomfort comes with it. And oh, how she knew how to bring us to that point. I go to the gym these days and see people on treadmills, going three miles an hour on a 0 percent incline. Come on, now. You’ve got to work harder than that!

  Here’s my on-campus takeaway, free of charge: If you are able to carry on a conversation while working out, then you aren’t working out hard enough.

  Another of Jillian’s exhortations was, “Remember: It’s just exercise.”

  One of the greatest rewards I received from my The Biggest Loser experience is the ability to walk into any gym in any city today and not be embarrassed by how I look. What a gift!

  During those weeks when we were working out in the gym in Hermosa prior to our on-campus appearance, it wasn’t uncommon for us to cause quite a stir. We’d walk into the local 24 Hour Fitness and immediately hear whispers and gasps as people noticed that Jillian Michaels was leading our pack. From that moment until the moment we left, all eyes were on us.

  One day Jillian was training Jim, who physically was the strongest member of our team at that time, when some random guy rushed up to her and said, “You’re killing him! Quit killing him!” Jillian took a step back, sized up the guy, and then said with a level voice, “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  In the man’s defense, he was, in fact, genuinely concerned that Jim was going to die. And understandably so, given how it must appear to normal people who see Jillian train for their very first time. But she—and Jim too, for that matter—understood what all of us had come to know: Once your body is strong, everything else is just exercise. I would need to remember that when I was back home after the show and depressed about gaining a few pounds. “It’s just exercise,” I’d tell myself when I felt like giving up. “You’re used to this, your body craves this and if you persevere, you’ll find your target weight once more.”

  On the show we were trained to be on a par with professional athletes, and although it may take time and effort for me to meet a particular goal these days, I honestly believe that, physically speaking, there is nothing I cannot accomplish.

  Can I give you one more tidbit from my favorite trainer? “It never gets easier,” she’d say to us every day. “Ever.” And you know what? She was right.

  Even now, it is not easy. It’s not easy to work out one or two hours a day, five days a week. It’s not easy to make wise food choices when French fries taunt me at every turn. It’s not easy to dig deep for motivation to stay healthy and capable and strong. But I do it anyway.

  I do it because I would rather suffer the pain of progress than the pain of being fat. I would rather celebrate the joy of well-made choices than the joy a cupcake can bring. I would rather leave a challenging legacy of healthfulness to my family and friends than the cheap one marked only by fun.

  I look back and can’t believe what my body was able to do during the show. I was irritable and in agony much of the time, but I did it. And when my long-hated weight finally found its way off, what a sight for sore eyes was the new me.

  During week thirteen of my The Biggest Loser experience, I won a twenty-four-hour trip home. More accurately, Hollie won it for me. By that point in the show there were eight contestants left in the game, and she beat the lot of us in a twenty-four-kilometer triathlon. The prize? Not only immunity and a home-visit for herself, but immunity and a home-visit for another player of her choosing. Praise Jesus and all things holy, she picked me.

  I remember looking up when I heard my name called, thinking, Me? Little ol’ me? Great! Let’s go!

  It was a mad dash home. Hollie and I flew through the shower, grabbed a few articles of clothing from our room and hopped in the van that was waiting to take us to the airport.

  I remember walking up the sidewalk in Jacksonville in my T-shirt, flip-flops and jeans, with butterflies flapping their way through my stomach. Mike told me later that it was the first time in nearly eight years that I had worn jeans, but who was counting?

  Immediately I spotted Mike and Noah and our puppy Flower, and the tears just started to flow. It had been three months since I had seen them last, and the woman’s heart in me simply came undone.

  Approaching them, life fell into slow motion. I stretched over my son to kiss my husband before realizing that I had been intercepted midstride by Noah. For the first time in his life, he was able to wrap his arms all the way around my waist. What a thrill!

  After a lovely—and nutritionally safe—lunch at Subway, a camera crew took Mike, Noah and me to the beach so that I could give them a glimpse of what a “real” workout entailed. I went easy on them, but even so, they were whipped.

  Prior to The Biggest Loser experience, Mike and I probably ate out five or six times a week. The richness of the food, the gigantic portion sizes, the desire to eat all that you paid for—nothing about that trend was good.

  Thirty minutes into a measly routine of commando crawls, push-ups, mountain-climbers and leg presses, Mike’s legs collapsed under his own weight. He was sweating and out of breath and his body was clearly done—Mike, mind you, who is six feet one and strong as strong can be, under regular circumstances. Sad, sad man. Pitiful, even.

  I had lost thirty-eight pounds by that point in the game, and as Mike took me in that day, I remember thinking, This is what it looks like when your husband is proud of you.

  My darling husband had lost twenty-eight pounds on his own while I was on the show those first few months. Twenty-eight pounds, and without a lick of torture from the likes of Jillian Michaels. Where is the fairness in that!

  Of course, he had always been proud of me. Perhaps what I really meant is that for once, I agreed.

  William Shakespeare once wrote that, “To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.”!4 I look back on my four months on The Biggest Loser campus—as well as the strenuous months that followed—and realize that while I started turtle-slow, I still made it all the way to the top. There’s something to be said for baby steps.

  There’s something big to be said for small steps.

  MY BEST ADVICE

  Start Now!

  It’s never wise to begin a diet inside a restaurant, but I found myself in that unenviable situation on more than a few occasions during my yo-yo dieting days. My family and I would wake up on a lazy Saturday morning and decide to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. “No problem,” I’d say. “I’ll just order an all-veggie egg-white omelet and a cup of coffee, no cream.”

  My strategy worked, until the freebies showed up. Before I knew it I was sitting in front of a side of hash browns, a basket of biscuits, a dish of thick gravy and a large glass of juice … in addition to that all-veggie egg-white omelet. A few dozen swift bites later I’d mourn the good intentions that had gone awry once more.

  Before long, it would be time for lunch, but instead of making a healthy food-choice, I’d think, What kind of diet starts with hash browns and biscuits and gravy? The day was obviously already shot, so who cared what I ate for lunch? With a spirit of rebellion in full swing, I’d pull through the McDonald’s line, order whatever I wanted and disappoint myself just a little bit more.

  I’d follow the same line of thinking for dinner—gorging on pizza or excessive desserts—and then awaken the next morning with a self-induced sugar high and a mild state of depression over the sorry choices I’d made.

  The cycle I describe would have been tolerable if it had been the exception instead of the rule. But that was not the case. Day by day, week after week I would indulge the downward spiral until I finally was so disgusted with myself that I simply had to make a change. Like any addict knows, the binge is a blast until you wake up one day and say, “How the heck did I get here?” />
  On those how-the-heck-did-I-get-here days, my hopes would be dashed, my self-esteem would be shot and my pants would be far too tight. “I can’t believe I let myself get to this point again,” I’d moan, as if moaning could make anything better.

  Several years ago I went to Las Vegas for my thirtieth birthday. I’m not much for gambling, but I had set aside a whopping forty dollars that I was willing to lose—and lose it I did, one precious nickel at a time. I camped out at the nickel-slots because the dollar-ones were far too risky; I’m a mom, for heaven’s sake, and moms are known for carefully measuring risk and never assuming more than would be wise. Plus, we’re cheap. We like two-for-one deals and anything that’s free, which is why I always had so much trouble turning down the hash browns that accompanied my otherwise-healthy breakfast.

  I dropped each of those nickels into the machine with incredible care because I had set a limit of forty bucks for myself, and I was determined to stay within it. But let’s say that instead of forty dollars, my limit had been fourteen-hundred dollars. And, just for the sake of illustration, let’s say that I went absolutely crazy, blew eight-hundred bucks before 10:00 AM, and then, feeling depressed and disappointed over my failure, took the remaining six-hundred dollars and tossed it into the first garbage can I saw. You would think that I had lost my ever-loving mind, right? You’d say, “Hey, just because you wasted the first part of your money doesn’t mean you have to trash the rest!” You’d tell me to start now being wise with my money so that I didn’t waste all that was left.

  Months after that Vegas trip, I bought a cup of coffee at a gourmet shop, and printed on the back of the paper cup was the phrase, “Treat your calories like hundred-dollar bills.”