Secrets of a Former Fat Girl (2 page)

With my secrets and with my guidance you can make that transition. You can become a Former Fat Girl. You can harness the appetite that seems to control you. You can say no to unhealthy foods and unhealthy habits and mean it. You can break free of the fear and insecurity that hold you back from getting what you want in your life.

Even more than that, you can shed the image you carry around of yourself and start to see yourself in a new way. There is a place where you no longer have to hide all the things that make you special and unique, where you can let your personality shine and actually
flirt
if you so choose. As a Former Fat Girl, no longer will you have to bypass the cool clothes on your way to the “big girl” section of the department store. No longer will you be too ashamed to order crème brûlée, for fear that everyone in the restaurant will pity the poor Fat Girl who just can't deny her sweet tooth. No longer will you seek the comfort of the back row; you'll be the one on stage. You'll be the one who says what no one else has the courage to say. You'll be the first girl on the dance floor—with or without a partner.

I know you can get there, and I'm going to show you how. In this book I'll share the seven secrets I discovered on my journey to becoming a Former Fat Girl, the secrets I know will work for you, too. Along the way I'll reveal my struggles with the same issues you're facing, the issues that hold you back from having the body and the life you really deserve, from being the person, inside and out, you really are.

You might hate me now because I've done it and you're just getting started. You've had your hopes dashed many times before. But believe me when I say that you can do it. I know you can. I'll be with you all the way. Because if I could leave the past behind—with its broken chairs and stolen cookies and midnight McDonald's—you can, too.

Secret #1: Forget Dieting

I
didn't start out thinking I was doing anything revolutionary. Like most serial dieters, I had begun every other weight loss quest with a list of “no” foods—chocolate (of course) and desserts of any kind, butter, sugar, bread—all the things that made eating my favorite pastime and, it seemed, made life worth living.

But one day, on the heels of my ice cream–induced aha! moment, my friend Tracey (some names have been changed to protect the privacy of those individuals) invited me to her Jazzercise class, and, on a whim, I said yes. You know how it is: As many times as you might have failed in the past, you continue to have those flashes of hope that maybe this time things will be different. Maybe exercise won't be such a struggle; maybe you'll actually like it, like the skinny girls who hang out at the health club as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

If I had known what I was getting into, though, I probably would have stayed home. (Lesson #1: Ignorance can be a good thing.) Jazzercise was one of the early forms of aerobics—you know, back when Jane Fonda was feeling the burn in her leg warmers and matching headband. The class was part dance, part drill team routine set to the music of the time. I still remember part of the sequence to “What a Feeling” from the iconic 80s film
Flashdance
. One of the moves was derivative of John Travolta's signature
Saturday Night Fever
pose. We threw our hips to one side, jabbed our fingers into the air, and then switched to the other side on the frenzied beat. Thank God we didn't have camera phones back then.

At the time, I was a beleaguered graduate student in Austin, Texas. I had decided to go for my master's degree instead of getting a real job after college and was regretting my decision. I was tired of being a student; I felt as if I was in some kind of purgatory, waiting not so patiently for real life to begin. My life had stalled like my dilapidated four-door Datsun, and I needed some kind of push to get it going again. Before that flash of clarity on the bathroom floor, I would have told you that feeling was all about wanting to get out of school and start my career. But, looking back, I think it also had something to do with being stuck in a five-foot-four body that I had allowed to balloon up to 185 pounds—the heaviest I'd ever been.

Maybe that was why I said yes when Tracey suggested the class. Like me, Tracey was always on a diet, getting ready to go on a diet, or cheating on a diet. It was as if she and I were members of a secret sorority of Fat Girls (Thi Omega Phat?). We understood each other. We could joke about things we were too ashamed admit to anyone else—like the habit of eating while standing over the sink or at the refrigerator door or wearing your “fat pants” for the third day (or month or year) in a row.

I figured if Tracey had the nerve to squeeze into a leotard and cavort around with a bunch of strangers, maybe I could, too. And even if I did trip all over myself trying to keep up, at least I wouldn't be the only Fat Girl in the room. (Don't tell me you've never taken comfort in
that
!)

One problem: what to wear.
It wasn't like my closet was full of cute little leotard and tights ensembles and I simply couldn't decide which to put on. Not only did I not own anything of the sort, but I couldn't imagine shoving my body into one. Hell, I could barely fit into everyday street clothes without a struggle. And this was back in the day, before you could go online and order anything you wanted under the radar (XXX videos? XXXL baby tees?) without having to worry about what the lady at the register might be thinking.

No, I would have to do what every Fat Girl absolutely dreads: go shopping.

At least my mother wasn't there. Mom and I had battled over my wardrobe since I was in fifth grade. That was in the early seventies when hip-huggers were hot and I was desperate to have a pair. I was desperate to have a pair because I was desperate to get in good with Susie, the coolest girl in the class, the girl who had already advanced beyond training bras, who sneaked smokes behind school, and who
really
knew what nasty words like
masturbation
meant when the boys made jokes about them instead of just playing along, like I did.

Shopping was horrible enough; shopping with Mom was excruciating for both of us. As gently as she could, Mom tried to steer me away from the low-slung crushed velour bell bottoms she knew would make me look as wide as a linebacker. I grabbed a pair and took them into the dressing room anyway, determined to prove her wrong—but, of course, I couldn't even button them over the folds of my stomach. You know the particular familiar pain. It wasn't just that the pants didn't fit—
I
didn't fit. I was never going to be “in” with Susie. I was never going to be anything more than part of the scenery, a Fat Girl who didn't deserve a spot in the inner circle. I sat in the dressing room for a while, unable to face my mom—not that she was the “I told you so” type, but she didn't need to be. Instead of accepting her support, crying on her shoulder, sharing my shame with her, I held it all in. I felt even more embarrassed knowing that she
knew
. It was completely lost on me in that moment—and in the many dressing room moments we would share in the future—that Mom and I shared the same body type. I know now that she had some of the very same struggles with her weight as I did, particularly when she was young. I don't think, though, that she experienced all the Fat Girl feelings I held inside. If she did, she'd have known how infuriating it was to see that look of pity in her eyes—infuriating because there was so much truth in it, truth I didn't want to face.

Thankfully, I would be the only one privy to my humiliation as I tried to find a leotard I could work my butt into without busting the seams. I drove to the discount store one weeknight, arriving just a half hour before closing time. I figured the place would be practically deserted, and the fewer customers who might raise their eyebrows at the chunky girl in the “activewear” section, the better.

One quick shuffle through the leotards on the rack was all it took, though, for me to decide not to buy one. I just couldn't face the prospect of trying the things on. It would be too much like swimsuit shopping, and you know how much fun that is. I picked up a package of tights from the sale bin, figuring I could wear them under a raggedy pair of polyester gym shorts from college. An XL T-shirt on top would be just fine; the more coverage, the better. If I could have worn a pup tent, I would have.

As I dressed for that first Jazzercise class, I realized the blinding pink tights I had bought were a mistake. There's a reason why road crews wear neon—the color practically screamed, “Get a load of these thighs!”

My worst fear
was that, at the very sight of me, the other girls would laugh me out of the room. But that didn't happen.

The class instructor, Gina, was a tiny girl with exotic Asian looks and straight onyx hair down to her perfect little butt. She was funny and not too perky (I hate perky), and didn't recoil in horror, drop to the floor laughing, or say, “Sorry. Overeaters Anonymous meets down the hall,” when I walked into class. In fact, she didn't seem to look at me any differently than any of the other women in the room—who, by the way, weren't exactly anatomically perfect specimens, either. I secretly studied them all, Gina included, looking for any sign that they were judging me. If I had picked up on any “thinner than thou” vibes, I would never have gone back.

Class was at an Episcopal church near campus, in a linoleum-floored room probably used for coffee and doughnut socials after Sunday services. Wood paneling covered three of the walls; on the fourth, behind the small, carpeted podium where Gina perched, was a mirror the width of the room. Thank God there were still spots in the back row, or I'd have had a full frontal view of myself the entire class. It was bad enough that wherever I stood, I couldn't get away from my reflection. I kept trying to duck behind the skinny girl in front of me until she noticed and gave me a look.

But when Gina put the music on and began to move, I soon became so caught up in watching her that I didn't give my image more than a passing glance during the forty-minute class. It was really a matter of self-defense: If I didn't pay attention, I'd end up grapevining left when everyone else was going right and cause an ugly pileup. And while that didn't happen, I still screwed up, making a mess of the simple choreography to a Pointer Sisters tune. But I wasn't the only one. And something about the way Gina handled it—as if it were no big deal, as if the point of the whole thing was to keep moving and not worry about doing it perfectly—made screwing up less than mortifying. She did laugh, but the way she laughed made me laugh, too, and I wasn't the type to laugh at myself very easily.

Something else happened, something I didn't quite expect. As I started to focus on moving with her, I forgot for just a little while that I was a Fat Girl who had no business being there. In that forty-minute period, my self-consciousness took a backseat as I concentrated on what I was doing and not on how I looked while I was doing it. The flash of hope that got me to that Jazzercise class in the first place ignited something in me. The idea began to flicker in my mind that maybe I could do it. I could move. I could dance. I could sweat. I could
exercise
.

I didn't know it then, but this time
would
prove to be different.

I started going to Jazzercise regularly, chasing the “I can” feeling it gave me—a feeling I had never gotten during any of my many previous weight loss ventures. Mostly, I'd tried to manage my weight the “no” way—no dessert, no bread, no butter, no, no, no. Exercise had been an exercise in frustration. I had tried running in high school, sustaining a routine (if you could call it that) for a couple of weeks at a time. But I could never get my breathing right and never felt comfortable physically or emotionally. I concluded that I wasn't the athletic type. After all, how many Fat Girls do you see at the Olympics?

I brought my workout bag with me to campus every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday so I could go straight from my part-time job. It wasn't something I looked forward to exactly; it was something I just
did
, like some women meet girlfriends for lunch or drinks. In that way, Jazzercise became my social life. I didn't gab much with the other women in the class or anything, but I did feel some kind of connection with them. And, of course, it was a place to meet up with Tracey.

I know that part of the reason I became such a faithful Jazzercizer was out of shame. The last thing I wanted to do was skip class and have people think I wimped out, that I was slacking. For once my Fat Girl programming was working for me. It was the people-pleasing perfectionist inside of me that wouldn't let me quit. But when I couldn't make it for a legitimate reason—a trip to visit my family in Houston, for instance—I found that I actually missed it. Amazing. Who would have thought that I'd ever be hooked on anything more strenuous than wrestling the lid off a half gallon of mint chocolate chip?

 

Jazzercise proved to
be my gateway drug. It led the way to stiffer stuff—specifically, to running. The minor flirtation I had with running in high school came at a time when I was particularly determined to do something about my weight. But like previous forays into fitness, that one lasted about as long as a bag of M&Ms in my kitchen cabinet.