Secrets of a Former Fat Girl (23 page)

No, that single sexual act didn't lift the spell I was under—the You're a Fat Girl, Who Could Love You? spell. But as I continued to lose the weight and work my Former Fat Girl program, I found myself straying out of the safety zone I had created around me that insulated the woman inside from any kind of serious relationship with a man.

I did sleep with Sean a second time in case I missed something on the first go-round. But, no, there was no life-changing moment. I did go on other, equally awkward dates and blind dates, none of which culminated in nights of sexual passion (or any kind of sex, save a handful of somewhat enthusiastic make-out sessions with a guy whose name I can't even remember). But as lackluster as my love life was, at least I did finally have something resembling one. Just the fact that a guy would ask me out was a sign, I thought, that maybe I was a little more open to the whole experience. For one thing, I started recognizing those little hints guys drop, those comments they cast into the air hoping to get a nibble, such as “Hey, do you like sushi?” and “Have you heard about that new Stallone movie?” Now I recognized them for what they were—date bait—whereas before I was completely oblivious.

And then I met a man I could actually see myself married to, and not in that Davy Jones daydreamy way. David was perfect on paper: smart, funny, kind of creative (he played the guitar), fairly open-minded, and kind of a jerk but kind of sensitive at the same time. And there definitely was a spark between us, the same kind of spark I'd had with John, the boy friend of a best friend in high school on whom I secretly had a crush. We could talk about important things: politics, music, art. I made him laugh, and he made me laugh. But here's the difference: John was taken; David was not. David was a real possibility, not someone safe with a risk-free guarantee.

But something happened—or should I say
didn't
happen—between us. We did all the things couples do: We went out, the two of us, alone. We rode bikes together. We picked out and decorated his Christmas tree. We went to concerts and clubs. I met his parents and his sister. But we never got physical; we never even kissed, not once. That stupid cliché about “ships passing in the night,” that was us. There was a moment that came and went, a missed opportunity without my knowing. And I couldn't get it back, no matter how hard I tried and how long I held on. We remained friends, but friends were all we were ever going to be. It took me years to figure that out. I know I wasn't completely free of my Fat Girl programming, or I would at least have asked him why. I would have pushed the issue—like I did when I met my husband years later. I slipped my business card to him when I was on a blind date with someone else (but that's another story).

I was at an uncomfortable
place in my career, too. Finally finished with my master's thesis after two extensions on the standard six-year deadline, I was free of the anchor that had kept me in Austin. I had no excuse for staying anymore.

I wasn't ready to leave, though—not just yet. This time it wasn't because I was afraid to go. Caught up in my newfound spirit of adventure, I had gotten it into my head that I didn't really want a job at a magazine. I didn't want to be bound to one particular desk in one particular office at one particular place. What I really wanted was to move to New York City and be a freelance writer, to flit from assignment to assignment, writing about whatever I was interested in at the time. I would travel the country—maybe even the world!—notepad in hand, getting the story, whereever and whatever it was.

What was I smoking? I mean, freelancing was the complete opposite of those safe, secure, albeit boring jobs I had taken so far. No insurance, no Friday payday, no 401(k). The only job riskier would be as an image consultant for Courtney Love.

I look back fondly at my naïveté. To actually think I could snag plum assignments at
Vogue
or
Harper's
with my meager publishing credentials? But as crazy as it sounds now, this pipe dream of mine represented a major turnaround. Until then my Fat Girl programming would have kept me from even considering such a thing. I finally believed in myself enough to not only daydream about the life I could have but actually get off my butt and do something about it.

I may have been ignorant, but I wasn't stupid. I knew it would take money—a good deal of money—to make that kind of move. I wasn't going to get to New York on what I made as a part-time teacher and a twenty-five-cents-a-word freelancer in Austin. So I set about getting a job, any job, as long as the pay was good. I planned to save every penny I could, head northeast, and proceed to knock on the door of every editor in Manhattan.

I took a job in the public information office at the state welfare department in Texas, a job I knew was way too easy for me almost immediately, just like all the other jobs I'd had. But this time was different. This time I wasn't choosing out of fear or weakness. This was a calculated choice; this was part of the plan. This time the job wasn't just another dead end; it was a beginning.

I plugged away as a state employee for about a year and a half, working on ad campaigns to recruit foster parents and writing stories for the employee magazine (one of which was killed because I had described the lives of the welfare clients “too vividly,” which I took as a compliment). I struggled to write pamphlets on preventing sexually transmitted diseases for women who could barely read. It was more of a challenge than I thought it would be.

But I wouldn't let myself settle. I had a plan. In addition to scrimping and saving and fantasizing about some third-floor walk-up three-way studio share in Manhattan, I cruised the job boards in the journalism school placement office every chance I got, and scoured the help-wanted ads in the national trade rags (this is what we did before we had Monster.com). Even though I dreamed of the freelance life, it wouldn't hurt to see what kind of staff jobs were out there, right? After toying briefly with the idea of applying for an opening at the
National Enquirer
(What the heck? The pay was great, and I could write about aliens!), I saw the perfect thing: a posting for a senior editor at the largest health and fitness magazine in the country.

Okay, so, forget that I had no background in health, only that I didn't get sick all that often, and when I did, I went to the doctor. Forget that the only stuff I knew about fitness was what I learned trying to get myself up and moving. Forget that, ahem, I'd never even
seen
the largest health and fitness magazine in the country. I slapped together a resume and a somewhat irreverent cover letter. (It started with a little poem: You want healthy, you want fit, you want creative…I think I'm it!) When I slid the oversized envelope into the slot at the post office, I remember actually thinking,
Okay, here we go! This could change my whole life!

I didn't think about it too much—about my chances, about freelancing and all that. I didn't have anything to lose except maybe that surge of self-respect that washes over you every time you reach for what you think is impossible.

Four or so years before—before I discovered Jazzercise and made “It's not an option” my mantra and all that—I would never have ripped out that ad. For one thing, I didn't exactly look the part. But not only that, I wouldn't have had the courage to even think I could try.

I was scared to death. It did flash through my head when I still had a grip on the envelope that I could waste the postage, throw the thing out, and forget the job. After all, who was I to think I could be an editor at a national magazine? But then again, who was I to think I could be a runner? Who was I to think I could stop at one bite of chocolate cake? Who was I to think I could wear low-rise jeans, show some leg, dance by myself?

All those things were scary, but I let go of that fat manila envelope, of the scary “what ifs.” I couldn't allow that ad to go unanswered. I knew the things that made me the most afraid, the most uncomfortable, were the things that would make me the happiest. I
had
to do it. I had been comfortable for too long.

Find the Uncomfort Zone

You might notice that I haven't bored you with a pound-by-pound recount of how much weight I lost during my journey to Former Fat Girlhood. That's not some kind of editorial oversight; it's intentional. Because being a Former Fat Girl isn't about what size you wear or how many pounds you lose. It's more about how you think about yourself; how you go for what you want; how you take risks and speak up; how you walk through life with your chin up; how you look people in the eye when you speak.

Now, I'm proud of the fact that I no longer have to bypass the cool clothes on my way to the “big girl” section of the department store. I'm happy (and, frankly, still amazed) that I can order crème brûlée without feeling that everyone in the restaurant is pitying me. I know what a victory it is to be sitting here, a bona fide Former Fat Girl in body
and
mind. My point is, though, that reshaping your body isn't what makes you a Former Fat Girl. Even if you lose the weight by dieting and exercise, until you work on your head, until you work through that Fat Girl programming, there's a good chance you'll go back to your old ways. You know what I'm talking about—that yo-yo exercise so many of us have been through. All those times when you tried to “be good,” when you adopted the diet or fitness flavor of the week. Sure, you might have lost weight and might even have reached your “goal,” but unless you also shed that Fat Girl persona along with the pounds, that needle on the scale will start creeping back up again.

To truly become a Former Fat Girl, your goal can't be merely a number on a scale or a size on a clothing rack because this isn't just a diet: You are creating or
re
creating the life you want to live. In a way it's like moving into a new neighborhood or a new city. You've got to find a new route to work, a new grocery store that carries all your favorite stuff, a coffee shop where the house blend is just strong enough and the vibe isn't too annoyingly hip. You can't do things the old way—that's the rule. There's no use bitching about it, so you might as well suck it up, get out there, and explore. In trying to become a Former Fat Girl, you're living in a town where not exercising is INO, where fun and food aren't synonymous, where there's no Fat Girl façade to hide behind. Sometimes it might feel more like you've been banished to a foreign country where you don't speak the language—it sure did to me—but the Former Fat Girl tools will give you the strength to keep going.

It will feel a little strange. It
should
feel a little strange. After all, you're breaking new ground, you're busting out of your rut, you're taking that comfort zone you've been hiding in for so long and tearing it wide open. You're experiencing the thrill of the Uncomfort Zone.