Secrets of a Former Fat Girl (22 page)

My best advice: Stay in touch with your body and give it what it needs, whether that's a ten-minute nap, a cracker and peanut butter to help keep the milk flowing, or a nice stroll in the sunshine. Treat yourself well by eating healthfully (it's better for the baby, too), and don't sacrifice sleep. And when you're ready, start moving again, taking it easy, using that 10 percent rule to propel yourself a little harder, a little further, but always taking a mental inventory of how you feel physically and mentally before you push on. Remember, it
can
be done.

Do what you can whenever you can.

I said it before: Just move. It doesn't have to be a workout, you don't even have to sweat. Getting your body in motion will burn calories, and when you're a superbusy mom, you have to take what you can get. For me that meant postpartum walks with Johnny in the Snuggly when I started feeling up to it. As he got older and I went back to work, our urban hikes became a weekend family ritual. We moved Johnny into a backpack, which I always insisted on carrying. I liked having him right at my ear where we could talk to each other, sing silly songs, and debate the names of bugs and trees. And the extra weight (we did this until he was about 30 pounds) helped me burn more calories. My husband, by the way, was happy to comply. This little strategy made activity a part of our family life early on, helping us build a nice little legacy that we've continued to carry forward.

Get the kids cooking.

Johnny has become my little sous chef (he even has his own little whisk). Enlisting his help when I'm making meals, even if it only involves sprinkling cheese on his chicken taco or stirring the cinnamon into his oatmeal, has gotten him excited about food, healthy food. He eats Thai, Chinese, and Mexican; he likes broccoli, carrots, squash, and salad. Sometimes I let him choose a special vegetable at the store, which he then can't wait to cook and taste. What's this have to do with
your
diet? Well, getting your kids excited about healthy food means you'll have more of it around.

Buy snack packs.

Kids are born snackers. If you put a box of Teddy Grahams in front of them (especially the chocolate ones), they'll be gone before the SpongeBob theme song is over. I'll bet you, though, that if you gave them a lunch box snack pack, they'd gobble it down and be satisfied for a lot fewer calories (only 150 per bag). And if they're not, you can steer them to a snack from the other food groups—an apple, a tube of yogurt, a low-fat string cheese. All these mini versions of tasty treats don't just make it easier to pack their lunches in the morning, they're automatic portion control for you. Somehow it's much harder psychologically to break open another bag of mini Oreos when you've just polished one off.

The Obstacle: The Pain You Feel at the Pusher's Lack of Support

One thing that's not part of the Fat Girl programming is a spam filter—one of those things that keep stuff like ads for sexual enhancements and mortgage loans from cheesy companies from piling up in your e-mail in-box. It's as if you need one of those to help you filter out the junk that can distract you from your goal, that can undo all the work you've done. You are programmed to take completely to heart every expression of doubt (or what you perceive to be doubt) and every hint that the people around you aren't on board with your quest for Former Fat Girlhood. Even innocent remarks can be wounding, devastating. That's true no matter the source, but especially when your inner circle is sending the messages. How to deal? Read on.

Former Fat Girl Fixes

Lower your expectations.

What made it so hard for me when I started getting pushback, especially from my parents, was that I expected them to be supportive right out of the gate. I didn't see it coming: the “Now, Lisa, you just aren't eating enough. You're going to make yourself sick!” and the “What's with all this running? You'd better watch it, or you'll end up with arthritis!” But later on it all made sense (like everything usually does from a distance). They were not afraid that I would catch a cold or sprain my ankle or even become anorexic; they were afraid that the Lisa they knew was disappearing. And they didn't know who would come along to replace her. Doesn't that sound familiar? That's kind of like the fear that kept me from changing all those years.

Remove the element of surprise, and you'll have it a lot easier than I did.
Expect
your loved ones to push.
Expect
them to act as if they don't want you to do the exact thing you thought they wanted you to do for years—lose the weight, that is.
Expect
them to seem to want to sabotage you (and know that they don't mean it). If you have your guard up from the beginning, you're less likely to be knocked cold by a sucker punch.

Remember: It's all about them.

When someone else wronged me for whatever reason, I used to think “
I
would never do that!
I
would never act like that!
I
would never treat someone like that!” And then I discovered over time that people do many things that hurt others without intending to. That's probably not news to you, but it's worth reminding yourself that the Pushers are probably acting out of self-interest, that what-about-me place, and not really conspiring to keep you from getting the life you want. I still struggle to keep this on top of my mind to help me undercut my tendency toward this kind of knee-jerk self-righteousness.

Practice selective hearing.

If you have a child over the age of three or a husband, you no doubt have seen selective hearing at work. Men and children have a particular knack for hearing only what they want to hear. (That's just one among a long list of similarities between the two.) Even when you are standing nose to nose, making eye contact, and the Spiderman video or ESPN chatter is turned off, they have a way of missing the most important nuggets of a conversation. Learn from them. I believe in girl power and all that, but there are a lot of things we can steal from the men in our lives—like how not to think about things too much (or at all), how to ask for what we want without having to have a life coach prompting us from the sidelines, and how to feel like a rock star naked, even though you may look more like bloated old Elvis.

When in doubt, laugh.

Don't get me wrong: I know how hard it is to keep your head up when it feels like everyone's working against you. I know how hard it is not to react, not to take it personally, to let comments slide off you like an omelet (egg whites only, please) from a nonstick pan. I know because I had (and continue to have) a particular issue with this. An ex-boss and great friend, Pam, used to tell me that I needed to learn how to “control my face.” If I was angry, hurt, annoyed, confused, or whatever, you could see it by the flash in my eyes, the particular furrow in my brow, the shape of my mouth. After about seventeen years of practice, I've gotten better, but it's still a struggle. One of the things I've learned along the way is that it's better to laugh off a comment than to defend yourself with some kind of clever quip.
Clever
often comes off as defensive, and you really don't want to get into a name-calling match now, do you? Giving a little chuckle with some vacant look in your eyes is always better.

I use this tactic even now as a Former Fat Girl because the funny thing about finally getting where you want to be weightwise is that people actually comment on what you eat more openly than they do when you're overweight. To wit: One day I was at the office, hitting the break room refrigerator for my 3:00
P.M
. snack of baby carrots. A woman I worked with, Cindy, was pulling something off the printer in the same room (we were a little cramped for space). Cindy was a big woman—very tall, I would say five feet ten, and had some weight issues of her own. When she saw my little bag of carrots, she said in a light but sarcastic tone, “Ooooh, Lisa! Doesn't that look yummy? Now, don't indulge
too
much.” I let out the little chuckle that I reserved for such an occasion. But I was thinking,
What makes it okay for people to criticize what I'm eating?
If she was digging into a bagful of Double Stuf Oreos, would I have said, “Ho, Cindy, hitting the cookies a little hard today, are we?” No. I wasn't even tempted to deliver such a stinging comeback due to my own Fat Girl history. But I might have tried to defend myself or explain myself, which would probably have turned into a conversation I didn't want to have (see No Preaching, above). The chuckle response saved me from all that. It will save you, too.

Keep your eyes on the prize.

Okay, so you have all the tools from chapter 4 to help you see the Former Fat Girl you will soon (!) be.
Do not forget them
. This is not a linear process. All the Former Fat Girl secrets work together to get you where you need to be—and keep you there. That's one thing. Another is to come up with a visualization to protect yourself from all the distractions, traps, and potholes that can trip you up on your way to your goal. Mine was straight from (don't laugh) the Bible. You know the story about Peter walking on the water? He had seen Jesus taking a stroll out there in the waves, and in a what-the-heck moment he went out to join him. He was getting the hang of it when all of a sudden he looked around and it dawned on him:
Wait, this is nuts! I can't be doing this! I'm breaking the law of physics!
Then he began to sink. Once Peter looked back into Jesus' eyes, he started rising back to the surface so he could complete his own little miracle.

Now, non-Christians, please forgive my digression. My point is not to proselytize. My point is to show you how I used visualization to keep me focused. I'm Peter, taking my shaky steps toward the vision I have of myself as a Former Fat Girl (aka Jesus). As soon as I drop my gaze, the enormity of what I'm doing gets to me: the swirling doubts and fears of myself and others, and the magnetic pull of the kitchen and the couch. That's when I start to sink. I could
feel
it happening. And I could feel myself rising up, standing straighter, and feeling stronger when I envisioned Jesus' eyes willing me forward, drawing me to my future as a Former Fat Girl.

That parable is so powerful for me that I still use it whenever self-doubt or seemingly impossible circumstances threaten to drag me down. It might not work for you, but you can create your own story or find one that speaks to your own spirit.

Choose you. Choose you. Choose you.

Do I need to say anything else? This is
your
time,
your
program,
your
future. You have to stop sacrificing your happiness for the sake of others. If you need my permission, you've got it. Put “Choose you” Post-its on your refrigerator, on your computer monitor, on your dashboard, on your workout bag. Repeat it like a mantra so you won't forget it when you're faced with a decision that might disappoint someone you love. And don't forget:
You
are someone you love, too. Don't you deserve the same consideration you so willingly give to everyone else?

Choosing you doesn't mean you're selfish. It doesn't mean you love the people in your life any less. It's putting yourself in the right place on your list of priorities: at the top. As much as Secret #6 is about protecting yourself from the push and pull of other people, it's also about knowing what you want and standing your ground. Knowing, for instance, that you want to squeeze in an early-morning workout twice a week and leave your husband in charge of the kids—and not letting the fear that he might be put out or pissed off keep you from even asking. It's knowing that you don't have to go for seconds of your mom's meat loaf
just to be nice
. It's knowing in your heart that one serving is enough, that you don't need more, and trusting that knowledge enough to say no, no matter how many times you're asked. Otherwise, you're drifting in the air like a half-dead helium balloon, ready to sail across the room at the slightest tap.

The next and last secret, lucky #7, gives you the key to cultivating the attitude you need to earn yourself permanent status as a Former Fat Girl. It's this attitude that will help you bounce back from the kinds of setbacks in your life, emotional or otherwise, that might have sabotaged your weight loss attempts in the past or caused you to gain in the first place. Intrigued? Read on.

Secret #7: Happiness Lives in the Uncomfort Zone

I
'm no genius, but I did display a gift for math at a very early age. By the time I was four, I'd already mastered my first algebra equation: Food + Infinity = Fun. My idea of a good time always involved eating, and the more (on my plate, that is) the merrier.

Eating out was always a special treat because we didn't do it all that often. For one thing, it simply wasn't practical for my parents to take the five of us kids out much on my dad's salesman salary. When we did venture out for the rare restaurant experience, I was determined to get as much out of it as possible. To me that meant eating until I was practically doubled over in pain. If my stomach wasn't aching by the time the check came, the evening was a waste.

I remember eating at a seafood restaurant with the family when we lived outside Boston. Huge platters of fried everything (shrimp, fish, clams, oysters, you name it) served with—you guessed it—french fries. I stuck to the shrimp and maybe a stuffed crab (shells filled with a buttery breadlike concoction, only a trace of crabmeat in it), dutifully cleaning my plate, stomach cramping under the load. Ignoring the pain, like a football player who scrambles for the goal line despite the bone-crushing blows from the defense, I'd snatch up the dessert menu to place my order and practically scrape the design off the plate to make sure I got every last bit.

That was typical of the way I behaved in restaurants—not to mention at major holiday meals and other special occasions involving food—until my quest for Former Fat Girlhood. When I was invited to parties, I cared less about who was on the guest list than what was on the menu. I judged the success of every occasion by the food: weddings (all about the buffet), birthdays (the cake—icing in particular—was the star attraction), holidays (Christmas, cookies; Easter, candy; Halloween, the size of the haul). And in my everyday life I used food to make bad (or even mediocre) days better.

So you can see why I reacted to the idea of going on a diet with complete and utter dread. I wasn't one of those girls for whom a lo-cal regimen is simply inconvenient and annoying, who see the needle on the scale moving in the wrong direction and think, “Well, damn. I guess it's salad for me tonight.” To me it was much, much more. A diet robbed me of my favorite way to pass the time, the primary source of joy in my life, the only way I had back then to relate to and connect with other people. Just thinking about it made me want to quit before I even started—which I did many, many times.

Think about it this way: Putting me on a diet was like telling someone who loved to paint that she could never pick up a brush again or—even worse—that from now on she could use only the color brown. No yellows, reds, blues, or purples—nothing but dull, drab brown.

Some painters would say forget it. How can you be an artist without color? Why even try? But another might say, after wrestling her way through the five stages of grief, “Well, let's see what I can do with brown.” She might take the limits placed on her, the new restrictions on her life, as a challenge, not a defeat. She might discover and experiment with the many variations of the color, from light pine to mahogany. And she might end up with a canvas she is proud of and satisfied with—maybe even one she loves better than anything else she's ever done—as much because of the end result as what she had to go through to get there.

That, ladies, is exactly
what happened on my journey to becoming a Former Fat Girl. I had to repaint my life with a whole new color palette; I had to live within a new set of rules. As I've told you, it was hard to do at first. I fought. I whined. But I could see it. Deep down I knew that I was fooling myself. Food
wasn't
fun. Food
wasn't
nurturing or comforting. It
wasn't
self-love. It
wasn't
other-love—not the way I used it. It was keeping me stuck in my “big-boned” body, in my second-rate jobs, in my always-the-friend-never-the-girlfriend love life. It was keeping me stuck in that comfortable place that I so wanted to escape.

I knew what I had to do. I had to make myself
un
comfortable. Every time I took a risk—walking into that Jazzercise class, lacing up my running sneakers, saying no to a slab of steak (and yes to me and what I wanted), quitting my job to finish my thesis—I felt one step closer to true happiness. It's as if I had an internal dimmer switch: With every victory over fear, every move out of that cushy comfort zone, the light got a little bit brighter—and the scarier the thing, the brighter the light grew.

I became like that painter who embraced her new, earthy palette. I started looking at this whole new life as an adventure, not a prison sentence. I started to believe I could find new ways to have fun, to find comfort, to feel satisfied, to be truly happy—ways that didn't involve stuffing myself. And I set out to explore.

My first frontier was the kitchen. My mission: to find healthy, diet-conscious food that didn't taste like punishment on a plate. I started devouring “light” cookbooks, poring through recipes, trying dish after dish. I made my share of duds, mind you; most of the time they were the result of misguided recipe tinkering on my part. I learned the hard way not to try to strip all the fat out of a dish, ending up with casseroles that were watery instead of creamy; scones you could use for door stoppers; and crustless, yolkless quiches that disintegrated into a soupy mess when you tried to cut them. If you've ever tried to make bran muffins without any oil, you know what I'm talking about. The outcome was less like a breakfast food and more like concrete.

But I also found a good many winners. For instance, I discovered that lasagna tastes just as decadent made with low-fat ground turkey, light cottage cheese instead of ricotta, and about half the gooey mozzarella that is in most standard recipes. I'd make a batch every couple of weeks, carefully cutting it into the proper-sized portions (as dictated by WW) for freezing. I looked forward to my lasagna nights as much as I used to look forward to Mom's spaghetti and meatballs.

As I searched for new, lighter takes on my old food friends, I discovered tricks I could use to slim down favorite family recipes, like my Nana's yummy cheesecake, which is just as yummy made with low-fat cream cheese and sour cream, and two egg yolks instead of three. At the same time I tried to make these dishes work a little harder in the nutrition category by adding or subbing in healthier ingredients. I tried whole wheat flour in Mom's applesauce bread with decent results and started using whole wheat pasta, bread, and tortillas whenever I could. I stuck to safe territory, playing around with recipes I knew I liked rather than trying to talk myself into adding weird stuff like tofu to my repertoire. I didn't want to shock my system too much; after all, a large pepperoni with extra cheese was only a phone call away.

I took on this culinary challenge as if I were in some Betty Crocker calorie-conscious cook-off. I actually started to have fun. Cooking was not just an excuse to lurk in the kitchen, hoping for a stray crumb or dollop of cookie dough. It was like a game with a new set of rules and a new way to win. Winning wasn't just about pleasure, and it wasn't at all about quantity. To win I had to create food that I would truly enjoy, that would leave me satisfied, within the Former Fat Girl framework.

I began eating foods as “naked” as possible—with as little salt, fat, sugar, or creamy sauces as they needed. I experienced flavors in their truest senses—the buttery effect of certain lettuces, dressed with a drizzle of oil and vinegar instead of a flood; the candylike sweetness of homegrown tomatoes unmasked by salt; the brightness of a Ruby Red grapefruit, no sugar necessary.

Along the way something physical started to happen. I began to
prefer
my Former Fat Girl food to the stuff I used to eat. I became so used to my new way of eating that I could tell when a particular dish went too far in the sweet, fat, and/or salty direction. And not only that, I didn't like it. It became easier and easier for me to say no to Mom's green bean casserole with incredibly salty cream of mushroom soup or a scoop of mashed potatoes whipped with liberal amounts of butter and cream. I don't have to tell you what a breakthrough that was. Without knowing what I was doing, I had reprogrammed my palate. I was now the proud owner of a set of Former Fat Girl taste buds—and it felt great.

 

At the same time
I was inching out of my comfort zone fitnesswise, too. In this new world of mine, skipping exercise was INO, remember? Exercise can get boring if you stick with the same-old same-old, so I started mixing things up, but not too much. I had finally established a real fitness routine, and I didn't want to do something stupid and turn back into the couch potato I used to be.

By this time I had worked up to running five miles several days a week on that dusty quarter-mile track where I'd first laced up my jogging shoes. Five miles—twenty laps—had been my goal. If I could make it that far, I thought, I might be able to handle the jogging trail around Town Lake where all the “real” runners in Austin put in their miles. I was nervous about going from the track to the trail, though, and not just because I might not fit the profile of a “real” runner. I loved the way my track runs were neatly split into manageable chunks; each lap was short enough that it made the entire thing seem doable and was occasion for a mini-mental celebration. (Yea! Three down, two to go!) In comparison, the trail was one loooongass lap. Would it be interminable? Would it be unbearable? Would I give in to the whiner in my head and go back to my old Fat Girl ways?

Physically, I was ready. Mentally? I wasn't so sure. But I decided to try anyway. I told myself that this first time was a reconnaissance mission—not an official workout, just a jaunt around the lake. I tried to keep my expectations low; the last thing I wanted was to end up feeling like a loser.

As I loped along, I discovered a small bridge that crossed over a feeder to the lake about a half mile in. Then, after another half mile, there was a second bridge. Then another mile or so away, a third. I think there were five bridges total along the route. I had found my new landmarks, my new signposts on the way to the finish line. Instead of “three laps to halfway, two laps to halfway,” my mental litany became “three bridges to halfway, two bridges to halfway.” That and my strategic purchase of an FM Walkman radio stifled the whiner and made me a regular at the Town Lake trail.

My budding reputation as a jock may have boosted my ego and marked a massive shift in my self-image, but it didn't do much for my love life. Don't get me wrong, I had become popular with the guys. In fact, during that time of my life, I probably had more male friends than female friends. But my behavior on the court and on the field just fueled the backslapping, punch-in-the-arm way I related to the men in my life.

It's not as if I hadn't made any progress, though. I finally had my first sexual experience at the ripe old age of twenty-six, a supremely awkward, extremely unemotional encounter that I suspect was prearranged by my friend Gabriele (although I never asked; I really don't want to know). If I merely mentioned a guy, Gaby would ask, “Did you f*** him?” I think she thought that having sex would forever change my life, which it didn't, but, hey, it was worth a try. If there was anything I was
un
comfortable about, it was sex. That's the attitude with which I fell into bed with Sean.

Sean was probably—no, definitely—the most promiscuous man I had ever met (I have since known others who would rival him). He came off as kind of a jerk, but I had a soft spot for jerks, and I think he truly did love women. We had been around each other in group situations, but I don't think we even talked that much until he called to ask me out. Even so, it didn't surprise me. It was as if I knew that there was some back-room deal for him to deflower me that night. Maybe I was just having a flashback to high school, to my innocent fling with George because it was my turn, or to my senior prom suitor, a guy who had pulled my name off the Still Dateless list as the magic night loomed. It wasn't that Sean had chosen me for who I was; I was next in line.

I don't even remember much about the whole thing. We must have first gone to see a movie or something. I don't think we went out to eat (I would definitely have remembered that).

However it happened, we ended up at his house, in his bed. Since Sean didn't drink, I abstained, too, so I didn't even have a nice dreamy buzz to take the edge off. There was a complete and utter lack of chemistry between us, which didn't help at all with the mechanical side of things, if you know what I mean. There was some requisite kissing, I think, and I remember stripping down to bra and panties with the lights off, scrambling under the sheets so he couldn't actually see what he was getting into.

It was obvious he had done this kind of thing before—not just the sex part but the sex-with-a-Fat-Girl-virgin part, too. There wasn't much talking between us, and when it was over, he stayed in bed just long enough. And then he left the room so I could dress and rearrange myself without a spectator.

I wasn't particularly traumatized by losing my virginity with someone I barely knew, someone I was certainly not in love with. I didn't even feel guilty, despite all that good-girl Catholic breeding. I remember taking my mental temperature to see if I felt any differently now that the act was over. Was I more girly, more flirty, less sisterly? Hardly.