Authors: Julie Haddon
Fat Chance (14 page)
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.
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.”
In that instant, something inside my mind clicked.
What that disposable coffee cup was telling me was that even when I screw up at breakfast, I don’t have to blow the balance of my daily calorie allotment. I could make a fresh start at
any
hour of the day, and spend the next hundred calories I ate as wisely as I would spend my cold, hard cash.
The line of thinking is helping me make better choices these days. When I veer off-course, I stop, find the path and move toward it as quickly as my short legs can get me there. Better still, I am learning to plan ahead so that those tangents are fewer and further between.
Every night, in addition to thinking about what’s on my family’s agenda the following day, I think about how many calories I plan to spend. If we’re going to have to rush from school to soccer practice, for instance, then I know to toss a few Ziploc bags of almonds and raisins in my purse. If I know that friends are having us over for dinner, then I can call ahead to find out what will be served so that I can plan the rest of my day’s calories accordingly and possibly even offer to bring a side dish that I know I can actually eat. If I know that Mike is craving Outback Steakhouse for dinner, then I can figure out exactly what I’ll order. If I know that I am in need of a giant piece of chocolate cake, then I can drop that six-hundred and eighty calories of Betty Crocker yumminess into the plan.
If you were heading to the mall to buy a Prada purse, you’d probably research how much it was going to cost you first. I’m just suggesting that the same care be taken with food.
Admittedly, there are times when I walk into a situation unprepared. Maybe it’s a restaurant I’m unfamiliar with. Maybe it’s a venue that doesn’t allow outside food. Maybe it’s a birthday party where I have no idea what will be served, which is precisely the situation I found myself in last weekend.
A woman I know was hosting a tea party for a mutual friend, and as I eyed the spread before me I realized there was nothing
remotely
healthful there. The tea sandwiches were made with white bread and were oozing herb butter from all sides. The brownies were covered in ganache and topped with sugared raspberries. Even the iced tea was swirling with excess sugar. What was a girl to do?
I didn’t want to offend the hostess by refusing to eat, but how could I stick to a calorie count when everything was so bad for me? I decided I’d set a
food
limit instead. Making my way through the line, I selected four small tea sandwiches and one dessert—and I requested plain iced tea that I could add a little stevia to and be fine.
All morning I drank as much water as I could stomach, in hopes of flushing out my system, and I avoided Starbucks en route back home. I felt so proud of myself for sticking to my plan that just after noon I went for a three-mile run. One good decision had led to another good decision, and then another on top of that. How much better that upward spiral felt than the downward one I knew so well!
This is the power of starting right now—wherever you are, in whatever situation you find yourself. Instead of making excuses and putting it off, let
this
hour be the start of making the change that will bless you the rest of your days. Spend your calories as you would precious hundred-dollar bills, and you’ll rack up a string of good decisions in no time.
F
OR MOST OF MY adult life I was a huge fan of the sweater-set—you know, a stretchy sleeveless shell topped with an even stretchier button-down cardigan. They come in every conceivable color and at $24.99 on the JCPenney sale rack, it’s well within the reach of many women to own the full rainbow of options.
For most fat people, their clothes closet starts to resemble a uniform shop over time, and my uniform hinged on the beloved sweater-set. It was comfortable, coordinated and covered a multitude of flaws. Additionally, I never had to think about what to wear each day. The only downside was that I didn’t exactly exhibit variety. If it was a weekday, I’d wear a sweater-set and capri pants. If it was Sunday, I’d wear a sweater-set and a skirt. If it was date-night with my husband, I’d wear a sweater set and black slacks. Easy as pie, right?
Although I no longer wear sweater-sets, I miss the practicality of that second layer. Still today I never leave home without a jacket; even in hot, humid Florida I’m
always
the one in the group who is freezing cold.
When it was time for my final audition for the show, understandably, I was nervous about what to wear. To nobody’s shock, I opted for the sweater-set, but my rationale went deeper than you might think.
From the beginning I seemed to be positioned as the “stay-at-home mom with PTA hair,” and as I made it further and further through the
interview process, I figured my attire ought to reflect the woman the casting people believed me to be. Ever the people-pleaser—some habits die hard.
I’m not entirely sure how “sincere and sweet” became my persona among production staff from the show, but the common refrain I heard each time I interacted with any of them was, “You’re such a nice person, Julie, and you’re obviously a very caring mom. I’m just not sure … well, I don’t know if you’re
cut out
for this game.” I’d walk away from those interviews thinking, “What does
that
mean?”
The only explanation I ever landed on was that it was more than a little intimidating to tell a group of strangers about my deepest, most heart-wrenching struggles, and something about that process left me more subdued than usual. Instead of being bubbly, effusive Julie, I became Esther standing before the king. I was waiting for the golden scepter to be outstretched instead of barreling my way through. As I look back now, it’s like the other contestants had road rage, and I was the granny in an Impala, just puttering down the road. Easygoing, lovable and happy to be out for a nice Sunday afternoon ride—that’s how I came across, and the implications of that impression would be severe.
“I think you’re cute and adorable … and America will
love
you,” I remember the show’s psychologist telling me following my initial assessment with him. “I just don’t know that you have what it takes to make it on a show like this.”
There was that uncertainty again—were my chances all but shot?
Shortly after that psych assessment was the red-velvet-chair interview with J. D. Roth and friends. Toward the end of that interview, I was shocked to hear J.D. speak roughly the same words I’d heard from the psychologist. Had they compared notes? Was this a conspiracy to keep me from achieving my dream?
“You seem sweet and nice …” J.D. began. I stared at his mouth as he spoke but the rest of his words became a mumbled blur. I was tired of settling for less than what I truly was capable of, and something inside of me snapped. They aren’t going to cast me because I’m nice? I don’t think so! I may be a Pollyanna, but I’m not your
average
Pollyanna. I’m a Pollyanna who has done beauty pageants, which makes me a Pollyanna who
knows
how to fight.
Enough
, I thought.
I’m putting an end to this now
.
As I sat before J.D. and the others, I felt nervous but resolved. “If I perish, I perish,”
5
Queen Esther had said just before her big speech that day, and suddenly in that moment, I could relate.