Big Girl: How I Gave Up Dieting and Got a Life (23 page)

Margaux and I sat in a conference room one frozen January morning. After half an hour of deep breathing and pep-talking myself, I’d called the meeting to discuss my future position, promotion, and, maybe, a raise? Months had passed while I’d waited for all those things to spontaneously happen, before it occurred to me that wishing only works if you have a genie on hand, so perhaps it was up to me to
ask
for them.

I’d thought it over and come up with what seemed like a perfect-fit title for me: lifestyle editor. It was a hypothetical role that had been floating around in the ether of the company, so I decided to nominate myself. I’d proven a valued member of the team and had as much of a presence on the site as anyone else with “editor” in their title. I’d been there even longer than some of them, so seniority wasn’t an issue. I didn’t know if I was “lifestyle” enough, but I was
something
enough to have been given the same responsibilities as those peers. It was time to jump off the fence and into the role I’d been unofficially playing for months.

“Okay,” Margaux replied after I delivered the pitch. “That’s an interesting choice.”

“It’s broad, and that allows for flexibility in the role,” I explained, reading not-so-discreetly from my notes.

“But you’re a writer.”

“Of course, but I think I could still write in a role like this.”

She nodded. “I suppose you could. And it covers a lot of your territory.”

OH MY GOD, IS THIS ACTUALLY WORKING?

“This is a senior editor role, of course.” Margaux raised her eyebrows and locked eyes with me. “That means a lot more than just writing and editing.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“When you’re in a role like that, you need to project an image.”

“I understand.”

“And I think we need to talk more about
your
image.”

“That’s fine. That’d be great.”

“Being our lifestyle editor means you’d need to be out there and visible. It’s about being a representative. It’s not about wearing flip-flops and sitting slumped over your desk all day.”

I felt the urge to sit up straighter in my chair. Did I
slump
?

“If you want to be on that level, I need to see something aspirational.”

“Okay. I hear you on that.”

“I’m glad you brought this up. Never be afraid to call these meetings.”

“Thank you for taking the time.” I looked down at all my notes. All those ridiculous exclamation points.

Margaux cocked her head to grab my gaze again, and smiled. “Listen, this isn’t a no. We just want to find the role that fits you best.”

“Of course. Got it.”

“I hope you do. And, in the meantime, I want to see you project an image. I want you to inspire.”

I left the meeting feeling less like a hero than ever before. Margaux wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d never worn flip-flops to the office, but I didn’t look like anyone worth aspiring to. A more secure woman might not take it so personally, but she probably wouldn’t have to eat lunch in hiding, either.

I love a good makeover montage. Sitting at my desk, clicking glumly through e-mails, I made a decision. I could mope and cry and feel put upon, or I could montage myself. I didn’t have to go full-blown
Grease
, strutting into the office wearing leather pants and swinging a loaf of Ezekiel bread. I’d just start to step it up a little: get my boots shined and throw on some lipstick. I liked having shiny boots and lipstick—I just never took the time to actually have them. It never occurred to me that they were deal breakers.

Fashion was the only topic I didn’t cover at a largely fashion-based publication. People often asked me why, and I’d reply that I never got interested in fashion because fashion wasn’t interested in me, which was true. High-end designers didn’t consider bodies like mine to be of any value. Nor did many mainstream stores, which didn’t carry anything over a size 10 or 12. My first year at Refinery29, I received a gift card to Madewell for my birthday. I left the Soho store empty-handed, having found nothing over a size 10 on the racks. I was shopping with five-one, pixie-weight Debbie, my tiniest friend. Walking down Broadway, I attempted a joke to shake off the embarrassment I imagined we both felt:

“I guess I shouldn’t expect Madewell to carry monster-size.” Then I cried like a monster-size baby. (It’s really good to have a friend who’s a shrink.)

It wasn’t just the issue of availability that made me the kind of woman who didn’t care about clothing. In fact, I did care about it. From the first time I saw Ali MacGraw in
Love Story
, I’ve coveted camel coats and bell sleeves. For years, I collected Victorian nightgowns off of eBay—the kind you might wear while dying of Spanish flu. And, of course, there was my bulging closet full of skinny clothes, ranked in order of their resemblance to anything Claire Danes wore in
Romeo + Juliet
. My taste was almost unreasonably feminine. But all those things looked hideous on my body, because my body was hideous. You just can’t put a monster in a baby doll dress.

Still, I would give “aspirational” a shot. One Sunday night, I combed through my wardrobe, making piles for Cute, Boring, and Can I Get This Stain Out. I tried wearing actual shoes to work instead of sneakers. I spent the extra ten minutes to blow my hair dry instead of letting it freeze into dreadlocks on my five-minute walk from the gym to the office. When I had an interview or a photo shoot, I tiptoed up to my stylish colleagues for advice, all but begging for them to montage me. It wasn’t
Grease
so much as
Cinderella
I was going for, and what a relief to have an office full of on-trend birds and well-coiffed mice who were happy to teach me how to knot my belt and roll up my sleeves just so.

“You’re looking good, you know,” Stephanie said with a smile, watching me go through my warm-up at the gym one morning. At the time, I was midsquat, a resistance band wrapped around my thighs for stability. Trust me when I tell you that no one looks good in this position. I sputtered out a laugh.

“I’m serious,” she continued. “You’ve come a long way since the fall.”

“Yeah? Then why are my knees still shaking?” They were trembling lightly in the resistance band as I finished the twenty-fifth squat.

“Because knees are tricky and Rome wasn’t built in a day. But, come on, look at the progress you’ve made.”

I shrugged, trying to duck out from underneath her compliment.

“I’m serious. Look at yourself.”

She pointed to the mirrored wall in front of us. During workouts, I routinely stepped to the side or faced the other way to avoid watching myself. It was hard enough to walk past a plate-glass window in my favorite outfit; staring at my lightly dimpled ass in profile as I wobbled through a set of backward lunges seemed like borderline masochism. Still, she pointed, so I looked. In the mirror I saw a tilted, round face, craned upward to hide a potential double chin. I saw legs placed wide apart, with one hip jutted out so the thighs didn’t touch. I saw hands on hips and elbows yanked back to narrow my broad shoulders. I saw everything I did to avoid seeing myself. It was full-body duck face. It was the only way I knew how to look in a mirror.

I left the gym with Stephanie’s encouragement ringing through my mind like a catchy tune. I was “looking good.” I was “getting better.” I was also starving after she’d kicked my ass up and down the StairMaster, and couldn’t wait for breakfast. On hard-core workout days, I almost always craved an omelet from the deli in our office lobby. That morning I wanted it with extra broccoli and spinach, a little American cheese, and a side of potatoes.

As I was waiting in line to order my breakfast, a wave of anxiety hit me right in the gut.
Do I really need all that fat? Maybe I should skip the cheese today—no, maybe I
want
to skip the cheese today. And the potatoes would be overkill. I always end up throwing out the last few bites, and isn’t that wasteful? Would I even eat any of them if they weren’t
there? How about I just get oatmeal today? Or oatmeal and a hard-boiled egg. That’ll be just as satisfying as the omelet. I just want the omelet because it tastes good, but my body doesn’t need eggs
and
cheese
and
the oil they’ll cook it in. It’s not that the omelet isn’t allowed, it’s just that I don’t actually want it.

I ordered the oatmeal and a hard-boiled egg, both of which were a little on the slimy side. It didn’t matter, though, since I rapidly gobbled up the whole meal the moment I sat down at my desk, anxious to finish before anyone could see me. My throat burned, scalded by the hot oatmeal, and I took enormous gulps from my water bottle, a splash of water dripping off my chin and onto my crisp, striped dress. I wasn’t eating like a normal person anymore. I was eating like a cartoon—a Looney Tune.

That night I lay in bed, grabbing the flesh of my stomach in an effort to ascertain my weight. In theory, I didn’t care about it, or at least I shouldn’t care about it, and up until this week, I thought I’d pretty much stopped caring about it. But my hands sure did. They were frenzied and filled with panic at the new fullness in my middle—and it was new. That morning, I’d put on the jeans that had fit three weeks ago and found them newly snug. Something had changed.

For months, I’d been casually conscious of a slow but steady weight loss, but it had seemed like small potatoes next to the progress I was making with everything else. Intuitive eating had been life-altering in a way that no diet had been, but every diet had promised to be. I was far less focused on food, naturally inclined toward balanced eating, and, finally free from juggling calories and carbs, my life had suddenly cracked wide open with possibility. After a lifetime of pouting in the shadows, I’d made myself a spotlight. Ugh, and now I had to stand in it, belly flab and all.

I stop reading any sentence that starts with “Last night I dreamt…” unless it ends with “…I went to Manderley again.” As a device, it’s indulgent and easy, and I don’t believe the writer anyway. That said, believe
me
when I say: That night I dreamt I went to Walnut Hill again. It wasn’t an entirely unexpected jaunt into the past, since every challenge in my adult life seemed to send me right back to high school, and my ickiest self. The dream was a re-creation of a real-life scene I’d trotted out many times for sympathy from friends. But really, it only hurts because it’s true:

I was sixteen and it was the fall of my junior year. By then, I’d slowly begun to find my little niche. My friends were real friends now, I had a lunch table, and though I was by no means top of the heap, there was a certain confidence that came with knowing that at least I wasn’t a new kid anymore, simply because there were even newer kids now. I’d even been cast in my first play, as a female police officer, though getting the role still felt like a sneaky trick I’d pulled off. Before I went in to read for the director (my acting teacher, Henry), I’d seen another girl practicing her audition in front of her friends. She’d lowered her voice to a guttural bark, plainly doing the stereotypical butch lady cop. Kat was older than me, and part of a group that was decidedly top of the heap. Her friends laughed as she puffed up her chest, stood with her legs apart and even thrust her belly forward trying to thicken up her slender frame.