Finished Being Fat: An Accidental Adventure in Losing Weight and Learning How to Finish (6 page)

The clerk returned with a box that said Saucony. Since I have really bad eyesight, I read it as Saucy, so when he opened the box I expected the shoes inside to reflect that and be cute and “saucy,” maybe even pink. Boy, was I wrong. They were ugly white sneakers with a blue slash on the side. But that was not the most offensive thing. The biggest problem was that the tag said size 8 wide. Excuse me? Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but I was a little upset that this clerk thought that I had fat feet. When I pointed out that he had obviously grabbed the wrong size, he said nothing and laced them onto my feet.

So on my twelfth pair of shoes, I had a Cinderella moment. The skies opened up, angels sang a heavenly chorus, and I knew these ugly, expensive, most comfortable shoes on the planet would take me where I needed to go. I was in love.

I left that store two hundred dollars poorer, but I gained new insight. How many great things had I missed out on in life because I had been afraid of picking the wrong one? Never again would I let the fear of being wrong keep me from something I enjoyed. From then on when it was my turn to choose a place to eat, I was not going to defer to someone else and eat lukewarm Mexican. No, if I wanted sushi, then by golly we would have sushi and I would love it.

***

Next on the list of things Jarom’s book said I needed to be a runner was a positive attitude. Haha, fat chance. It’s pretty tough to have a positive attitude about something when you were counting down the days until you could quit. But never let it be said that I didn’t give it a shot. Running a marathon is supposedly 10 percent physical and 90 percent mental, so I needed to develop a strong will to carry me through the tough spots. Unfortunately for me, my tough spots were so plentiful that they glommed together to make a seamless solid.

Not a single part of this running thing was easy. From squeezing into running tights, to figuring out the stupid heart rate watch, to huffing and puffing down the track, it all basically sucked. And that is exactly what I was thinking as I ran down the track. “This sucks… huff huff… this really sucks.” So yeah, I probably didn’t have that positive attitude they were talking about. The book provided mental exercises along with the physical ones to prepare you to run the marathon. It was glorified self-affirmations for the most part.

I’d had a therapist that tried to get me to do the same thing once. The way he explained it was that if you heard something often enough, you would believe it. Unfortunately for most of us, we hear all the negative things and start to believe that. (Yup, I had that part down pat.) So the whole point of self-talking was to change the dialogue, so you were hearing more positive things. I thought it was a little odd for a therapist to be encouraging you to talk to yourself, but sure, I could give it a try.

I felt like a total idiot. Seriously, what on earth are you supposed to say? “Um, hello, me… I guess you’re not totally lame… your hair looks good today.” This is why I had no imaginary friends as a kid. They all thought I was boring and found somebody else’s imagination to play with.

I asked Jarom what he was planning to say to himself. Maybe I could swipe some ideas off him.

“Yeah, I’m skipping that part of the book.”

“You can’t skip part of the book. Is that even legal?”

Jarom snorted his reply.

Okay then. But I was curious what would make do-it-by-the-letter Jarom skip a set of instructions. “Well fine, then. At least tell me why.”

“It reminds me too much of Stuart Smalley.”

“Who’s Stuart Smalley?”

“He was a character sketch on Saturday Night Live years ago. Remember, he would stand in front of the mirror and say ‘I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and, gosh darnit, people like me.’”

I’d forgotten the name from the show, but I totally remembered that guy. He was sad and pathetic and hilarious all at the same time. He always wore these horrible Cosby sweaters and had this really weird effeminate voice when he said his daily affirmations. I definitely agreed with Jarom on this one. I did not want to be that guy.

I decided that I too would skip that part of the book. That is, until my iPod died after three miles on a four-mile run. My first thought was “Eh, this is close enough. I don’t really need to finish the whole four miles.” Second thought was “Shut up and run.” That worked for about five seconds, and then my feet got really heavy like I was slogging through mud.

I wanted to go home, but I only had a few laps of the park to go. I can lie to myself really well, but I can’t fib to another person and keep a straight face. So I knew when I got home Jarom would ask if I did the whole four miles, and I would have to tell him the truth. I wanted that truth to be yes, so I needed to figure out a way to haul my butt around the loop one and a half more times.

For whatever reason, the face of Stuart Smalley appeared in my head. What the hey—couldn’t hurt, right? I wasn’t about to say his mantra, even in my head, so I had to come up with my own. I came up with “I can do it. I am awesome.” I would repeat that over and over, timing the pounding of feet to the syllables until I got my rhythm back. It got easier and I was too tired to feel stupid.

But when it was time to climb the last little hill, my feet slowed down of their own accord. I fought to keep my feet in line with my words. I was struggling so hard against the weight of my legs that just before the crest of the hill, I yelled out my mantra at the top of my lungs. The cute little old lady from across the way was getting her mail and shouted back, “Sure you are, honey!” My face was already beet red from exertion, but if were possible, it got even redder. She might have thought I was a lunatic, but she waved politely anyway and went back inside. But crazy or not, it had worked and I crossed the four-mile marker. I started using variations of my chant to help me through the rough stretches, but I tried to restrain myself from any more blurting.

***

For my birthday, Jarom took me on a shopping spree. Most of my friends would have squealed with glee, but I had mixed emotions. On one hand, running and exercise had helped me shed twenty pounds more since the HCG diet (for those of you keeping score, that’s a total of fifty-five pounds), so I desperately needed new clothes. On the other hand, what if I tried on the smaller clothes and they didn’t fit me? What if I still had to shop in the big girl’s section? Before the thud I had been a 16/18 XXL, and since I hadn’t bought any new clothes in a while, I had no idea what size I was now. I realize it makes no sense, but I was afraid that I would still be unable to fit well in an extra large.

I remembered the lesson I had learned from my running shoes and decided not to let fear stop me from enjoying my birthday. It was the big 3-0 after all. We went up to the Factory Outlet Mall because I love a good deal. And that’s why when we walked into the Columbia store, I made a beeline over to their 50-percent-off rack. I was dismayed when I found out that everything on the rod was from a sample sale, so all the sizes were mediums. It didn’t even occur to me that these would be an option for me, so I walked back over to Jarom.

“Wasn’t there anything over there that you liked?” he asked.

“Plenty, but they’re all mediums.”

“And what size are you?”

“I don’t know, but not a medium.”

“How do you know unless you try it on?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I couldn’t wear a medium when I was twelve years old, so I’m pretty sure it won’t fit now.”

“Humor me.” Jarom grabbed a handful of hangers and thrust them into my arms.

“Whatever.” I sulked off to the dressing room.

I stripped off my sweats and grabbed a random hanger. Green cargo pants that looked mighty small to me. If I ripped the stitching trying these on, then Jarom was paying for them and not out of my birthday money. I actually closed my eyes while I zipped them up, like that would help them fit better. Back to the mirror, I opened one eye and then the other and then looked down. No split seams that I could see. Better brave the mirror and check the backside.

I did not recognize the girl I saw standing there. Obviously, the logical side of my brain knew I had gotten smaller, but the emotional side hadn’t figured it out till just then. I had been wearing sweats and drawstring pants that hid my progress from critical eyes. Looking in the mirror day to day, I didn’t really see much of a difference, but I think that was also a case of seeing what I had become accustomed to seeing. For whatever reason, today I saw fully all I’d achieved. I looked fabulous. Even better, I looked fabulous in size 8, something I had never even dared dream possible. I hadn’t been a size 8 since elementary school. My little voice piped up to remind me about vanity sizing.

“Shut up and let me enjoy this.”

“What was that, honey?” Jarom called from outside the fitting room.

“Oh, um, just asking you to bring more clothes. Mediums if you please.”

So Jarom became my pack mule for the day as I schlepped him around from store to store. The world of retail delights was now open to me. I could visit stores that I never dared venture to before because they didn’t cater to plus-size girls. But I was no longer a plus-size girl. I took great joy in being frustrated at Dressbarn when the dress that I wanted only had sizes 10 and 14 left. That had never happened before. Sure, plenty of times a store didn’t have my size, but it was usually because all the sizes were far too small, not too big. It was the best time I’d had in ages.

I realize most of my friends would be horrified at being a size 8. That’s what happens when you surround yourself with bunches of people who are size 2s. Whenever we would go out as the group, I was the big friend. Now when we go out, I’m still the big friend, but only slightly.

Perhaps this running thing was going to be worth it after all. Already in the few months of training, I had learned things that countless hours and dollars spent at therapists hadn’t managed to teach me. My eyes were opening to a whole new world of possibilities in what I could wear and what I could be. If my body on the outside was changing for the better, then the me on the inside could change for the better too.

J
arom’s and my weekly running schedule consisted of four runs—a short, a medium, another short, and a long (usually two to three times the distance of the short). On days when there was no school and no one to watch the kids, we turned running in the cold into a family affair. In truth, the kids actually enjoyed our runs. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy being chauffeured around in a cushy double stroller with toys, snacks, and drinks. Jarom, in his infinite wisdom, decided that since I was the one trying to lose weight, I should be the one to push the stroller. Burn more calories he claimed. Hmmm… yeah right.

One particular Saturday in March, the schedule called for a five-mile run, which equaled about eight laps around the long track at the park. Headphones in, music pumping, Jarom beside me and stroller in front of me, I started my run. Jarom concentrated on proper running form and left me in charge of the girls. So I pushed the seventy-five pounds of two kids plus the stroller over the rolling hills, the entire time thinking I got the raw end of the deal.

Four laps and half an hour later, I swear the stroller gained an extra fifty pounds. What toys had Jarom given the kids? Bricks? So I huffed and puffed up to the nearest oasis, the park bench. I set the locking brake on the stroller, pulled out my headphones, and collapsed on the cold, hard metal.

Lily popped her head out of the blanket she had been under. “Whatcha doin’, Mommy?”

“I’m taking a break. You guys weigh a ton!” I looked around to pass the stroller off to Jarom, but he was “conveniently” on the other side of the park.

“Are you out of en-jury, Momma?”

“Yes, Lily, Momma’s out of energy”

Lily seemed to be thinking long and hard about something. After a moment, she dug deep into her pack and pulled out a small baggie of cookies. “Here, Momma, eat these. They will give you en-jury.”

My wonderful Lily was good at many things, but sharing was not one of them. Something must have been going on in her little head for her to offer her prized snack with me. When I said no, thank you, she looked both relieved at not having to part with her treat and upset that I wasn’t taking them.

“But you gotta cuz you need mo’ en-jury to keep going.” She pushed the bag of cookies into my hand.

“Aren’t you ready to go home yet? We could quit a little early just for today, and then I’ll make you some hot cocoa.”

“Nope, no quitting. Gabba Gabba says ‘Keep trying, keep trying. Don’t give up. Never give up.’ So I will sing the song for you, then you will finish your race with Daddy, and then you will make me hot chocat. K?”

And she did just that. The song she was talking about was from one of her favorite Nickelodeon TV shows
Yo Gabba Gabba.
Previously I had questioned the wisdom in letting her watch that show—it was really weird. But if they were teaching her this, it couldn’t be that bad.

As we went around the track four more times, she repeated the only three lines of the songs she remembered.

Keep trying, Keep trying

Don’t give up, Never give up

Don’t stop, Don’t give up

Over and over again ad naseum and off key. I’m not sure which motivated me to run faster, her words of encouragement or her shrill singing, but I finished in record time. Lily beamed up at me, so proud of our accomplishment.

“Yay for Mommy…. Can I have my cookies back now?”

My four-year-old put me to shame that day, and made me think long and hard about how I had been approaching this adventure. So far I’d been running, putting in my time, and enjoying the weight-loss benefits without actually believing I would run a marathon. But now I wondered. What if Jarom didn’t quit? Did I even want him to? Could I have any hope of success when I had been planning on failing all along? Then my thoughts drifted toward my daughters and the kind of example I was setting for them. Did I want them to grow up thinking like me? That when things got hard, it was better to quit than fail?