But my journey wasn’t over. You might argue that it was just starting. Becoming thin brought with it a whole new way of reexamining my life. Everything was upside down, once again. The world was so vastly different to me when I became thin, so that even though I had finally begun to trust myself, I started to lose my trust of virtually everybody else. As I got acclimated to a new way of eating, and as my new body changed the way the world viewed me—and the way I felt within my own skin—I found that physical toxins and pounds were not the only things I was shedding. I was also shedding preconceived notions of myself and of the world around me.
SEVENTEEN
a new definition
To put it mildly, sports have never been my forte. This had nothing to do with being fat.
I distinctly recall being in second grade, when I was a relatively normal-sized girl, on a day that had been designated a “field day”—which meant that students were forced to do various physical activities on the blacktop while everybody else sat in a gigantic rectangle and watched. For my class’s part, each student was supposed to dribble a basketball from one side of the pavement to the other—a seemingly simple activity that I just could not figure out. Every time I pushed the ball down, it rolled away defiantly, and I ran after it frantically. And so while my seven-year-old peers successfully mastered the art of making the ball bounce back up just in time for them to push it back down—making their way to the other side of the blacktop in no time—I made it approximately five feet from the beginning of the dribbling journey, having spent the whole time running in every direction after the getaway ball that just didn’t want to be anywhere near me or my wounded pride.
And thus began a lifelong trajectory of loathing gym and, thus, exercise in general.
No, exercise and I have never been friends. Chubby girls who are already disdained by their peers and terrible at sports are not generally the ones who get chosen first for the dodgeball team. Once I was old enough, I masterfully feigned cramps to my gym teachers (who just as masterfully feigned belief in my fake cramps) to get out of PE whenever I could. I had zero interest in moving my body around a ball field or a gymnasium, just so that it could jiggle and bounce while other kids pointed and laughed.
Even as a young girl, that particular brand of taunting—the kind that occurred while my body was there for all to see, and while I was being forced to do something at which I had no skill or talent—stung hard. By middle school, when the others around me in gym would hoot and guffaw as I’d fall down trying to catch a Frisbee, or be so out of breath while running that I would keel over panting and grabbing at my side, it slowly came to me that my body was not mine. It was, apparently, theirs, to discuss and make fun of as they pleased.
Sadly, as is the case for so many of us who grew up hating gym (and I would venture to guess there are a lot more of us than we realize), this version of hell was my first foray into the world of exercise, and it informed my opinion about both sports and my own ability level for the next three decades. “Oh, I’m terrible at sports,” I’d say, even into my adulthood. Or, “Yeah, I am completely uncoordinated.” These statements were definitive; it was what it was. There was no room for or interest in further exploration of the matter. I sucked—that was all. (Thanks for that, Education Industrial Complex!)
—
Around the time of our first juice fast, Mariann and I read that article about Nintendo’s Wii Fit game. Approximately ten minutes later, we left the apartment to go buy one. What resonated the most for us was the idea that this so-called game was redefining exercise, and it allowed the consumer the safety (and fun?) of doing it in his or her own space, curtains tightly drawn. And, impressionable consumers that we are, we bit.
An hour after that, after hooking up the Nintendo Wii console (we had to buy that, too . . .) and popping in the Wii Fit disc, we were each immediately encouraged to create an adorable avatar that strongly resembled us. The point of the Wii Fit was that—through a series of wires and boards—we would be able to work out our little avatars by making our very own heart rates go up.
Being a child of the eighties, video games were indeed my speed. I was hoping that I would be able to use this fact as the impetus to connive myself—to convince myself that I was just playing a game, when, in fact, I was working out. According to the instruction manual, which I read front to back, the games that little cartoon Jasmin would soon play would include running through a beautiful countryside, biking on a lovely island, skiing through a winter wonderland, hula hooping, and doing balancing games and yoga poses. My avatar would see more of the world than I ever would.
There were some initial surprises, however, that absolutely floored me—forcing me to look at myself more honestly, by way of my avatar, than I had ever looked at myself when gazing at the real me. Honest moments of self-reflection can come at the strangest times, truly. I had no idea that a little cartoon version of me would make me open my eyes. Truthfully, I wasn’t ready for it. My bubble of denial—my refusal to see myself as the size I actually was—ultimately popped when the Nintendo gods, who eagerly weighed me each time I stepped on the exercise platform, declared me “obese” and made my avatar go from the default, pencil-like size to a huge, round tomato size. Even though the only people in the room were me and Mariann, the glaring truth on my TV screen—the flippant and coldhearted way the computerized voice called me “obese”—shattered and humiliated me.
Here’s how it happened: On that first day, I stepped on the Wii Fit scale and heard a series of beeps, as my cute avatar that I had just created—complete with my black hair in a chic do and thick-framed black glasses—spun in dramatic circles, magically propelled off the ground. Then the beeping slowed and finally stopped, and the high-pitched, computerized voice disapprovingly chirped those words, “That’s obese,” sending avatar-me into a rapidly expanding motion that seemed to be a surprise even to her. I stared at the screen with my mouth wide open, and she stared back at me. We were reflections of one another, and I suddenly didn’t know which one was real. I did, however, know that it was time to draw the blinds and go skiing.
“Obese” was the word that the Nutrisystem employee had used when she spoke past me and to my TM all those years prior. “She’s obese,” that woman had said, as if I were a prized pig up for auction. And though I always knew I was plump, it wasn’t until I lost the weight and looked at old pictures of myself that I realized just how large I used to be. It shocks me to no end how many untruths we are capable of convincing ourselves of. (In truth, it makes me wonder what I am not seeing about myself these days, and that thought makes me shudder.) Perhaps I should be grateful to the callous, cold Wii Fit robot voice for giving it to me straight.
During my initial juice fasts, and at the times in between, my Wii Fit kept me good company—despite my hard feelings about its initial judgment. Mariann, of course, had created an avatar version of herself, too—with brown wavy hair and big blue eyes—but her avatar was simply “overweight,” and not nearly as round as avatar-me.
(On one night when we were apparently loopy from our overconsumption of kale juice, we concluded that since we had decided we would never have kids, we would create an avatar kid. An avatar child, it turns out, requires far fewer resources from the planet and is much cheaper to put through college. Mariann and I combined our best physical features—my thick black hair with Mariann’s blue eyes; my freckles with Mariann’s cute ears—and, voila, there was “Mavis,” our darling little girl.)
My plan worked. After joining the Wii Fit bandwagon, I successfully managed to trick myself into exercising by telling myself I was just playing games. (And now I also needed to be a good role model for Mavis.) Though I’m not sure that anything I did with the Wii was especially exerting, it did manage to effectively put me into my body in a way I hadn’t ever been. I found myself proud of the beads of sweat that would collect on my forehead, and I eventually even invested in a sports bra—the fir
st I had ever owned.
I don’t really attribute my weight loss to my exercising (though I’m sure it didn’t hurt). No, my key to weight loss was not my fake hula hooping—but moving my body gave me a newfound “ownership” of myself that had previously been lost all those years ago while I was failing to dribble my ball across the unforgiving blacktop.
—
Just one year later—after losing seventy-five pounds—I shocked myself by agreeing to try out running (like, as in, actually outside) alongside a similarly skeptical but nonetheless motivated Mariann. It had been Mariann’s idea, actually, and was partly spurred by her recognition of my frenetic energy that developed as my pounds came off. She knew I had to do something to expel this new buzzing electricity, which frequently caused my legs to unendingly bounce up and down, or me to speak quickly and tirelessly. Unlike when I had been heavier, losing weight gave me an inordinate amount of get-up-and-go. Yet I had nowhere to go to, because when I exercised—which was still only sporadically—it was still centered around my Wii Fit. (Notably, as I lost weight, my me-avatar got more svelte, too, which she seemed quite pleased about. I know I was.)
And so I told Mariann I would try it. Part of my own motivation—aside from the undeniable fact that I had a significant amount more energy at this lighter weight—was that I was fearful that my frequent juicing was negatively affecting my metabolism. Plus, my body—though thinner than ever—was extremely droopy. As my weight came off, my skin became somewhat loose. It was mostly around my stomach, where stubborn skin would sag like a deflated balloon, both around my waist and also in the real estate between my hips that always seemed to be hanging in the shape of a smile. There was skin on my upper arms, too, which would lightly flap when I’d exuberantly wave to someone (I have since mastered the art of saying “hello!” really loudly instead of lifting my floppy arms). These afflictions were, I would later realize, going to be permanent, but I suspected (and was ultimately correct) that the better shape I was in, the less droopy the droopiness would be.
The only sneakers I had were ratty and ancient, and the closest thing I had to “running clothes” were old sweatpants with a broken elastic around the waist and an oversized T-shirt that I had once worn while painting my bedroom deep purple (it had the stains to prove it). Thankfully, the sports bra I had bought for my fake hula hooping still fit (enough, anyway) to at least keep my breasts from bouncing all over lower Manhattan.
Mariann and I decided to start with a trial run (literally)—just around the block a couple of times. We needed to see what we were getting into before we did anything serious. Mariann decided to combine that initial jog with taking our dog out for some exercise, too, but when Rose insisted on stopping at every tree, it became clear that running as a family was not in our cards. Plus, Mariann’s and my pace did not match, and so we decided to put a bit of autonomy into our exercise regimes, and—from then on—meet at home afterward for cocoa and cartoons.
And so I dove into this running thing solo (just as Mariann and Rose developed their own routine of jogging, stopping, walking; jogging, stopping, walking) and thank goodness for that autonomy. Turned out, running hurt both my body and my self-esteem—and I saw no reason to expose Mariann (or Rose) to my faltering, or to the emotional burden I realized I had been carrying when I first pounded the pavement. Running simply did not come naturally to me, and I was too embarrassed for even my life partner to watch me lose my footing so easily. Blame it on my early days of gym class, but once I transferred my exercise to outside as opposed to behind the safety of my drawn blinds, it became apparent to me that I carried a significant amount of shame inside, which was attached to those moments of physical exertion. The shame was trapped in my muscles, and in order to move past that pain—or, more accurately, through it—I needed to first find grounding inside myself. I needed to teach myself that running was not necessarily something I would do to get away from the world; rather, it was something I could do to feel more secure within it. I could, in fact, let the shame go.
During that first fateful solo run, I headed west toward the glistening Hudson River—which, even though it was only a few blocks from my apartment, was a place I rarely ventured. After about three minutes, I realized that I would have to hold my pants up for the rest of my run, and I made a mental note to buy exercise bottoms that fit. In my ears, the soundtrack to A Chorus Line kept me company, distracting me from my shortened breath and my burgeoning side stitch. When images of my classmates all those years ago popped into my head at around a half mile in—laughing at my ill-fitting pants and my awkward stride—I shook them away and focused instead on the lyrics of “One Singular Sensation” that blasted through my earbuds and my doubts.
Encouraging myself to go as slowly as I could so that I would not, in the long run, burn out (or black out), I made it a mile out and then stopped—catching my breath and gazing in awe at the river in front of me.
One thing I love about running is the feeling of freedom and anonymity that it brings me. On a normal day, I am weighed down with several bags full of papers, laptops, recording equipment, a book, and even an emergency umbrella (you never know). But when I run, I carry nothing except my mood and my mind, which are frequently their own kind of heavy. Still, this detachment, even briefly, from stuff is liberating. Pair that with the fact that when I run, I have a bandana wrapped around my head, dark sunglasses covering my eyes, and music drowning out the crowds, and I feel utterly free and unrecognizable—even to myself.
But on that day when the Hudson River stood in front of me inexplicably moving me to tears with the soft whispers of its Zen-like ripples, I wasn’t yet thinking about the freedom that running would unleash in me during the coming months and years, when it would become as regular a part of my routine as my morning cocoa. As I held on to the rail, panting, forcing away more images of bullies from years past, I could never have grasped that running would soon be the key for me to find my own mental balance. I continued to grasp my waistband as A Chorus Line still poured into my ears, forcing the passersby into the musical of my mind’s eye—they walked, ran, and biked to the tune and the beat of the songs. Their stories became embedded in mine, to the soundtrack that had been a part of my life for so many years. I was, I realized, having fun. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead and the trickling tears out of my eyes, and I ran a little bit farther.
—
The following year, my arms and life both sported a new definition that I could never have anticipated.
It was still pitch-black out as I waited on the bathroom line at Starbucks, along with the other jittery marathoners and half-marathoners—many of whom sipped black coffee and munched on a half of a banana. I had trained long and hard for this morning, which, if all went as planned, would culminate with my wearing a fake medal around my neck that said I just ran 13.1 miles—an honor that would act as the predecessor to what I would consider my true reward, the almond flour pancakes I intended to make for lunch.
It was Friday, October 30, 1992—my thirteenth birthday, and the day before my bat mitzvah. Since Halloween was going to fall on the weekend, we kids dressed up on this day instead. It all seemed so serendipitous: I get to be doted on all day as the birthday girl, and I get to dress up as a cowgirl? My teenage years were off to a marvelous start—or so I thought, as I entered my middle school that morning, my permed hair tucked into my big straw costume hat.
Despite being an unconventional kid whom the bullies loved to prey upon, I had nonetheless managed to carve out a place with a very small but kind clique of friends. As I approached my locker, I beamed, noticing that these friends had decorated it with streamers and a giant card—a sweet gesture that was not uncommon in my school when it was someone’s birthday. It was still early, and the other students around me were readying themselves for homeroom. I stood in awe of what my buddies did for me that morning, feeling extra special, because—holy crap—I was a teenager now.
A teenager! I had practiced being one for so long that it hardly seemed real when it finally happened. I was so happy at that moment—eager to jump into my adolescence with the appropriate balance of lipstick and angst—that I barely registered when the stranger behind me, who disappeared into the crowd before I managed to see who he was, yelled, “Happy Birthday, Fatso,” and knocked off my hat.
As I stood at the starting line listening to the national anthem, I was surprised to find myself becoming a little verklempt. Despite the many hurdles I’d jumped through to get to this point—losing nearly one hundred pounds, training daily to become a bona fide runner—I rarely took a minute to absorb what it was I had actually accomplished. The song finished and, all around me, on that brisk October morning in Portland, Oregon—the city Mariann and I were temporarily calling home—thousands of people hooted and roared. Slowly the runners took their places. “I can do this,” I whispered to myself. “I am going to do this.”
“I am going to do this,” I told myself as I made the bold choice to not ignore the insult, but instead to stand on the tiptoes of my cowboy boots and try to find the person who’d taken it upon himself to ruin my moment, my morning, my mood. “Who the hell was that?” I yelled through cupped hands, loud enough for the kids passing by to slow down and blankly gaze in my direction. There was no answer.
Always Too Much and Never Enough Page 24