The irony that crystalized was startling: Although as a fat person I was oppressed by a society that eagerly cast me aside, as a thin person, I oppressed myself with my doubts and my second thoughts. As a thin person, I could no longer make sense of my life as I knew it. It was like I was coming up in the world again, starting from scratch.
I take a tiny, self-defensive step away from the mirror, but continue to look. I am momentarily startled by how straight I am standing. The lone long piece of my asymmetrical short hair—sprinkled each day with more and more silver—falls in a determined chunk onto my face. I wear bright blue cat-eye glasses—beneath them, my hazel eyes are rimmed with what might very well be a little too much black liner (some habits die hard). A small nose hoop catches the dim light.
I notice that I look more serious than I used to, evident from my hint of a furrowed brow, which suddenly seems to be as permanently a part of me as my tattoos.
But my reflection in the mirror carries an unmistakable hopefulness, too—a determination to continue to seek the truth in the world and in myself, a baseline understanding that change is always possible, even though it might sometimes be seen, at first anyway, as radical. I am no longer full of desperation—four tiny syllables that managed to define my life for so long. Of course, I don’t have all the answers yet, but I do have an unrelenting determination to keep trying to figure them out.
When my grandmother was dying, Mariann and I sat at her bedside for eight days, along with our dog, Rose, and my mother and stepfather. Grandma struggled to hang on, a devastating and deeply moving process that will haunt me forever. As Grandma moaned in what was undoubtedly the knowledge that these were her final days—moments she did not want to let go of—Mariann, who was my strength, too, in that dark time, would hold Grandma’s hand and gently stroke her cheek, saying repeatedly, “You are doing everything right. You are exactly where you should be.”
You are exactly where you should be. It is something Grandma used to say to me, though I never quite believed it. This idea that I’m exactly where I should be—which is something that I regularly try to remind myself, now that Grandma isn’t around—helps me face, and even embrace, my powerlessness when confronted with a seemingly untenable situation. If I can get myself to accept that I am indeed precisely where I need to be, it can ground me—and so it has been a mantra sporadically peppered throughout my life. In the depths of any despair, finding—or even just seeking—that kind of validation can be liberating.
I continue to stare at my reflection, no longer worrying about the time. I quietly sing the line, “You’re so vain . . .” and I step a little bit farther back from the mirror. If it weren’t for my tattoos, I’m not sure I would know this is me. My body is strong—the muscles on my legs defined and ready. I am wearing a simple, form-fitting, sleeveless black dress, dark tights, and gold-toed oxfords (I keep refusing to let Mariann borrow this pair). There is a ring on nearly each of my fingers—but the one that strikes me the most in this moment is my simple wedding band, which I delicately touch with my thumb.
As I look fixatedly at myself, my gaze stops at my stomach. I am reminded that my massive weight loss has left a lumpy and misshapen middle, but nothing that strategically chosen clothes can’t hide. Still, it seems an unfair side effect of reclaiming my health and my sense of self. I touch the “problem area,” then frown, cock my head, and—surprising myself—simply shrug. “Big deal,” I whisper so quietly that the whole world would have to turn down its volume for anyone to hear.
This person in the mirror, this is someone I know, though not entirely. She is someone I am beginning to understand, am just starting to get.
And she is indeed exactly as she is supposed to be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish I could publish an entire sequel to this book that is just for acknowledgments. I feel like the luckiest person in the world, to know—and to have known—the people whose names you are about to read. And I’m probably also the shittiest person in the world, because I will undoubtedly forget many, and I will surely kick myself time and time again for those people I foolishly left out of these pages. So let me first thank those very people whom I carelessly left out of this section. If that’s you, then please know how much you mean to me, and how vitally important your support has been at one time or another throughout my life, culminating in this book—which simply would not have been possible without you.
Even though I practically ripped apart the bulk of my adolescence in the preceding pages, there were very important forces in my life at that time that encouraged my talents and kept me more or less sane. These include Jodi Antinori (“Ms. McBride”), Jacqueline Geiger, Elaine Koplow, Gil Burgess, Angela DeCandia Ermi, Peter Catenacci, Charlie Gilbert, Leigh Smiley-Grace, Barb Martin, Ruis Woertendyke, and Chris Thomas. I kind of think it’s possible I wouldn’t be alive without each of you. I am also extremely grateful for the positive impact that Clara Varlese and Emily Calabrese had on my college years, simply by being true to yourselves.
And, Brock Haussamen, thank you for always being so gentle and kind. Maybe you now know how important you were, and how that small chunk of time when we were family forever changed me for the better.
Thanks to James Cunningham for all those Coffee Coolattas, and for all that priceless love, which has very much shaped me (and perhaps continues to).
I owe a gigantic amount of debt to my family—both the one I was born into and the one I married into. Kit Klauss, Gerd Klauss, Patrick Klauss, Anna Dalla Val, Julia Klauss, Sienna Klauss, Christina Spieler, Russ Spieler, Max Sullivan Spieler, Grayson Spieler, and Anne Schneider—I am so happy to know each of you. Thank you for the support you have offered me with the publication of my book.
Thanks to my brilliant and bold niece, Lila Fay Singer, for always reminding me that it’s completely appropriate to assert yourself when you want to be heard. And thanks to her parents, Hilary Cohen Singer, whom I would have chosen as my sister if I’d had that option (but I’m so happy that it happened anyway), and Jeremy Singer, my big brother, for always being in my corner, even when neither of us are being overt about that (I’m in your corner, too). Thanks to Jordana Reim, Aviva Reim, Bruce Reim, and Maia Reim, for the silliness, and for the precious familial bond.
I am so totally grateful to Wayne Omohundro, my patient and unwavering stepfather. Your first gift to me was a porcelain clown doll, which still sits in my bedroom. But it’s the thousands of gifts you’ve given me since then that have helped shape the person I am today, and I am certain I would be a shell of myself without your quiet but consistent love. I’m truly sorry that I was such a bitch to you for the entirety of my childhood. You have always been so reliable and generous, and you have never asked for anything in return.
(Mom, please don’t panic. I promise I will thank you before the book is done.)
My friends have been my family, too, and my story would be colorless without them. Thank you to my earliest connections: Patricia Craig (you will always be Patty Fonseca to me), Sonia Ahluwalia Khanna, Tamika Langley, Bonnie Smith, Lauren Hasinger, Jessica Sarnicola, and all the other kids who didn’t make fun of me. (Actually, thanks to the ones who did make fun of me, too. Though I do really wish you hadn’t, I guess I’m more interesting today because of my scars.)
Huge thanks to my darling friends of the present day, including David Williams (I . . . you), Sara Leavitt (I think of you every time I put on purple eye shadow!), Jane Hoffman, Ellen Celnik, Beth Greenfield, Kiki Herold, Angie Lovell, Josh Hanagarne, Donna Dennison, Rachel Duvall, Amy Trakinski, Angie Lovell, Derek Goodwin, Kara Davis, Paula Burke, John Yunker, Lucy Wainwright Roche, Maya Lahr Gottfried, Elisa Camahort Page, Gretchen Primack, Michelle Rubin, Lynn Chen, Sally Tamarkin, Michelle Schwegmann, Josh Hooten, Meena Alagappan, Robert Friedlander, Kerrie Ann Murphy, Debbie Cravey, Beth Lyons, Kerry Lea, Aviv Roth, Patrick Kwan, Jo-Anne McArthur, Liz Marshall, Mia MacDonald, Laura Handzel, Pam Frasch,
Debbie Walker, Marisa Miller Wolfson, David Wolfson, Jessica Mahady, Michelle Carrera, Ollie Carrera, and Blythe Ann Boyd. Thanks to my fabulous friends Ethan Ciment and Michael Suchman, who constantly fill my heart and my stomach. Thanks to Jane Velez-Mitchell for making sure I was writing when I was supposed to be, and for always saying it like it is. Thanks to Martin Rowe for giving me stupendous advice on writing and running (and writing about running) for so many years. Thanks to Scott Spitz and the entire Strong Hearts Vegan Power running community (if you’re going to be stuck in a van with anyone, it might as well be them).
Thanks to my heroes in the animal rights movement, including many of the people I just mentioned, as well as Gene Baur, Matt Ball, Brad Goldberg, Wayne Pacelle, Kathy Freston, Dr. Neal Barnard, Susie Coston, Steve Wise, Nathan Runkle, Jenny Brown, Doug Abel, Kim Sturla, Ingrid Newkirk, Kathy Stevens, Matt Rice, Paul Shapiro, James McWilliams, Laura George, Ariel Nessel, Alissa Hauser, and Miriam Jones. Thanks, too, to Dr. Robert Ostfeld, Dr. Joel Fuhrman, and Joe Cross, for influencing me in my journey, and for shedding a much-needed light on the awesome health benefits of plants. Thanks to my tap dance community, especially Tony Waag and the American Tap Dance Foundation, Laura Pearson, whose advice and friendship are as nourishing as her homemade vegan cheese, and Barbara Duffy, whom I look up to so much, and whose talent and insight are equally unsurpassed. And a shout-out to the rest of the Thursday Girls—Crystal Love Tiffany, Deb Pelton Hall, and Tina Micic, for tapping it out with me.
My dear soul-friends, Alexander Gray and David Cabrera, are true heroes and besties. Thank you for letting me use your house to write, your ears to vent, your shoulders to cry on, and your wisdom to guide me. I feel lucky every single day to have you in my life. (Even though you somehow make me buy knives and houses that were never in the budget.) I completely love you both.
My heart is full when I think of the many healers I’ve had throughout my life, and those include Brett Kennedy, Guy Winch, Susan M. MacKinnon, and Jane E. Gartner. Special thanks to J. D. Davids for the gentle guidance, and for being a role model.
Gena Hamshaw and Victoria Moran were like little guideposts during the early days of writing this book, and I am so very appreciative. You are both mentors of mine, and I’m so grateful that you so generously shared your resources and your experiences while I was first putting pen to paper. Nell Alk, I’m pretty sure that this book would not exist if you didn’t strongly encourage me to publish my article about my shifting perceptions of the world from losing weight, and if you didn’t proactively introduce me to MindBodyGreen. I owe you so much. And thank you to MindBodyGreen, too, for finding a home for my article “What Losing 100 Pounds Taught Me about How We Treat Overweight People.” Special thanks to those who provided feedback on early drafts of my manuscript, including bob McNeil (my sandbox buddy for life), and Rhona Melsky.
Thanks to my amazingly talented editor, Allison Janice, for believing in me from the get-go, and for discovering and then pursuing this project. I felt safe with you and trusted your judgment with my manuscript, even when the track changes made me want to kill myself. I am so grateful. And thanks to everyone at Berkley for working with me on this—I couldn’t have asked for a better team. I’m very thankful, too, to my incredible agent, Steve Troha, from Folio Literary Management, and to Dado Derviskadic, for holding my hand when I needed it, and for showing me how to find my wings. You’re the best on earth. Steve, your advice to get off my soapbox whenever I felt I was beginning to proselytize was, even in its simplicity, groundbreaking for me (even though I didn’t always succeed). Thanks, too, to my publicity team at The Tasc Group.
The Our Hen House community is what keeps me going, day in and day out, and so thank you from the bottom of my heart to my podcast listeners, TV show viewers, flock members, and many amazing supporters for all the love you have given to me and Mariann since day one, and for being so passionate about changing the world for animals. A huge gigantic thanks to Anne Green for reading the first incarnation of my manuscript and providing me with such valuable feedback, and for always e-mailing to me “Never fear!” at exactly the right moment. Thanks to Alessandra Seiter for constantly impressing me with your incredible skills, and for always making me think longer and harder. Thanks to Ben Braman, Eric Milano, Danielle Legg, and Laurie Johnston. And thanks to my amazing board of directors and their partners: Liz Dee and Nick Garin, J. L. Fields and Dave Burgess, Alison Mercer and Kevin Mercer, and, of course, the aforementioned Michael and Ethan, and Alex and David. Thanks to our wonderful writers, reviewers, and volunteers, including Ari Solomon, Robin Lamont, Ken Swensen, Piper Hoffman, Cassandra Greenwald, Bonnie Goodman, Michael Harren, and Keri Cronin. A very special thank you to Kathy Head, and additional thanks to the awesome team over at Brooklyn Independent Media.
(Don’t worry, Mom. I promise I haven’t forgotten about you.)
Thanks to my childhood (and, ahem, adulthood) idols, Patti LuPone and Bette Midler, who have been turning me into a puddle for twenty-five years. When I was a kid, you showed me that it was okay to be an oddball, as long as you were a driven one.
There are those who are no longer with us to whom I’m eternally grateful. My sweet grandpa, Murray Glickman, who constantly thought my jokes were hilarious (even when they weren’t); Muriel Alpern, for the cat tchotchkes, and for always reading (and liking) my poetry; George Reim, for being such a legendary guy—I wish I had known you; and my childhood cat, Rocky, for proving that there’s always a way out when you want there to be, as long as you’re determined. (Thanks, too, for always coming back home to me.)
An enormous thank-you to Rose Singer-Sullivan, my precious, beautiful, sweet, cozy, silly, sensitive dog. Rose is a gentle and loving pit bull who was found tied to a pole, where she had been left for several days. At just one year old, she had just weaned puppies, and most likely was being used as a breeding dog for an illegal operation. She was taken to a “shelter,” where at the time they killed all pit bulls, but an “underground railroad” of sorts, created by loving employees, snuck Rose out and into a loving home. Rose has taught me that it is possible to trust again, and to love wholly and unconditionally. She kept me company for many hours, days, weeks, and months while this book was being written, and I’m sure it wouldn’t have been if she wasn’t right beside me throughout.
Okay, Mom, here comes your part: I know you have not always had it easy, having me as your daughter, and I know that there were many other aspects of your own life that were challenging, too. But we’ve worked it out somehow, and I am so beholden to you for all you have given to me, but mostly, for always believing in me. Thank you for attending each one of my shows, reading my many hundreds of stories and poems, and always sharing my Facebook statuses on your page with a cute little doting comment. I look up to you for always being so strong, loyal, and creative, and I’m proud to be your daughter. Roni Omohundro, I promise my next book will only say wonderful things about you.
This book was dedicated to my grandmother, Sherrey Reim Glickman, and I just want to reiterate my extreme gratitude to her. Grandma was, in so many ways, my heartbeat, and now the echo of her heartbeat courses through me. She always told me I’d be a writer, even when that annoyed me and I insisted that, no, I’d be an actress. She was exceptional, and I hope that in my life I can be half as poised as she was.
Finally, I want to thank my wife, Mariann Sullivan. For nearly a decade, you have been by my side for better or for worse, and you have stuck with me even when I was absolutely impossible to deal with. You woke up at six A.M. to edit my book, you dragged your ass to Red Hook, Brooklyn, to watch me workshop an undeveloped scene from these pages (even though you were forced to do a weird theater exercise), you gently corrected me when I was using adjectives incorrectly, and you consistently praised me when I doubted myself—but never so much that it went to my head. You have been my rock and my guide, my partner in life and my very best friend. This book is, in so very many ways, becau
se of you, and my love for you is all encompassing. I will work until the end of my days to do my best to deserve you, and to make you feel as safe as you make me feel.
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