Denny’s hands, firm but loving, begin to massage the muscles at the base of my neck and along my shoulders. I’ve trained him well. “How’s this?”
“Feels great,” I say. “I think we should go out tonight. I’m just too tired to cook and wash dishes and deal with the whole hassle.” I expect some response but he says nothing. “Don’t you think, hon?”
“Uh…I’d rather not,” he says.
“Why not? Let’s go somewhere. How about Red Robin? They’ve got that campfire sauce you like so much.” Red Robin has always been a favorite spot of ours. We go there on a fairly regular basis.
He laughs weakly. “Uh, no thanks.”
“Oh come on, Denny. You know they have the best burgers. I’m kind of in the mood for a royal burger.” The royal burger is a spectacular creation consisting of a delicious all beef patty topped with strips of bacon and a fried egg. I’d like to meet the man who created the royal burger, just so I could shake his hand.
“Gabby, you know I’m trying to lose weight.”
I snort. “Yeah, that’s what you said. Come on, you can substitute a turkey patty in any burger. Let’s just go.”
Denny stops massaging my neck. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Oh, I get it,” I say. “Dr. Thompson says you need to lose weight, so you’re going to follow blindly what he tells you, regardless of the facts.”
“Gabby, why can’t you support me in this? I’m really trying to do it for myself, for my health. Diabetes is serious business.”
I’m silent for a moment. “Can’t you at least eat for the purpose of lowering your blood sugar?” I ask.
“I am,” he replies.
“No, you’re not. You’re eating to lose weight. Weight loss is the goal, not lowering your blood sugar.”
Denny shrugs. “They’re both my goals, actually. Look, the doctor wants me to lose weight. He says it’s the only way I can manage this.”
“A little Red Robin never hurt anyone,” I say. “Come on. It’s Wednesday night.”
“You go. I’m staying right here,” he says.
My head whips around and I stare at him, impaling him with my eyes. “And what are you going to eat?”
“The frozen meals the doctor recommended,” says Denny.
There it is again— the doctor recommended it. “And how much do those meals cost?” I ask.
“What’s it matter to you?”
“I asked you first,” I shoot back. “Tell me—how much money did you pay for those meals?”
“They run about ten bucks a pop,” Denny replies.
“So the diet industry makes ten bucks every time you sit down for a meal. Don’t you realize that it’s a scam?” Denny says nothing, just shakes his head. “And what’s Thompson’s commission?”
“Excuse me?”
“If the doctor recommended them, you can bet he’s getting a cut. Unscrupulous doctors team up with the diet industry all the time. The doctors always get a commission. They become de facto salesmen of the products. I wouldn’t trust that doctor if I were you.”
“Gabby…” Denny huffs. “Not everything is a big conspiracy, okay?”
I’m losing my cool. “You’re never going to lose the weight, so lighten up and eat a damned cheeseburger once in a while. Jesus.” I don’t know how Denny will react. He just looks at me through glasses smudged with fingerprints. I can hear him breathing.
“Don’t you care, Gabby? I just told you that I have diabetes and you’re asking me if I want a cheeseburger. It’s like you didn’t even hear me.”
I kind of want to punch him in the nuts. Of course I care. He’s my Denny. He means the whole world to me. “Hon, I care very deeply about you. And that’s why I want you to be yourself.”
He sits down at the table next to me. “I am being myself,” he says softly. “I’m not going to change. I’ll still be me. I just need your support. It’s hard to lose weight when the person you live with is always trying to feed you stuff you know you’re not supposed to eat. This is a big lifestyle change. I should have done it years ago. Can you support me?”
I nod. “Of course. Of course I support you. I just don’t support weight loss goals and junk science. I won’t be your cheerleader if you choose the nonsensical path of dieting. It only leads to self-destruction. “
“Wow. I knew you were into fat acceptance. I mean, it’s all you ever talk about. You’re like the Jesse Jackson of fat people. But I never knew you were this gung-ho about it.”
I slap his hand on the table. “I’m gung-ho because it matters. Look, the chances of you losing the weight and keeping it off are tiny. You’ll end up in a cycle of yo-yo dieting just like half of America. Don’t do that to yourself. If the doctor recommends losing weight, ask him why he would advise a treatment that has a 95 percent failure rate. If he can’t answer that, then find a new doctor. This Dr. Thompson sounds like a real loser.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to have a fight every time we sit down for a meal.”
“Then knock this shit off,” I say. “Take my advice. I’ve studied this stuff thoroughly. Dieting’s a scam. Eat what you want and live you damned life.”
For a moment, I think I’m getting through to him. I can almost see the gears turning inside his head. He’s getting it! He removes his glasses and squeezes the bridge of his nose where the nosecaps have made little pink intrusions. “I…”
“Don’t let some doctor make you hate yourself.”
“No, Gabby. I think I’m going to do what Dr. Thompson tells me to do.” He stands and approaches the freezer, flinging it open and reaching for a meal that closely resembles a block of ice. “I’m going to have this for dinner. If you’re so stuck on Red Robin, be my guest. Go chow down on bottomless fries all you want.”
“Alone?”
“Ask Millie, or just get a burger to go. I don’t care. Do what you want. You love being fat, so just go hog wild, okay? Eat burgers till you puke, then eat one more.”
I’m appalled at his attitude. One of the great myths about fat liberationists is that we “love being fat”. That’s not true at all. It’s impossible to be fat and happy in the current climate of anti-fat hostility. We’d like some day to be fat and happy but that day hasn’t arrived yet. Fat liberation isn’t about rejoicing in our fatness, it’s about accepting our bodies. I can’t believe that Denny and I have been together this long and he still holds such an egregious misconception.
I shoot to my feet and grab my purse and coat from the chair. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that,” I spit.
“Sure. Why not, right? No use trying to lose weight ‘cause you might fail. Better to just eat till you have to buy a scooter to get around the house.”
I flash Denny a middle finger. In all of our five years together, I have never flipped him the bird. I suppose that’s because I’ve never been this upset with him. He’s trying to shame me just like every other weight loss huckster the world has ever known. “Denny, you’re too much,” I say, throwing on my winter coat. “Good luck with your new diet.”
I crash out into the cold winter evening, tears stinging my eyes. I get into my Sentra and crank it. Tears are coming down my face. I don’t want Denny to see me this way. I need food. I don’t know if it’s Red Robin that I’m craving, but I need something. I just don’t know what’s gotten into him. I slam it into reverse and take off. I’ll stay gone till it’s late.
* * *
Diets don’t work.
I’ve tried to convince Denny of this, but thus far my words have been futile. He doesn’t care what I have to say. He doesn’t care what science has to say either.
Going on a diet necessarily implies a finite period of time. All diets have a beginning and an end. Most diets begin when a person has had enough humiliation that she decides she wants to drop some pounds. Most diets end with one of two possible outcomes—either the person quits in frustration because she’s not seeing results, or she quits in celebration because she’s lo
st what she wants to lose. In either case, the diet is not maintained. Once the person strays from the diet, she almost always returns to her old, well-worn eating habits. Think about my experiment with the silly cabbage soup diet. Is it possible to eat only cabbage soup for the duration of my time on this earth?
In almost all cases, the dieter returns to an even heavier weight simply by eating the same old foods in the same old portions. Experiments with lab rats have shown that rats lose weight when put on a diet. No surprise there. But the key to understanding dieting happens when the rats are taken off the diet.
Once they return to eating the same stuff in the same portions, they gain it all back and then some. Their bodies respond to depravation by slowing down the metabolism. The body’s furnace doesn’t burn quite as hot as it used to, meaning that it consumes fuel (calories) at a slower rate. In most cases, ex-dieters regain so quickly because the diets they just came off of have robbed them of lean muscle tissue. Less muscle means fewer calories burned.
The diet industry is well aware of this natural biological function and they revel in it. The same customers come back to them time and time again, trying to lose the same twenty, fifty, or a hundred pounds. No skin off their backs, they’ll just keep taking the money.
Losing and regaining and re-losing; that’s the cycle the diet industry wants to put us through. Unfortunately for the rest of us, this kind of rollercoaster ride takes its toll on our bodies. Call it dieting whiplash, if you will. Studies have shown that dieting causes a severe shock to the system that eventually leads to hypertension. Fatties don’t keel over and die because of “obesity” but because of the supposed remedy.
Doctors call it “weight cycling”, but most people know it by its more common name, yo-yo dieting. Up and down, down and up. In jest, I refer to it as the rhythm method of girth control. The same person spends six months a year trying to lose weight and the other six months gaining it back. It’s not just expensive, it’s also dangerous.
Oprah Winfrey knows a thing or two about yo-yo dieting. In 1988, she shocked her audience by wheeling a Radio Flyer wagon full of animal fat onto the set to represent the sixty-seven pounds she had lost using the Optifast diet. She showcased her new 142 pound body in a pair of Calvin Klein jeans she’d been dying to slip back into. The audience went wild with delight. What an “accomplishment”!
During her long struggle to lose sixty-seven pounds, she consumed only four hundred calories a day, which is pretty darned close to starvation. That’s one fifth of the two thousand calories that the FDA recommends that the average person consume, and even that recommendation is low. (Few people eat only two thousand calories in a day. It’s very unrealistic.) Worse yet, she did it with a protein shake diet that was essentially an updated version of Dr. Linn’s last chance diet. Safer than Dr. Linn’s, but still not safe.
At least she can admit that her “diet” was more like self-imposed starvation. “I had literally starved myself for four months—not a morsel of food,” she said. That’s right, she survived on shakes for four whole months. Keep in mind, she was under a doctor’s supervision. So it must be healthy, right? A doctor wouldn’t allow a patient to go on some faddish kamikaze diet. Of course not. Doctors only prescribe “sensible” methods for weight loss.
Oprah didn’t keep it off. Two weeks after returning to solid food, she regained ten pounds. “My metabolism was shot,” she admitted. Uh, duh! Within three and a half years, she had rocketed up to 237 pounds, her highest weight ever. That’s right, she gained back even more than she had lost on the diet, an experience most dieters are well acquainted with. Remember the lab rats. That year, she happened to win the Daytime Emmy, her third, for her show. Oprah later reminisced, “I didn’t want to get out of the chair to go accept the award.”
These days, Oprah maintains a fairly svelte figure with the help of a personal chef and personal trainer. It’s easier to keep the weight off when you’re the wealthiest black woman in the world. But for average women struggling to live on paltry wages, there’s almost no chance that they will keep it off like she does. Oprah should wear a placard around her neck with the following legal disclaimer: “Results not typical”.
It’s too bad, because I really like Oprah. I sometimes watch her show when I call out sick from work. She has a winning personality. To me, her life story is inspirational. I think it’s cool that an African-American woman born to impoverished, unwed, teenage parents in Mississippi can amass her own media empire. I think she’s a positive role model. I just wish she’d get off the weight loss kick.
Oprah could do such wonderful things if she used her superpowers for good rather than evil. Okay, I’ll admit that for the most part, she does use her superpowers for good, advancing a lot of noble causes, with one glaring exception—she promotes dieting. Rather than inspiring millions of women to lose weight, she could inspire millions of women to accept their bodies. Rather than helping fat people lose weight in order to gain societal approval, she could just as easily turn the spotlight around on our ingrained fatphobia. I just know that her immense influence could change hearts and minds for the better. We’d all be better off if she ditched the “Lose weight and be happy” message in favor of something more fat positive. How about “Be happy at any weight”?
Unfortunately, she’s never taken up that cause. Instead, she’s foisted Dr. Phil McGraw upon America. What an evil, evil man. Geez, am I the only one who’s noticed that Dr. Phil’s kind of a fatass himself? And this guy’s the weight loss “expert”? Give me a break. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Oh, Oprah…you could do so much for fat people’s rights. When gays came on your show and audience members had ignorant things to say about it, you didn’t advise the gays to change. You decided that you had to work hard to change society’s attitudes towards gay people. Can’t you do that for us fat people? It would mean the world to me and it’s also the right thing to do.
First, fire Dr. Phil. Ship the bum back to Texas. Weight loss gurus are scum. Second, fire the trainer and the chef. Your figure was purchased with more cash than most women will ever see in a lifetime. It offers them false hope that they can be like you too. Then eat like a regular human being. Your viewers need to see women who look like them in prominent positions. You could be the poster girl for fat chicks everywhere, but instead you’ve chosen to be the poster girl for diet obsession. Knock it off already.
Part Two: May 2010
Chapter Eleven:
The Fat Ninja
We hardly talk anymore. Living with Denny is like living with a complete stranger. The wedge that’s been driven between us is deeper than I ever expected.
We don’t share meals anymore either. Eating with Denny used to be the highlight of my day. Sometimes he cooked, sometimes I did. Sometimes we went out and got a bite. Meal time was a great opportunity to catch up on our day and do something that we both enjoyed: eating. Denny, a chef by trade, has quite the repertoire of fantastic recipes: pork chops à la Greque, impossible cheeseburger pie, shrimp quesadillas, alfredo pasta, lobster corn chowder, and chicken francaise. He has a meat lasagna that’s to die for. Sometimes he’d break out the Bisquik on Sunday mornings and surprise me with chocolate chip pancakes; and if I was really lucky, he’d lay a dollop of real whipped cream on top. Since being diagnosed with diabetes, he’s retired all of my favorites. We cook and eat separately.
I frequently grab something on the way home from work. If I’m going to be eating by myself anyway, I don’t see the point in cooking anything. There’s a Chinese place I like, they have great General Tso’s. Sometimes I just make a run for the border—Taco Bell is one of my favorites, especially the cheesy gordita crunch.
I don’t bother Denny while he’s eating. He usually eats his frozen meals by himself, at work or while playing chess on the internet. Sometimes he eats and watches Jeopardy!
I think this is how divorces start. Denny and I wouldn’t need a divorce since we’ve never been legally mar
ried, but I think any breakup, at this point, would have the full impact of a divorce. In my mind, he’s been my husband for quite some time. A divorce by any other name is still a divorce.
There’s a barrier between us. He’s on his side and I’m on mine. We’re hunkering down for the long fight. As the days pass, the barrier between us becomes higher and more impenetrable, thicker and more fortified. If this keeps up much longer, I think this barrier might end up looking like the Berlin Wall—tall and menacing with barbed wire along the top, armed men perched in observation towers with orders to shoot to kill. Toss in a few really mean dogs, bearing their razor sharp teeth for effect. This is how I imagine our relationship will be if this insane diet continues much longer.
He has lost weight, that’s undeniable. I can’t say how much because I haven’t asked. In fact, I don’t know how much he weighed before. It didn’t matter to me, not one damned bit. Just a number. I think he mentioned that it was over four hundred, but I had no desire to know the exact number.
His pants are falling off of him. He cinches his belt tightly around the middle because he has so much slack in his jeans. When I hold him in bed at night, I can tell that there’s less of him. He’s still a substantial human being, but there used to be so much more. Sleeping next to Denny used to feel like sleeping next to a side of beef, but no longer. His face is thinner. His butt has shrunk. His shoulders are less meaty.
The Denny I once knew is transforming before my very eyes. He’s starting to look like someone who just happens to be very large, not quite in the same category as me. If he continues to drop pounds at this rate, he’ll arrive at the thinner side of fat before Halloween.
He thinks he can keep it off. He doesn’t know that losing weight is relatively easy in comparison to keeping it off. What’s he going to do—eat ten dollar frozen meals for the rest of his life? No, he won’t do that. One of these days, after he’s lost a whole bunch of weight, when he thinks he’s finally out of the woods, he’ll start eating like a regular damned person. And when he does, it will creep back. It happens to nearly everyone. The pounds he lost will revisit him, crushing his false hopes of ever being thin. And when that happens, I’ll be there for him. I’ll catch him when he falls. But I might have to throw a few I-told-you-so’s in his direction.
We Are Fat and We Are Legion Page 8