GIGI GOES GAGA

I DO, I DIE(T)

Deciding to get married should be like deciding to begin a diet. You make the decision because you believe that your good life will become better if you do -- and not because you're imperfect or flawed if you don't. If you've chosen to do either thinking that you're a bad person, then getting married or losing weight will not change your self-esteem in any significant way. You'll only be altering your outward circumstances. On the inside, how you feel about yourself will ultimately be dependent on a number.

Before you begin you need to understand that both require tremendous effort, infinite patience, and some kind of uncomfortable spending spike. You'll need to brandish a plan of action and keep daily lists in order to reach your stated goal. It requires the support and encouragement of all the people you care about, especially on those days when you feel hopeless and helpless or that you might possibly go insane. And when you do achieve your goal you may feel the same but part of you says that something's essentially changed.

That day your achieve your weight goal is like your wedding day. Everything seems to be about you: everyone around you will congratulate you on a job well done and wish you good luck and happiness for the future. You look at yourself in the mirror and feel like you're at your most beautiful -- and most people will probably agree. It's also all about this day, about how your life was turned upside down and sideways for months on end, only so that it would be just like this. Maybe you're already thinking about the next few days, about the things you still need to do, but at this point everything still appears to be related to The Big Day that just passed.

Marriage is equivalent to the maintenance phase of your diet, where you have to keep doing all the good things you've learned to do so that hopefully you won't have to stop and start all over again -- and this time with the knowledge, borne of experience, that what you thought would be the end point is actually where you truly begin. It's where all the fanfare has passed and no one seems to be watching; in fact the only time people seem to notice anything is when you're obviously struggling, faltering even failing. The only person who realizes that maintaining your weight is so difficult because you're battling tedium, perhaps even missing the absence of such clear-cut, well-defined goals, is you. Beyond the day-to-day you wonder if there's something else you might or should be doing. Sometimes you ask yourself: what next?

The difference, however, is that you are solely responsible for your diet. It's all under your control. But marriage takes two people. You can have all the discipline, perseverance, positive outlook and optimism that you know is required to make it work, but you just can't make up for what the other person lacks or isn't willing to do. Sometimes it even fails despite your best efforts and intentions. But then it also succeeds.

Dieticians famously measure success according to the number of years a dieter maintains his or her weight. In a way, that's also how traditional society evaluates the success of a marriage, too. But one thing I've learned is that marriage is not a number; it's not about how long a couple can keep it together and celebrate wedding anniversaries or how many children are produced and raised. For me its success is about many, many things that can't be outwardly measured or quantified, and can only be determined by the two people within it. Even when it ends, no matter how short or long it lasted, no one else can say if it was worth all the time, effort, and expense. No one else but you.

And here's another thing I can say about marriage and dieting: the decision to do either one is solely up to you, not because people are saying you should. You are perfect whether or not you do, just as you are. If anyone else seems to be truly concerned about marriage or weight loss, they should simply pay attention to their own. If you give in to the expectations of others and you fail at either, I assure you that they will not carry your burden. It will be yours alone to bear.

Last word. Even if you fail, even if your marriage ends or you gain all the weight back, you are not a failure. No one said life was all about being married or being thin after all.

 

 

 

BIG GIRL

I don't think I'll ever forget the moment that night, after I stood up from his bed in my chambray nightshirt to walk across the room and grab my bag on top of the chair beside the TV stand and then back again. I remember feeling his eyes watch my every step intently as I pretended not to notice. As I plopped back on the mattress and sat beside him, my eyes now searching the vast caverns of the leather satchel on my lap for a tiny lip balm tube, he said, a matter-of-factly and without breaking his glance, "For a big girl, you're pretty lithe."

I was tempted at that moment to mention which parts of his body were not so big and what he couldn't do with them, but I'm never cruel even when I'm decidedly annoyed. So I looked up at him instead and asked pointedly though not quite indignantly, "I'm a big girl?" He then fumbled with his words, realizing that his backhanded compliment was about to slap him in his face, and stammered, "Well, what I meant was that you're not petite -- you know, you're not bony or skinny, like..." Like the other women he normally dated, he meant but couldn't say.

The truth is that while I've never considered myself thin (even during that blip in history when I was 5'4" and 100 lbs.), I've never thought I was at the other extreme either. I suppose I've always been somewhere in the middle, with the exact location completely dependent on who I happen to be standing next to or even where I'm at. In other words, it's always been relative. For instance, when I'm sipping my latte inside a hipster coffee spot, I feel like a linebacker in leggings next to the picture-perfect natives who look like they subsist only on caffeine. But when I enter a McDonald's situated beside a truck stop in the middle of "Next stop: gas, food, and lodging," I can't help but notice that I take up less space at the counter.

Yes, my doctor prefers that I lose a bit of weight for health reasons, and I'm working on it. In the meantime I take comfort in the fact that I can still fit into clothes sold at trendy boutiques where women with sharp cheekbones and protruding clavicles are the dominant species (although if truth be told, I often wear the largest size there, which to no surprise is usually available). Recently, I felt a simultaneous swelling of pride and guilt when a trainer said during my physical evaluation that I looked athletic (my muscular calves fool everybody else but me). But then again, I have to admit that I dread stepping up onto a weighing scale, especially in public, and I refuse to allow anyone to carry me even if it means possibly saving my life.

So maybe I am a big girl. Or at least I'm big enough so there's no way I can disappear into the background or pretend to be invisible. It's not easy to push me aside and I can't fit into a small box. When I walk my steps have substance and when I'm on the move others may have to move out of the way. See, the one thing about being a big girl is that no one can possibly call me little.

I regret that on that night I didn't have the perfect retort -- which incidentally I only found tonight. As one of the female stars of a new reality show swaggered on camera: "Once you go big, you'll never go twig."

Oh, and another regret: That I allowed him to make me feel so small.

 

 

 

SHAPE SHIFTING

I'm trying to find my shape again (and, yes, I'm perfectly aware that round is a shape, too). For the past 10 years I've been trying to lose the same amount of weight; instead, I lose and gain it back over and over again. I have an extensive wardrobe consisting of clothes in all the different sizes I wear during my perpetual weight cycle -- I never stay in one size long enough to wear out any of my garments and so I can reach for them again whenever I have to.

I used to be able to lose five or more pounds in a week simply by depriving myself of food. That, in a nutshell, is my problem. I always knew that no matter how big I got, I could lose it using a combination of temporary starvation and my normal nervous energy (I fidget a lot and I'm never still even if I appear to be). But now I'm at the age when everything that used to work no longer does, and I'm not used to actually doing any kind of real work to stay physically healthy or fit so nothing works right now.

The last time I was at my goal weight was in 1995. My friend J asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding and I didn't want to be the only tubby one in the pictures. So I lost 30 lbs. in less than three months and everyone was saying how fabulous I looked. I loved how I looked in clothes again and dressed in what I wanted to wear rather than in what simply looked good on me. Obviously I started putting on the pounds pretty quickly, and 10 years later I weighed the heaviest I'd ever been in my life. Fortunately since then I've adopted a few better habits that have kept me from getting to that point ever again. I don't even own any clothes in that size anymore.

So lately I've been eating healthier and moving more -- no drastic steps, just little ones that I keep adding to my daily routine. But now I'm ready to go full speed ahead and start seeing results that inspire me. I won't bore you with details -- I mean, who cares to know what I eat or don't eat, or how many miles I walk a day? Here's what I will say, however:

1. I don't care about being able to get into a bikini. Even in the days when I was told I had a hot bod (1986-1987, just for the record) I never wore one. So why start now?

2. Therefore, I don't aspire for a six-pack or any kind of ripping in my ab area. No one's going to see it anyway. I want sculpted biceps and triceps, though. I don't have loose skin flapping around in that area now (thank heavens for small favors), but I want to look like I can beat up anybody who says I look fat even when I've achieved my fitness goals. This is because...

3. I want to stay curvy; I like my boobs and my ass because even at my age they don't sag. I just don't want to lose so much weight that my face sinks in and starts looking old. Do you know why older celebrities and society women start injecting all kinds of strange substances into their faces and chests to plump 'em up? Because they're too skinny, that's why. But for some reason people these days seem to think curvy means fat. No way -- they all can watch my hips swish beguilingly as I turn my back on them and sashay away.

4. I told my friends that I've broken up with a bunch of really yummy foods that I'm going to miss and most of them tell me that I don't have to, that all I need to do is maintain a healthy relationship with them. Well, I already thought I was, so I'm going to have to compare my recent decision to that of breaking up with a boyfriend. It only hurts so bad because it hurt so good, and if I stick around it won't be good for me in the long run. Eventually, when the time is right and when I get myself under control, I may be able to ring up the troublemaker for a booty call now and then and not suffer any serious consequences. But in the meantime I say to thee, "It's not you, it's me" -- and I'm outie.

See you all in my skinny jeans soon.

BACK AT THE GYM

I went to my personal training session today. My trainer's name is Elvis; he's a sweet kid and I can't stop staring at his nicely-sculpted biceps. Perhaps I'll get over my strange fascination for them when I develop my own.

For 30 minutes he made me do various exercises to gauge my fitness level. When we were done, none of his observations were a surprise to me:

1. I have strong arms and legs.
2. My core is OK.
3. I have weak shoulders.
4. My sense of balance sucks (all right, he didn't actually say this. But he made me do squats while atop this oddly-shaped dome thingy that functioned like a torture device and my knees wouldn't stop shaking. I kept at it only because he told me to hang on to his arms -- which gave me an excuse to stare some more at his biceps.)

Let me be clear about this: I hate exercise, I always have. Of course, each time I go the gym or do anything remotely athletic I never regret it afterwards and the endorphin rush actually feels pretty good. But it's the getting to the gym or the courts that I dread, and that's already half the battle lost.

Oh -- and the sweating. I might be the only person alive, in fact, who exercises in a way so as not to perspire. I actually thanked -- in writing -- the persons who were responsible for purchasing the treadmills with those little fans on the control panel -- which I blast full-force at my face when I'm doing my run-walk thing.

But I know I need to be active, if only for health reasons, so I do whatever I need to keep moving. For instance, in the mid-90s I was determined to regain my '80s body and so I hired a trainer. He kicked my butt but he was eye candy so I put up with him and his sadistic ways. Still, I'm actually too shy to hit on anyone -- especially someone who's seen me looking like a soaking wet, ragged puppy -- so I never let on that I thought he was hot.

For instance, he used to make me do squats while standing really close to him, face-to-face, so close I'd feel his breath on my cheeks as he barked directions my way; he'd instruct me to hold on to his hands as I propelled myself downwards until I was studying his knees and while I pulled myself up until I was once again staring into his deep azure eyes. I swear I never looked at any part of his body in-between (OK so maybe I'd peek when he wasn't looking at me.)

So today as Elvis stood facing down at me, my back flat on an exercise mat, legs straight up and resting on his impossibly hard chest as he held my feet together, I cringed at the thought of how I now looked to him as I dutifully did my sit-ups. I visualized myself turning more red-faced by the second, mouth slightly open as I focused on my breathing, and beads of sweat forming on my forehead and chest.

I'll be there for my next appointment with him, for sure -- but not because my constant view is pleasing and his breath smells sweet (I must ask him for the brand of his gum next time). He might seem a tad bit nicer than my other trainer, but he promised to torture me soundly if I ever skipped a session.

Although. If it means falling off that wobbly half-ball and into his arms countless times like I did today, maybe that won't be such a bad thing after all.

FITNESS FOLLY

My mailbox was crammed full of catalogues today. I regularly throw away about three-quarters of what I refer to as the devil's books (because they tempt me to buy things I don't need by convincing me I absolutely cannot live without them), and keep the truly evil ones, the ones I have no resistance to.

I look forward to my copies of Athleta and Title Nine -- both sell upscale fitness wear and performance gear displayed on real athletes or at least truly athletic models. If I've written anything truly ironic in my life, this was just it. I've never been a jock; if there were such a thing as someone flunking kickball in grade school, that would have been me. And, I swear, I can't dribble a basketball and I still don't know how to ride a bike. At least a bike that actually touches the ground and moves from one place to another; to my credit I can handle a stationary one just fine.

I dream of being athletic and fit, which means I constantly visualize myself climbing a mountain or kayaking through a raging river. I also visualize the mountain and the river staring at me and yelling "Don't do it!" for fear I will perish in their midst. I signed up for the SELF Challenge three weeks ago, but have yet to begin Day One. Nonetheless, I keep all their motivational emails in my inbox and am planning to start reading them when I finally get off this chair, throw away all junk food in the cupboard, and bolt for the gym.

Unlike many of the young women I encounter nowadays, I have no desire to be skinny in a model-like way -- you know, 5'9" and 115 lbs. Now I'm not one to scream "eating disorder" when I see them on the pages of the fashion magazines I read; I have no right to judge. But if you've actually seen these models in person, you've already discovered they are even skinnier and bonier than they appear in photographs. They look great on a runway or on the pages of a glossy magazine, but when I see one up close, my instinct is to offer her a sandwich (not in a mean evil-bitch way but truly, truly out of concern, you see). OK -- right now I can almost feel Stacy's fingers nudging me on my shoulder, whispering, "But Giselle Bundchen looks even more perfect in person." The only retort I have for that is, well, life isn't fair. Unless you're Giselle.

I want muscles. I don't care if I look like a runner or a swimmer, a gymnast or a beach volleyball professional -- I just want muscles. I want to be strong and powerful. I want to be able to strut in my tank top, lower-rise jeans, and flipflops -- perfectly formed muscles further defined with each movement I make -- ready to run, jump, climb, dodge, or dive at a moment's notice. I want to be so muscular and strong that if some idiot dares comment I look like a man, I can immediately punch the daylights out of him without breaking a single freshly-manicured nail.

And that's really why I hold on to these catalogues until next season's issues are in the mailbox. I truly believe Athleta's Pilayo stretch fabric will help me scale a towering wall with ease and that their tankini top will help me stay vertical on a surfboard longer than humanly possible (although truth be told I consider myself an indoor fish -- that is, if fish can spend their days lounging on a yacht).

So now you understand why I consider these catalogues evil. Not only do they arouse my covetous nature, but they also deceive me to believe all things are truly possible. Including the idea I can get up at 5:00 am to catch an hour's workout before heading off to work. Now that scenario is simply inconceivable. Lies, lies, lies.

But I still keep hoping, just like I hoped two months ago that I'd hit the gym at least thrice a week. Maybe what I really need is a new pair of sneakers to help motivate me to break them in. These might do the trick, you think? Ugh, temptation and deception keeps pulling me in -- and I can't seem to pull back. I guess I just don't have the muscles to help me resist. So I might as well give in.

TORMENTED BY HOPE

Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

For so long I've clung to hope, but today I finally had to let go.

Perhaps "let go" is not entirely correct. Yanked continuously while I struggled and thrashed about until only the skin of my fingertips were left behind is perhaps more accurate.

I had my metabolic rate tested this morning. I went in to get my thyroid screened, and the technician said I had a "bilaterally borderline shrunken thyroid," which could suggest an imbalance (but not necessarily, he added). I nodded, explaining to him that I can't seem to lose any more weight and my hormones are all wacko. So he suggested we look into my metabolism -- perhaps if we discovered it was slow then I'd know what I needed to do so I could finally drop the extra pounds.

Aha I knew it! I've been cursing at my slow metabolism for years, and today I was going to stare face-to-face at my oppressor and beat it down. I breathed by mouth into a tube for less than 20 minutes until the machine beeped to signal my results were ready. The technician told me to sit while he printed out the report, and when he was done he sat across from me and studied the findings. He looked serious, brow furrowed in deep thought, and then he looked at me. It's OK, I communicated with him telepathically, just give me the news -- I can handle it -- and then I'll get tested further for hypothyroidism.

"You have a really fast metabolism," he declared. My head spinned and then my jaw dropped. Did I hear him correctly? Does he need glasses? Was he trying to be funny? Nothing in my life had prepared me for the shock of this moment. Suddenly I had an urge to stick the tube up his... (OK, breathe. Calm now).

I suddenly remembered all my memories of wishful thinking. High School, junior year: Cecile is stricken by intestinal flu and loses 15 pounds -- I hear it's contagious and suddenly I want what she has. College, late 1980s: a classmate gets into an accident and has his jaw wired. For weeks he can only ingest through a straw and quickly becomes as thin as his instrument of sustenance; I investigate ways I can break my jaw until I realize there's no way to do it without experiencing pain. 1997: Phen-fen fever. I make an appointment to see the doctor when news erupts about the medication's connection with heart valve damage, and all Phen-fen dispensing clinics are shut down. My last bastion of hope was a problematic thyroid. Now all hope is forever gone.

Yep, apparently my metabolism -- despite my advancing age -- is 26% higher than the average person's. "You need to cut down your calories and start exercising -- vigorously, I suggest, " he said. Yeah -- and you need to wax that unibrow, I thought in retaliation. He continued, "If you keep your caloric intake to between 1498 to 1872 a day, you will definitely lose weight. In fact, if you exercise at even just a moderate level for 30 minutes five days a week, you can get to your goal weight in just 22 weeks."

Whaaaattt? You mean I eat more than 1872 calories every day? Me -- whose office roommate accuses of not eating? Me -- who limits myself to no more than two sugar-free Mint Milano cookies a day? How am I possibly ingesting all these calories -- through osmosis?

He showed me the charts: his eyes are fine, and the facts are exactly as he stated. I read the disclaimer all the way at the bottom stating that if I was not in a restful state during the test, the results could be affected and I may need to repeat the procedure. I suddenly remember: the entire time the tube was in my mouth, I was intently focusing on my yoga breathing exercises. Exercise is not restful. Maybe I need a retest.

WHEN THE RAT ATE THE FLY

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I work for the 4th largest chain of fitness clubs in the country. Of course, one of my employee benefits is I have free access to any of our gyms; I can even bring up to two additional persons with me at any time (just in case I ever find it necessary to bring a workout partner and perhaps a bodyguard, I suppose). The nearest club is only about three miles away from home. We have terrific facilities (plasma TV sets and smooth maple lockers in the locker room, and the newer clubs even have treadmills each equipped with their own TV monitor and fan).

Despite all these wonderful amenities, I can't remember the last time I entered one of our gyms. No -- REALLY -- I can't remember. And it's not because I'm sneaking off to work out at a competitor's facility either. For the last few months my idea of exercise has been running up and down the stairs at home when I remember to get something from either floor. I also park a bit further away from where I need to go just so I can take a few more steps to and from the car, and when I emerge with shopping bags in each hand, I do a few sets of bicep curls.

So with 2005 only two days away, it's time again to make my health and fitness resolutions. Of course, I make them every year (actually, a few times a year) and I do OK for the first week or so -- and then I drop off. I remind myself of the fly on the glass door that Anthony Robbins always talks about in his late-night infomercial: the fly wants to get to the other side of the glass and keeps trying to go through, with obviously no success. The stupid fly never thinks of going over or under the glass, or even to the side of it. No, it just keeps doing the same thing over and over again and expects a different result each time.

I try to find inspiration from various folks I know who have been much more successful, just to tell myself it can be done by others like myself (or better yet, who are in even worse shape). One year, Allan was my hero; he lost more than 50 lbs. just by exercising to Billy Blanks' Tae Bo tapes daily. When our friend Ana asked what motivated him to do this, he said it was because he wanted to find his true shape. "But a circle's a shape too!" an indignant Ana responded. Amen to that, my sister!

Another year it was Victoria who inspired me. She worked at Lane Bryant, where she wore the same size as her customers. But she pulled a double disappearing act: she lost 75 lbs. -- and also lost all her clients in the process. But she kept off the weight, and found work at another store that carried her new size (now a 4-6).

I just found my new inspiration -- Craig, a sales rep for one of my moving company vendors. When I first met him, you could have hidden two of me inside him. You knew he never actually did any moving for his company because there was no way he could climb stairs or bend down to pick up a box. But he started working out at one of our clubs daily, and after one year has lost 45 lbs. He paid me a visit the other day; I went out to the lobby to look for him and thought he had taken a trip to the restroom. Then I saw him smiling at me when I turned around -- I walked right past him as he sat on the sofa waiting! I thought to myself: I can still pick up heavy boxes and walk up and down stairs without losing my breath, so if he could do it, then so could I surely.

But I've learned that these success stories are only enough to get me started; it's my follow-through that sucks. Somehow I always find a reason to get annoyed when at the gym -- so I disappear and don't return until my next lightbulb moment. For instance, when I'm at an aerobics-type class, there's always that show-off in front who's propelled by hyperdrive and still spinning around when everyone else is in the middle of cool-down. Annoying.

When I try to go to the gym right after work, the cardio area reeks of sweat and testosterone, and worse, of heady Oriental/spicy fragrance that some woman poured all over herself that morning. After 15 minutes I'm not sure if I'm feeling woozy and lightheaded because my heart's not used to pumping so hard or because of the sharp aroma stabbing at my lungs. Most definitely annoying.

And when I try to go in the middle of the morning (sorry, no matter how motivated I am, I just cannot get up early enough to drag myself to the gym before 7 am), I'm surrounded by strippers and rich, young stay-at-home wives (often I cannot tell the difference between the two, especially since Orange County is the new Silicon Valley -- and I'm certainly not talking about computer chips). It's pretty disheartening to see myself in the mirror with no makeup on, hair bunched up atop my head with a huge plastic clip, looking like I'm ready to clean the bathroom -- as Malibu Barbie smiles radiantly beside me in her bursting-to-the-brim bra top and bike shorts, arms and abs perfectly sculpted, stretching her endless set of legs that lead the eye up to her small, tight, round butt. What's often humiliating is that Barbie can lift heavier weights than I can, even if at first glance it looks like my bulky frame can whoop her ass any day. Now that's just f**king annoying.

January is the busiest time of the year for the fitness industry, because of millions of folks like me. Gym rats, for that reason, hate that time of the year because it means they have to wait longer to use the equipment, or bang elbows with uncoordinated newbies who don't know what they're doing. They strut around the gym looking like tomcats staking their territory, with an undisguised sneer beneath their protruding cheekbones. There's a reason they're called rats after all.

But because I'm a committed optimist, on Sunday --without fail -- I'll get up and step into my trainers, put my hair up, barely take a glance at my bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived bloated face and walk into the gym looking like I'm about to clean the equipment rather than use it. I'll probably get an overwhelming whiff of the odor of alcohol mingled with the usual smells steaming out of pores, resist all urge to whack the aerobics show-off at the knees, and ignore Barbie and her rat cohorts.

And I'll keep telling myself that if I keep at it, I might look like Barbie a bit more by summer, and ignore dirty looks being shot my way. When the day comes that I'm ready to face my reflection on a dressing room mirror inside a swimsuit store, I'll be magnanimous. I'll never be a rat; but at least I won't be a fly either.