Fat Was My Friend Until I Outgrew It
Author Wendy Giman had a revelation about her weight. (Photo: Carl Kelsch)
A few months ago an overweight friend declared she was giving up desserts. When I saw her next, she told me that the effort was short-lived, and she still has a sugar problem. “I am so fat,” she confessed. “I have at least 100 pounds to lose.” She admitted it wasn’t just sugar that got her there. But she didn’t seem to know where to begin. It was obvious this kind, resourceful and beautiful woman was both fat and frustrated. Not a good combination for making a change.
I gave her a different perspective on the problem telling her that fat is a freaking undeclared, unacknowledged hero. “You are a brilliant woman, and obviously this fat has a purpose. You’re holding on to it. It serves you somehow.” She was completely blown away. Fat is the number-one enemy on so many fronts, from health to beachwear. How could it be useful for anything?
It’s taken me almost two years to realize that my fat is my friend. Even though I’m completely embarrassed that I gained weight, I admit it served a purpose. Fat has protected me. From the craziness of a dysfunctional workplace to a bad boyfriend, fat has been a sort of best friend—always there when I need it and even when I don’t. Literally, the weight gave me extra weight, more significance, at times when I felt like I don’t exist or matter.
I wasn’t fat in The Biggest Loser way. I could find clothes that’ll fit me (though not great). I don’t drive through Taco Bell three times a day buying dozens of tacos for a quick snack. Then again, maybe I would if they tasted better and I owned a car.
On reality shows, people need to lose the weight of an entire adult or even two. I just needed to shed a normal-sized fifth grader. I had a solid 60 pounds to lose—a little more than a third of my weight.
I was willing to carry this fifth grader because my fat listened to me more than I listened to myself. I gained about 20 pounds in a job with a tyrannical boss. By the second week on the job, I’d spend five minutes every day in the supply closet—among letterhead and back issues—to cry. I’d just sob. It went on for about eight years. I was so good at masking this dread; everyone thought I loved the job.
I buried my ambition and intelligence as well as dignity. In turn, being fat made me somewhat invisible and less threatening in an atmosphere that equated looks and style with currency and power. It also made life easier with my insecure boss, who calculated every crumb that entered her mouth. In the contest of svelteness, she won—and that made my work life significantly easier.
Not just my professional life needed muting. I gained weight during a two-year relationship with a neurotic schoolteacher. This boyfriend ate only pretzels, rice soup, and Chinese chicken and broccoli. Despite enjoying a wide variety of foods and ethnic cuisines—as well writing popular culinary articles and developing inventive recipes—I adapted his eating habits. It may not be a supply closet, but I found the same of way of burying my desires—and my choices—in this relationship. So I got fatter. Although the 20 pounds I gained wasn’t from the Chinese food; it was from being inauthentic. Spending almost every night and weekends with the schoolteacher afraid of food. He also feared traveling, something I did extensively before meeting him. Sex didn’t interest him, and that made me feel even more rejected and hungry. He wasn’t the right fit for me.
Instead of moving on after six months, when I figured all this out, I stuck it out for two years and created my own barrier to his neuroses and perceived rejection—those extra pounds. Fat muted my desires and needs. I had buried myself; I wasn’t going to be unearthed too easily.
By the time I went to a folk-and-environment festival, my job had been eliminated and the boyfriend dropped me. I was free from both but still trapped in this long-standing relationship with fat. I wanted to soak in every aspect of this festival, but in reality, I felt weighed down. My layers of fat acted as barriers even to what I desired and needed. I wanted to change, but breaking up with a lifelong friend is tough. I didn’t really know how else to live. Food and my fat were security to me. I created this weight barrier much like a sea wall for land. It gave me a safe physical distance to people.
All these experiences—with work and love—were the same if taken at the most base level: I gave other people’s opinions and thoughts about me more importance than even my own thoughts. I would take as gospel what people said—good or bad. It was as if everyone was spouting the wisdoms of Yoda, Gandalf or even G-d. I filled my mind with other people’s ideas of me and my work. Of course I needed the protection of fat as a friend against all the opinions and constant slights I felt, from rejection of story pitches to romantic failures.
True help came in the most unexpected form. I was reading Frank Bruni’s biography on evolving from a fat kid to a svelte restaurant critic. Two things jumped out: He got turned down for sex (he hadn’t realized how undesirable he had become), and his friend gave him a few personal training sessions. I suddenly realized I wanted to be desirable. This may seem like a superficial answer to the internal angst, but in reality it was a perfect first step. I hired a beefy, good-looking trainer who cheered me on twice a week.
It became a domino effect. As I got stronger and more fit, I replaced the fat with muscle. I lost about 25 pounds and didn’t miss it. I felt the same significance in muscle that fat gave me. I had power but no longer the barrier. I felt braver to do the things that scared me, made me feel vulnerable. It became apparent that my extra weight helped me hide from decisions. I was ready for the ultimate test: dating.
I hit Tinder. Most online dating is like a gentle rain shower, but Tinder’s a storm. There’s a flurry of men and possibilities. In the past, I felt any bad date was a reflection on me—like the schoolteacher’s fears were somehow my fault.
As I lost weight, I shed the need to give everyone a million chances. It was hard at first, but that released me from using food as my post-date buddy. I didn’t care too much if a date was bad; I stopped blaming myself.
Working out served as a bridge to the new friend: me. The empowerment I initially felt from working out was reinforced and replaced with the joy I have in being authentic to myself. Instead of spending the energy (and calories) listening or asking for opinions and comments from others, I spend the time writing essays and creating scripts and story lines I have dreamed of for years but was too riddled with fear to move forward. Instead I would eat and dream. Now I act on my desires.
It’s true: Fat was my hero. It served me well. I wasn’t making decisions, and my fat shielded me. As I trapped myself in poor professional and personal relationships, it gave me comfort. It deadened the fear of change, since I was stuck. Then I realized it’s okay to be scared. I don’t need to be surrounded by fat. I don’t need to be protected from myself.
I am still full of fear, but I am no longer anchored by fat. Each pound I lose allows me to spend that much more energy pursuing my desires and to tell my stories. Fat isn’t needed anymore. It’s a friend I’ve outgrown, or, more accurately, one that no longer fits.
As for my pal who wanted to give up sweets, I am not sure if she made friends with her extra weight. If she has, I can promise her even better friends in the future.
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