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PrintFinale: Confessions of a traditionally built woman
It started in fifth grade. Well, probably before then, but fifth grade was the first time I remember being officially notified that I had joined the ranks of the less than petite. I’d gone to the doctor’s office for a physical, stepped on the scale (hereafter known as Nemesis) and weighed 140 pounds, even though I was only 5 foot 3.
That’s the only time I’ll tell my real weight. Ever. And if you look at my driver’s license, it says I weigh 125 pounds, which I actually did when I was 16. And as far as cashiers, cops and the world in general are concerned, that’s the truth. After all, my hair is still brown, thanks to monthly visits to the stylist.
My mother, a size 6, was horrified by my fifth-grade weigh-in, although the doctor rationalized it as “heavy bones.” Rightfully, Mother worried that I might take after certain family members whose “heavy bones” resulted in the tendency to be as wide as they were tall.
Around that time, the early 1960s, a woman named Jean Nidetch organized a group known as Weight Watchers, and I was enrolled when I was in seventh grade. My mother dutifully prepared (ugh) liver and onions every week per the diet’s requirements. I was strictly counseled as to which foods were “legal” and “illegal.” We also faced the Nemesis every week, in line, not unlike prisoners of war, watching as the person overseeing the process moved the balances on the scale before announcing our weight losses and gains—seasoning the diet with a dash of public humiliation.
In my teens and beyond, I was what they called a yo-yo dieter, gaining and losing the same 15, then 25, then 35 pounds. Having two kids didn’t help, either. By the time I was in my late 30s, however, I joined Jenny Craig and became more serious about nutrition, portion control and the right balance of foods. For many years I kept most of the weight off or at a reasonable bay.
But then life interfered—a divorce, an illness of a close family member, menopause—and while I continued to eat healthfully, I wasn’t so careful about portions. Sure, I exercised (walking, tennis, weight training and Zumba Fitness). I wasn’t in a terrible clothes size and I thought I looked OK, although every damn camera that captured my image was distorted. And I refused to face the Nemesis, turning my back on it every time I visited a doctor.
Then several weeks ago I had a physical, and my doctor walked into the examining room, looking grim. I had specifically instructed her not to tell me how much I weighed. But when her first words were, “I know you don’t want to talk about this,” I knew I was screwed. After the number came out, 25 pounds higher than expected, I also heard “Weight Watchers” and the rest was “blah-blah-blah.”
It would be nice if everyone would leave me alone about my weight. First my mother, now my physician! I like to eat, damn it, and was just getting comfortable with the whole traditionally built concept popularized by Alexander McCall Smith’s No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency mystery series. (For the record, I am far less traditionally built than the books’ heroine, Precious Ramotswe.) But little things like blood pressure, cholesterol and heart disease need to be considered, and also the fact that most cameras are functional. And it might be nice to wear a bathing suit without a skirt that comes to my kneecaps (although bikinis aren’t happening).
So that very night I went full circle and rejoined Weight Watchers. The 21st century version is kinder and gentler, thanks to digital scales and declarations of group (as opposed to individual) weight losses. It’s also a lot more flexible, with “Points Plus” assigned to foods based on protein, carbohydrates and dietary fiber content. That makes it relatively easy to follow, allowing for reasonable portions of just about anything—although deep-fried Snickers and Texas Tonions still probably should be avoided. Exercise and physical activity are emphasized, also a good thing. And you don’t even have to know your weight, as long as you quickly tuck your record of gains/losses into the back of the pocket guide provided to every member.
I’ve lost a few pounds—it’s coming off really slowly—and have no idea what my goal weight will be. (Sometimes it’s the journey and not the destination, right?) I now understand that I’ll have to face my Nemesis every week. One day I might even purchase one and let it into the bathroom. But first I think I’ll try bungee jumping or auditioning for “America’s Next Top Model.”
A freelance writer and author, Sandra Gurvis has two nonfiction books coming out in 2011 and recently completed her second novel, Country Club Wives.
