Designated Fat Girl (5 page)

My dream was to be a television reporter. But the reality of the dream was like living a nightmare—it was physically difficult to do the job, and the mental toll of carrying around such
anxiety was more than I could bear. Every day when I went to work, I expected to be called into the news director’s office and be fired. I honestly felt I was just as good as any reporter there, but my issues with my appearance undermined my confidence at every turn. In the end, convinced it was the only way to save a shred of dignity, I quit. I’d only worked the job for thirteen months, and it broke my heart to give it up, especially under those circumstances. I just felt I had no other choice. I told my news director I needed to concentrate on finishing school and on my new marriage. I didn’t mention my mounting weight, and thankfully, neither did he. He wished me well, and that was that. I left the job I had wanted more than anything.

I was sad to leave and ashamed that I was unable to get my weight under control and keep the job. But I honestly felt like it was a temporary setback; I never once, at that time, thought my television career was over. I just needed to retool, refocus, and get my life together. I was not doing well in school, having spent so much time on the road to my out-of-town job. And my brand-new marriage needed some tending to, as well. I calmed my fears by telling myself that this was a temporary sabbatical from the pursuit of my dreams.

As part of getting my school career back on track, I had to find an internship. I felt a little silly applying to a television station for a job; now that I had been paid to report, how could I go and work in an unpaid capacity, doing jobs that I thought were clearly below my skill level? Instead I decided to apply at a local radio station. Our broadcasting program had little in the way of hands-on radio training, and I thought it would be good to try my hand at it. Plus the station was only twenty minutes
from my house, a far cry from the huge commute of the television station. In the end I thought it would be an easy way to earn my internship credits and possibly learn a bit as well.

I ended up staying for five years.

The station had an oldies format on its FM side, and a sister AM station played adult contemporary music. At first all I had to do was log commercial times and help answer phones, nothing at all to do with actual broadcasting. But it didn’t take long to meet and get to know all the nice people who worked there, most of whom were more than willing to show me around the soundboard. Once my bosses learned of my news experience, I was given the chance to give morning news reports on the AM station. I had to get up at the crack of dawn, but I felt once again like I was doing something I was meant to—reporting and announcing news. And it was radio, so my appearance didn’t matter! How refreshing that was—I could show up and not feel so self-conscious about how I looked. After the internship was over, I was offered a full-time job, making very little money. They wanted me to do news reports for both the AM and FM stations in the morning and then handle the station’s public affairs responsibilities. Another full-time job, and I wasn’t even out of college. I felt very lucky, even though I still viewed the situation as temporary. After all, I wanted to be a television reporter—radio didn’t make my pulse quicken. And news, to me, was only big in pictures, not just words. Still, I took the job and was excited to be back on the air.

I graduated college and was as heavy as I’d ever been, approaching 250 pounds. Focusing on my classes and the shorter commute to the radio station didn’t help my situation
as I’d hoped they would. I still overate and didn’t exercise, always promising to do better the next day. With my degree in hand, I felt pressured more than ever to hurry up and get my television career restarted—but I couldn’t get myself going on any significant weight loss. I stayed at the radio station and right after graduation they added to my duties: They wanted me to cohost the morning show on the FM oldies station.

I was twenty-three years old. It was strange, to me, to be on an oldies station. I had nothing against Elvis Presley or the Beatles, but that was my dad’s music. Plus I was a newswoman—I never really saw myself as a laugh-and-cackle morning gal who told jokes and spun tunes. But it was a job, and I was in no shape to look for another one. Plus they gave me the title of news director, and I was still able to do the news for both stations. Again telling myself it was only temporary, that I would do it only until I could lose the weight and get a “real” job, I took it.

The job was a lot of fun. My on-air partner, Larry Smith, was one of the nicest guys you could ever meet, and we had a great rapport. Off air he totally supported my reporting ambitions and always tried to encourage me to lose the weight and get back in the TV game. He was the consummate radioman, and that show meant a great deal to him. I have a lot of guilt about not supporting him in his dreams. You see, on the one hand, being on the radio was great for someone like me: I had a nice voice, and I found it easy to laugh and joke on the air with my buddy Larry. We built an audience, and I had my share of fans, particularly male listeners who would call and talk about how beautiful I sounded and how they would love to see what I looked like. The fact that they couldn’t see me allowed me
to live in a sort of fantasy world, where I was beautiful and desirable.

But eventually fantasies die and reality sets in. In order for our morning show to grow, we needed to promote it—to hit the streets and meet our listeners in person. I was scared to death. I honestly felt those loyal fans would take one look at me and never listen to our show again. The fantasy would be over, and everyone would know the reality of what I had become physically. I couldn’t handle the humiliation, so I refused to help promote the show. I used the excuse that they were paying me peanuts, and really, that was the truth. The extra hours I would have spent making appearances would have gone unpaid. But the people who tuned in every morning and supported our show deserved more, and I certainly owed it to Larry to help him in every way he had helped me. In the end I couldn’t face it, and the show suffered, as did our friendship. We lasted several years, and we’re still friends today, but I will always regret how I handled that situation (add that to the big pile, I suppose).

I wasn’t having much success in the weight-loss department, but I never gave up hope that I would make it back onto TV. I also wasn’t getting any younger, and I started to worry that if I didn’t do something soon, I was going to lose my window of eligibility. There’s no written rule that older women can’t be television reporters, just as there is nothing in writing that says overweight women can’t be on TV. But I think it’s safe to say the deck is definitely stacked against heavier and/or older females.

Then I saw an opportunity to get back into TV—not as an on-air reporter, but with a station I greatly loved and admired.
It was an entry-level position at the Fayetteville bureau of WRAL-TV, the CBS affiliate out of Raleigh/Durham, where Michael had worked as a news photographer for the last several years. I knew I could go in and wow them with my skills. I figured once I lost the weight they would gladly put me on the air. I know this all sounds so unrealistic, but to me, it was quite real and within my grasp. My afternoon job would be in Michael’s office, supporting the stories that he and his reporter were working on. I would be doing double duty, because I still worked at the radio station early in the morning. My schedule would be packed, but I figured that was a good thing; no time to eat, right? Right.

Being back in television felt like home. News was my primary focus, and it was where I felt my strengths were. And I worked for an awesome station, with some of the best reporters in the business. I learned so much about news gathering and ethics and journalism, there was no doubt this was my passion. I gave up the radio job so that I could work full-time as an assignment editor at the main station in Raleigh. It was a two-hour commute every day, but I loved it, and I honestly felt it was a means to an end. I still, even after all of that time, felt I would lose the weight and make it on the air. I was already impressing everyone with my work; once I got my appearance in order, I would be well on my way.

The job was wonderful, but it was very stressful. I was in charge of the assignment desk, which is the nucleus of the television newsroom. I helped decide what stories we were going to cover and how we would cover them; I reacted to breaking news with our many resources, including satellite trucks and a
helicopter. I had to manage a staff of reporters and photographers and find content for multiple newscasts a day plus our 24/7 news Web site. It was a busy, busy time. I should have lost weight with no problem. But again I used the stress and the commute to my disadvantage, turning to food to calm me down and pass the time riding home. Every day I sent reporters out on stories that I knew I could cover well, that I could tell in a meaningful way. But I just couldn’t seem to make it happen. I was beginning to finally face reality: My dream of returning to on-air reporting was starting to slip away.

And then something really strange happened. Our television station also had an FM radio station that played adult contemporary music and had a locally produced morning show. The news was provided by anchors at the television station, which was a hard thing to manage. Those anchors had speaking engagements and other responsibilities, so making it in to do radio in the morning was difficult. Word got around that I had worked in radio for years, and I was asked if I wanted to fill in. I would be paid overtime, which was excellent money, plus I would be able to return to on-air reporting. I was thrilled! I filled in several times and was complimented by many people. The extra money was terrific, and it was exciting to be back on the air.

All of a sudden, though, there was a problem. When I did these newscasts, they were live, from a booth at the television station. I wore headphones, and I plugged in and waited for my cue, much like I had done for years at the oldies station in Fayetteville. But then one day I found myself really, really nervous. This perplexed me. I had done this so many times before, not just at the oldies station, but here for the big station, too.
Why was I scared? But as the commercials wrapped up and the music started to play for my intro, my heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I went to speak, and I barely had any breath. I sounded truly rattled on the air—it was clear something was wrong. I finished as fast as I could, and the phone immediately rang. It was the morning show crew from their studio across town wanting to know if I was okay. I didn’t know what to tell them—I myself couldn’t explain what had happened. I just made something up—told them I lost track of time and had to run to the booth and was out of breath. They bought the excuse just fine and said they’d “see” me at my next cut-in, which was in thirty minutes.

I tried to calm myself down, but nothing worked. As the next newsbreak approached, I thought I would pass out from the lack of oxygen; I was that scared. The commercials ended, the music cued … and I froze. I couldn’t say anything. I turned off my mike and listened to the few seconds of horrible silence in my headphones before the radio crew dumped out and went to commercial. I was stunned. I could not believe what had happened—and worse, I couldn’t figure out what to tell them. The phone rang again, and I didn’t have to fake a feeble voice when I answered. I lied, saying I’d thrown up right before airtime and couldn’t make it back. They sympathized and said they hoped I felt better. I was so relieved there were no more scheduled cut-ins for that morning; there was no way I could face that fear again.

I struggled with that stage fright for the next several months. Sometimes I filled in and was perfectly fine; other times, without any real explanation, I was scared out of my mind. No one
ever said anything to me, but I finally couldn’t take it anymore. The stress and the fear were too much, and I told my boss that the extra hours were just too hard. I no longer wanted to fill in. Once again my on-air career was over.

It was around this time that I seriously started to realize I would never make it back on the air. I was heavier than ever, now approaching three hundred pounds. I was also getting close to thirty years old, and I should have been getting street-reporting experience for a good ten years by now. And with the unexplained stage fright, I started to consider that this dream just wasn’t going to happen. It made me incredibly sad.

I still loved journalism, though, and I excelled at my job on the assignment desk. I was promoted to assignment manager, and I developed real leadership skills that were noticed by my superiors. I started to consider a career in news management, possibly becoming a news director one day. It was a lofty goal, but I felt I had the skills and drive to pull it off. Plus my weight didn’t matter.

Or did it?

As I made my way in the corporate world, I was more self-conscious about my size than ever. It undermined my self-confidence, and I believe it kept me from pursuing opportunities. Again, when you have a weight problem, you are screaming to the world that you have issues. There is no hiding the fact that you have a problem. I constantly wondered and worried about what others thought about me, and I was very paranoid. That worry kept me from doing as well as I could have. So much of making it in business and management is political. You have to know the right people and make
good impressions. You’re constantly thrust into situations where you have to be “on” … where you have to exude confidence, even when you don’t necessarily feel it. As I slowly moved up the ranks, I found myself invited out to lunch with the head honchos, and I can’t tell you how incredibly self-conscious I was. First, I never knew what to order. I felt if I ate modestly, I would draw more attention to myself, like whom was I kidding? A chef salad? Yeah, right! And I always worried about the seating arrangements—just sitting next to people at a table made me feel so big and awkward. And Lord help me if there was a booth I had to squeeze into. Hard to be full of confidence when the table is jabbed into your huge stomach, or God forbid, when others are watching as you try to slide your big ass off the vinyl seat at the end of the meal. It sounds funny, and I suppose I can find some humor in it now, but trust me—back then, it was terrifying.