Finished Being Fat: An Accidental Adventure in Losing Weight and Learning How to Finish (13 page)

That was crazy to me that such a small change in perception would have changed her whole experience. She could have run the exact same race, in the exact same time, but if she had gone into it with the goal of finishing, she would be feeling like a rock star right now rather the loser that couldn’t beat her sister.

I had been in real danger of making the same mistake. I so desperately wanted to be able to say that I had run a marathon that I was disappointed I was going to have to admit that I had walked parts. Which is just stupid, because the key part of this was that I would be able to say that I had finished a marathon. It would be the dumbest thing in the world if I done the most impossible thing I could think of and then felt bad because I’d walked. Worse than dumb, it would have been a tragedy. Finishing a marathon was one of the single best moments in my entire life, and I can’t imagine having that memory tainted by loser goggles.

O
pinions are like feet. Almost everybody has them, and sometimes they stink. When I started talking about my marathon goals, everyone seemed to fancy themselves a running expert and had to put their two cents in. Here are a few of the responses I received to my ambitious announcement:

“Really? A marathon? Shouldn’t you start a little smaller? I hear they’re registering for the toddler trot. You and Lily could enter that.”

“I read an article that said running is really bad for your back and knees. In fact, it’s probably the worst exercise out there.”

“Eleven-minute miles. Well, chin up. I’m sure you can get faster with a little more hard work.”

“That’s so awesome. A marathon… Do you know if the entrance fee is refundable?”

I’m sure people meant well and were just trying to help, but it still hurt. If I was looking for someone to tell me I was crazy to think I could run a marathon, I had no farther to look than myself. I didn’t need other people telling me that to reinforce the idea. I was battling my own doubts and worries, so anything other people said ended up just magnifying them.

One afternoon, I met a friend for lunch. I had lost sixty-seven pounds at this point and was feeling pleased with myself and how I looked. When I crossed the parking lot and embraced my bud, the first words out of her mouth were these:

“Oh my gosh, you look great! You must be almost done, just another twenty pounds left or so.”

My brain did not hear the first part. I skipped the praise and focused on the fact that my friend still thought I needed to lose twenty pounds. That’s probably not what she meant, but that’s what I heard. Just that morning I had congratulated myself on a job well done. I had reached my goal weight of 150. According to any BMI or height/weight chart, I was now at a healthy weight. Even the clothes from my birthday shopping spree had gotten too roomy, and I’d had to move down to a size 6. I thought a size 6 was small enough, but apparently I was wrong, because my friend still thought I had more to lose. In my head, this equaled saying I was still fat or at least looked that way.

We ordered lunch, and I got the salad instead of the French dip I had been planning on. Her offhanded comment had shaken me, and it was affecting what I ate. What if that’s how everyone saw me? What if everyone in this room was thinking the exact same thing, that I was still a little heavy? I obsessed about it until Jarom came home that evening.

“Do I still look fat?” I blurted the minute he walked through the door.

“Hello to you too, dear. My day went well. Thank you for asking.”

I went over and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, how was your day? Do I still look fat?”

My long-suffering eternal companion took off his glasses and scrubbed his hands over his face. “First off, you look amazing, and second, you were never fat. You were just… a little… Ruebenesque.”

It is my firm belief that the best ambassadors must have either chubby or neurotic wives, because being married to me had taught my husband a diplomacy that was not in his natural skill set.

“Then why does Amy think I need to lose weight?”

Jarom threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know. Who’s Amy?”

I reminded him who she was and gave him my version of our lunch. I concluded my summary with my concerns that wherever I went, people were secretly guessing my weight and concluding that I was still a little plump.

“Betsy, can I be honest?”

No, lie to me. “Yes.” I braced myself to hear the truth, that all my hard work still wasn’t enough.

“I don’t think people are thinking about you at all. Other than the people who know you, nobody has any idea of what you used to look like. You’re just one random person. If anyone notices you, it’s because you’re looking so cute. But I promise the only person who dwells on your weight is you.”

Have I ever mentioned that I love my husband with all my heart? He is my sounding board and the looking glass where only my best features are reflected. When I’m wrong, he’ll nudge me in the right direction until I figure it out and then take all the credit. Other than mine, his opinion is the only one that mattered. If he thought I looked amazing, then that was good enough for me. At least for today.

On a side note, the next day I had lunch with my mother. She told me I needed to eat more and that I was looking gaunt. Go figure.

***

I also learned that just because I was letting go of past mistakes didn’t mean anyone else was. My well-meaning friends and family have
looong
memories. I had been going through this internal metamorphosis. I felt like a butterfly, but everyone else still saw a caterpillar. My family in particular thought this, and I don’t blame them. They have watched many years worth of grand plans that either fizzled out or failed spectacularly. Let’s just say they didn’t have a whole lot of faith in my newfound stick-to-it-iveness.

One conversation that stands out in my mind was between my dad and me. I love my father, and next to my husband, he’s my best friend. So I give his opinion a lot of weight (no pun intended, honestly). I was showing my dad some of the great new outfits I had bought with the birthday money he had given me.

“I love these new clothes, but I’m a little sad about some of the old ones. Like that red wool coat you bought me for Christmas last year. It’s my favorite, but it’s just too big now. I’m not sure what I should do with them. I don’t just want to throw them out. Maybe I should donate them. What do you think?”

“Well, if I were you, I would probably put them in a box and take them out to the garage. If in six months you still haven’t gained the weight back, then you can get rid of them.”

“So you’re saying I should hang on to them?”

“Yes. Don’t throw out your fat clothes. It will be difficult and expensive to replace the clothes in the event this is just temporary.”

“But I already know that I’m never going to let myself get big again.”

“Well, you say that, but so did I, and look how that turned out.”

In
chapter two
, I mentioned that dad had lost 115 pounds when I was twelve. What I didn’t say was that by the time I was fourteen he had gained 165 back. Dad absolutely knew what he was talking about. In his mind, he thought he was dispensing practical advice, giving me the benefit of his experience. In my mind, my dad had just told me that he thought I would get fat again. To be fair though, my previous diet history suggested that he was correct.

Like a nervous nelly, I boxed up my fat clothes… just in case. I knew in my heart that I had changed. I was a different person now—a happier, healthier, finishing person. But the little voice in the back of my head agreed with my dad—what if.

Flash forward eight months. I was hammering out my little inspirational cubbyholes (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, go back and read the introduction) and wanted to nail down the specifics for this chapter. I also wanted to get a little closure on the subject. It’s been over a year since I started losing weight, and not a single pound has come back. In fact I’ve gone ten pounds under my goal weight and have lost seventy-five total. So I went over to my dad’s house to see if his opinion had changed.

“So, Dad, it’s been a year. Do you still think I might get fat again?”

I had just explained this whole chapter to him and warned that I would be quoting him. I expected profuse apologies at his lack of faith along with promises to never doubt my awesomeness again. So not what I got.

“I don’t know, honey. You’ve done a great job of getting the weight off, but we’ll have to wait a few years to know whether or not it will stay off.”

It felt like I’d just been hit in the gut. Seriously? It was going to take another two years before my dad believed that I had changed for good. What else did I need to do to show him that was this time was different?
That I was different.
I was smaller than I’d ever been, I’d finished two half marathons and a full, I’d climbed one of the highest mountains in the state, and now I was writing a book about it. I mean really, what was it going to take, because I was fresh out of nearly impossible tasks to finish.

When we’d had this conversation last time, I had walked away hurt and resentful about his lack of support. I had taken the nonconfrontational approach and kept my pain to myself, letting it fester. It had stayed sore for a while. I knew better now and had the confidence to say something about it.

“I know you didn’t intend it to, but that really hurts my feelings.”

“I was just being honest with you.”

“Yes, and I appreciate that, but what I just heard was that you don’t think I can do it. That I can stay small. You think I’m going to fail.”

“But that’s not what I meant.”

“I figured as much, and that’s why I’m telling you so that you can understand the way that makes me feel.”

“But I was just thinking that statistically speaking, the odds are against you. More often than not people gain weight back. I did. It really wasn’t about your ability to keep it off.”

His left-brained logical approach combined with personal experience had colored his perception, making it difficult to separate my experience from his. But I’m not him, and I’m not a statistic. I’m me, and my experience is unique. Different than any other, even my own past attempts. I know I won’t ever go back to those XXL pants again. If it takes dad five years to get the memo, that’s okay.

I left the house lighter, happy that we had cleared up the miscommunication. He hadn’t intended to hurt my feelings; we just looked at things differently. If I chose to be offended, then it was my own fault, because there was no malice in his words.

***

Ninety percent of the time, people meant well and didn’t mean to be rude. After I realized that they often had no clue what they were talking about, I stopped being hurt. But then there’s the other 10 percent. For whatever reason, these people walk around with a chip on their shoulder and get their satisfaction from watching other people feel bad. Thankfully none of my family is like that; however, I did run, literally, into some people that were. I have no idea who they were, so I just started calling them Hell’s Speedwalkers, otherwise known as the gang of six old ladies that take up the whole stupid track.

After completing his dream of finishing a marathon, Jarom decided to hang up his running shoes. I, on the other hand, had actually come to enjoy running. I know, who’d have ever thought? Certainly not me. I had learned to appreciate the peace and quiet a leisurely three-miler gave me when I wasn’t concerned about time or training for something. Three times a week, I went to the park and ran. It was on one of those mornings that I met those evil octogenarians.

On my second lap around the track, I saw them. They were walking six ladies wide across the whole track, going counterclockwise. I was running clockwise and assumed common courtesy would take over and they would either split down the middle or one of them would move ahead or behind and make a hole. I watched and waited to “thread the needle” as it’s referred to in runners’ circles, but as I drew closer, they just glared at me with steely eyes and did not budge.

So in our game of chicken, I flinched first or, more accurately, I ran off the course, tripped over the edge, and landed face-first in the grass. Those witches actually cackled and kept right on speed walking. I was mortified, and all those feelings of inadequacy came rushing back. I went home defeated, letting myself end a run early with no injuries for the first time since the no-quit pledge.

At first I was embarrassed. I felt like I was back in high school, when the mean kids would trip me and play pranks at my expense. I would probably have to change my run times since I was afraid that I would run into them again. Or maybe just switch to a different park. Those kind of thoughts lasted until I got out of the shower, and by then, my fear had turned to fury. Who the heck were these old bags that they had the power to make me feel like a loser? I was not a loser. I had run a marathon for goodness sake. Well run, walked, and limped one, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The point was, nobody could make me feel like a failure but me.

There was no way I was going to let those hags chase me off. I was there first, and I was not changing my run for the likes of them. So two days later, I went back and sure enough they were there, but this time I was prepared. No, I didn’t bring water balloons to chuck at them, though that would have been fun. When they didn’t move, I ran around them, watching my step a little more carefully this time.

They heckled and whispered and laughed. I briefly considered telling them off, but that wouldn’t have solved anything and probably would have created a bigger problem. (Old ladies are vicious.) Instead, I opted to be the bigger person so I smiled, said good day, then blazed past them. We repeated this play ten times or more on the three-mile run.

The next Friday, it was the exact same thing. I considered amending my racing animal analogy to include these nuisances. Maybe they could be the slugs? Or better yet, territorial elephant seals in ugly tracksuits displaying their dominance. You know it’s not paranoia if people are really out to get you, and these ladies did not like me there. I’m hoping they hated runners in general and not just me. Perhaps they had pace envy and felt bad that they were so slow. For whatever reason, they chose to antagonize me. We faced off three days a week for a month. They never budged, and I never quit. At the end of the month, the weather turned colder, and one day they stopped coming, but I didn’t. Now the frost and I have the track to ourselves. The penguin wins again.