Ten years ago, when I moved to LA to fulfill my dream of working for Disney, I arrived weighing no less than 365 pounds. Much of that weight was packed on with unholy stress eating before I moved. Let's just say that the mac N cheese and chicken finger diet wasn't exactly a magical journey to a healthy bod.
Shortly before I moved, I had come down to Anaheim to a preview of Disney's California Adventure. Upon having not been able to get on the Maliboomer (an attraction, I believe, is now gone), I swore that I would lose enough to ride that ride within the year and set upon that path. From February of 2001 to May of 2001, I worked out like a fiend, followed the Suzanne Sommers program of eating, and lost about 45 pounds. Suddenly I could fit on the ride and there was much rejoicing in the land. Oddly enough, however, I was still wearing the same size clothes and had hit a hell of a plateau at 313 that lasted for months and my post 911 depression didn't help much. I gained it all back. It wasn't until I fell in love with my ex “fiance” that I started dropping the weight again, seemingly effortlessly (effortlessly meaning that we ate really healthy, quality foods while we were together and also put each other through some of the most gut wrenching stress imaginable – its hard to know which was more effective). By the time I finally got him to move out, I was at the lowest weight I've seen since I was 21 ...285. The idea that I should hit that in a couple of months, at this rate, fully blows my mind and if you've been keeping up with my journey, it's not exactly been like skipping through a frickin' field of daisies.
When I got to that weight the last time, there was still a lot of crap rattling around in my emotional cache that I hadn't even begun to address, much less eradicate. When my relationship was ending, I made a decision to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and to hell with trying to get thin for some man. The last thing I wanted was a man to so much as LOOK at me, much less want to get together with me and dictate my eating habits by suggesting that his future and image were threatened by my flabby ass. Naturally the irony is that my ex completely changed careers toward the end of our relationship and is now enjoying the longest string of success he's probably had since he left college and his image means absolutely nothing to that success. But for me, living in LA and being largely attracted to more creative types, that bullshit coming back to bite me was just inevitable. And baby, it's been back time and again. There's nothing like getting to know an amazing man who happens to be in the entertainment industry and finding out that his major fatal flaw, is that he wouldn't date me because it could ruin his image. That is not to say they don't find me attractive. They do. They just wouldn't dare admit it to their friends, their agent, who the hell ever they feel like they need to impress.
Yes... this place really IS like that.
My plan backfired. I gained a shitload of weight, got super busy, got older, got wobbly and achy and subsequently heavier and heavier. I've made some really dumb decisions in my life. Some of them have cost me tons of money, jobs, friends, lovers... but deciding to gain weight to keep men away from me was not only totally ineffective, it was potentially fatal.
I may have a post on here that mentions all of this, but frankly... its worth RE-mentioning. Why? Because as we all know, the stuff of life is about a series of choices. I've been questioning this one, despite the positive results (just because it makes me feel craptastic). If I have one piece of advice that will keep you from ever having to get to the scary place I've been, it's this: “Act... don't react.” Before you do anything drastic out of emotional, mental, or any other kind of heightened distress, consider the consequences and the possibility that shit may go down in your life that will make it hard to take your choice back.
Twenty more pounds, and I'll never see the top side of 300 again. I can't flippin' WAIT!
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