Fat Chance by Julie Haddon Read Free Book Online Page A

when the heavier person was drop-dead gorgeous.
    Eventually, I did lose a few pounds. Needing a way to look acceptable for the prom I would never attend, I fad-dieted and deprived my way to a “me” two dress sizes down. Sadly, though, my also-fat friends and I would always fall back into the trap of using food as our comforter. Which is how I know that even at the bargain price of four boxes for a dollar, mac-and-cheese can’t satiate a starving soul.
    These days, I look back and realize that my upbringing wasn’t
all
bad. There were youth-group trips and dances and Christmas parties. But when I catch sight of photos of those “fond memories” and see a big, fat cow in the frame, the fondness somehow fades a bit. What’s more, now that I have hindsight on my side, I see more clearly the reason I became fat in the first place. I’m sure that psychotherapists would have a heyday analyzing my background and linking every major event to the cause of my obesity, but in my heart of hearts, the only theme I know to be true throughout my childhood and beyond is this: I was fat because I did not believe that I was worth the effort it would take to be fit.
    I’d learn the hard way throughout my life that “event dieting” never works. As soon as the event has come and gone, so has your motivation for losing weight.
    Sadly, it would take me until age thirty-five to adjust my views on that.
THE ROBBING OF MY WOMANHOOD
    W hen I was in my early twenties, I got my five-foot-two frame all the way down to one hundred and forty pounds and tried myhand at pageants. Admittedly, it was a lark. I had thick legs, as you’ll recall. And by this point, I also had quite a robust bust—some of which was natural and some of which was due to the extra padding I added in an effort to bring my wide hips into proportion. In fact, on the heels of one especially disappointing swimsuit competition, the strongest “affirmation” I received came from a female judge who said, “I see how those breasts balance out that backside, Hon, but my
word
…” This was uttered mere moments before I learned that while everyone else had received eights and nines in that part of the competition, I had been granted a three. Lovely.
    These days I’m learning not to allow myself to be defined by a number that shows up on the scale. If I were to go by the standard height/weight charts, I should weigh between 105 and 110 pounds. Yeah, right.
    The evening-gown portion was no better, really. I couldn’t fit into traditional, beaded gowns, and so I opted instead to debut the A-line dress. This was before anyone knew about A-line dresses, so I got points for trendsetting. But that was about it.
    “You could be Miss America! If only you’d lose some weight.” “You have such a pretty face! It’s just that you’ve got all that weight.” “What a lovely dress! It covers your flaws nicely.” I’d heard a version of the judges’ comments throughout my entire life. Would “fat” be my reality forever?
      
    I t will come as no surprise to you that I never wore a crown. (Although I
did
do quite well in the “interview” portion, thank you very much.) But I took home a prize of another kind from those odd, odd pageant days: my wonderful husband Mike.
    Mike was perhaps the only person in that pageant audience who saw more in me than what meets the eye. We were friends for five years, and although I had a terrific crush on him, my self-defeating ways caused me to keep that under wraps. Instead, when he confided in me as his friend that he was interested in one of the other “pageant girls” we knew, I’d enthusiastically prod him to ask her out. “Oh, she’s gorgeous!” I’d rave. “You should date her!”
    At my recommendation, he usually did. And as each girl came into his life and then left, I died another death. When would it be my turn?
    When longing finally turned into reality and reality eventually produced a stunning engagement ring, I