This post is the final in a trilogy of posts I’ve written about the experience I had auditioning for The Biggest Loser. You can find the first post by clicking here and the second by clicking here.
There are precious few articles available for those seeking the reality behind the reality of the Biggest Loser. I went digging for information almost as soon as I got home from the audition in Dallas. What I did find, coupled with my own experience of those ridiculous 2 minutes, changed my outlook on the show forever.
Former contestants are not allowed to speak about their experiences on the show unless given express permission by NBC. They’re threatened with legal action if they do. (See this article from The Huffington Post for details.) As such, it’s hard to find information.
Ryan Benson, the very first winner of Biggest Loser, gained back nearly all of his weight after the spotlight grew dim. He was back above 300 pounds (his show weight was 330) and noticeably absent from the first reunion show. He later admitted that he lost the weight on the show by fasting and dehydrating himself to the point where he was urinating blood. (See this article from the New York Times for details.)
Shortly after my own audition, I found this article in the Tampa Bay Times about a former contestant/Tampa Bay resident that just about broke my heart. It also made me feel enormously grateful that all I did was laugh during my 2 minutes in front of the hipster doofus casting assistant. While the before and after pictures are still highly motivating to me, I no longer watch the show. I might look at the before and after shots on the news the next day, but I don’t even watch the season finale.
Requiring a contestant to promote drinking milk for the show, then making them spit it out after the shot is filmed because they’re not allowed to drink milk…that’s lying to the audience. It’s either good for you or it’s not. You either approve or you don’t. You don’t suck up to advertisers and make your contestants shoot commercials for it…then make them spit it out as soon as they’re done. That appalls me.
Even before I read the articles I’ve referenced here, I had grown tired of the manufactured drama of the Biggest Loser. My fact finding mission really drove the final nail in the coffin for me. Contestants losing their hair from lack of nutrition, working out 5 – 8 hours a day, eating nothing but asparagus for days before weigh in. These things are not sustainable. It’s not motivating to me when I know what’s really going on.
I always assumed that the trainers were there with the contestants every day, but they aren’t. They’re present once a week and only for a limited time. When the show first started, the trainers warned contestants against using pre-packaged diet foods to stay within their calorie limits…and now they’re selling their own line of the same crap. Biggest Loser merchandise sales bring in millions and millions of dollars.
After 20+ years of struggling with food issues, I’ll tell you what really scares me: fitness professionals who are selling something. I wish I could get a kickback from all the diets, pills, cookbooks, and other diet & fitness related products I’ve purchased over the years. I will never again lose track of the fact that the diet industry makes money off of fat people. Not skinny people. FAT PEOPLE. I can smell a snake oil salesman a mile away. No, thank you. That’s why I’m determined to lose this weight myself without surgery, pills, shakes, or special diets.
That’s also why you don’t see automated banner ads on my site. If I can’t control what goes on it, I’m not putting it on my site. How can I preach a logical, healthy approach to weight loss and healthy living if I have ads on my site for surgery, pills, and special magic shakes. I refuse to be part of the problem.
I really encourage you to read the articles I’ve referenced here and form your own opinions. Motivation is a very individual thing. If you’re motivated by the Biggest Loser, then I say go for it. In these three posts, I’ve shared my experience and my feelings with you…and I thank you for reading.
2013 is just around the corner…assuming those crazy Mayans were wrong. Let’s lose a few pounds in December so we can start the New Year with a bang. Resolutions are for chumps. 🙂
(I totally couldn’t afford this, but how awesome would this be? I would burn so many calories while blogging…)
On to part 2 of this amazing tale of tired feet, sore backs, and shattered dreams. I feel duty bound to tell you at this point that there may, indeed, be a part 3. I didn’t deliberately deceive y’all yesterday when I said I had to break it into 2 parts, I’m just a real wordy bitch. Apologies in advance if that happens.
So I left off yesterday as we were ushered to the hospital cafeteria, goodie bags in hand, to fill out our official Biggest Loser applications. It was well after lunch by this time and, to add insult to serious foot injury, the grill was closed. Either that or the 684 contestants who were in front of us ate all the food and they had to close up shop. I didn’t ask – partially because I was trying not to gag over the stench of the only food they were still serving: Subway. Sorry, Jared…your food smells like vinaigrette mixed with ass.
None of us had thought to bring snacks either. Imagine that: over a thousand fat people in the same place and no food. Well played, Subway. I’d brought some carrot sticks with me, but they were long gone. Normally I would have brought a backpack full of partially hydrogenated nummies, but ya know, I thought I needed to bring rabbit food to show the producers how good I was at liking healthy food. Because my giant ass was proof that I loved nothing more than a good salad after a stressful day, right?
I sat there with my 8 new BFF’s, feeling more hungry than I could ever remember, trying to keep my hand from trembling as I filled out my application (just in case they were also judging on penmanship). I didn’t even think about the goodie bag until one of the guys in my group grumbled, “Oh great…I bet these taste good.” I looked up to find him holding a bag of something called Protein Crisps. The look on his face was priceless.
Volunteers were stationed at the cafeteria entrance, calling out contestant numbers in sets of 5 every few minutes. They called out #548 and I looked down at my contestant number. #649. Awesome. I was going to be in Subway Stinkland for a while.
After a while, we became restless. Our applications were completed with what we were all certain were perfect, heart-wrenching answers to all the producer’s questions. They were bound to pick at least one of us. Our goodie bags had been plundered. Protein Crisps, a pen with the hospital’s logo on it, a message pad that said “Biggest Loser’ on it. Nothing fabulous. And no, no one touched their Protein Crisps. Later that night I would carefully open the packet of crisps and offer one to our dog, Kokopelli. She turned her nose up at it. That dog would eat her own yard biscuits, but those Protein Crisps were just gross.
Before long, sitting hurt just as much as standing. Every part of my body was throbbing and in pain. Finally, they called #648…which was one of my BFF’s. Then #649. We were told to stand in a hallway, which we did with barely concealed excitement. The rest of our friends soon joined us and the line began slowly moving. We had no idea where we were going, but we were certain that our final destination was just around the corner. Then we rounded the corner.
At least 200 people were lined up down a long hallway in front of us. Jesus. How long was this going to go on? And now we were standing again, feet throbbing, with clunky goodie bags and applications to hold onto. At least this line seemed to be moving faster, though. The line seemed to end at a pair of elegant wood doors at the end of the hall. I pictured a poshly decorated doctor’s conference room on the other side with a shiny black table, around which were seated a handful of Biggest Loser casting directors and producers. The Promised Land.
In line…in another hallway. Sorry for the blur, but we were too tired for decent photography. (That’s me on the far right.)
We were positively wiggly by the time we got to those doors. They were letting in groups of 10. We were next. They opened the doors and we rushed forward, but instead of finding ourselves in front of a bunch of Biggest Loser casting honchos we found ourselves in a huge auditorium. A volunteer just inside the door told us to find seats.
We found seats off to the side in a little overflow section of folding chairs. I looked around and my heart sank. There had to be at least 600 people in that auditorium. We looked at each other in disbelief. We were exhausted and hungry. I would have cut a bitch for a half of a granola bar. We thought we were at the end, yet there were still hundreds of people in front of us. At that point, it felt like we were in the middle of some cruel joke. Morale was starting to fade.
At least there was something to occupy our thoughts this time. There was a woman on stage at a podium, speaking about her amazing weight loss success. Everyone was riveted by her story. Her “before” picture was projected on the screen behind her along with the Biggest Loser logo. It was hard to believe that this skinny woman speaking to us had ever been overweight. When her presentation ended she opened things up for questions and hands shot up all over the auditorium.
“What did you do to lose that much weight?” Girl-in-green-dress asked.
The answer was something like “Blah blah blah, portion control, blah blah blah…eating healthy food…”
Yeah. That’s not what we wanted to know. We’re professional fatties. We’ve read a million books about portion contorl. Besides, it felt like she was side-stepping something.
“How did you lose the weight?” came the next question from chick-with-red-hair.
“Blah blah blah…get in the right mindset…blah blah blah…hard work…”
No. That’s not what we’re asking. We’ve heard this shit a million times. We’re still fat.
Finally, someone with balls stands up. Blue-shirt-guy says, “How specifically did you succeed this time after so many failed attempts to lose weight?”
He got applause from the crowd. We were all losing patience with this chick and her sketchy answers. You’re in a room full of your fellow fatties, lady…spill the details already. We eagerly awaited her reply.
“I had gastric bypass surgery here at the hospital.”
She clicked the remote in her hand and the slide changed from her “after” picture to one containing information about the hospital’s weight loss surgery programs.
My chin just about hit the floor. Everybody’s chins just about hit the floor. I was wrong about blue-shirt-guy having balls…because this chick had big brass ones. So did the hospital. What marketing genius.
No wonder the hospital volunteered to host the auditions. What do you do with a thousand captive fatties, most (if not all) of whom are not going to get picked for the Biggest Loser? You make them sit and listen to presentation after presentation about gastric bypass surgery. Well played, you sneaky-ass motherfuckers.
The auditorium booed her. Loudly. She tried to recover by continuing to talk over the booing. Eventually the crowd quieted down. Off to the side, a Biggest Loser production assistant approached the stage and the auditorium went wild. He stepped up to the microphone.
“We need numbers 438 through 447 out here in the hall please.”
What? They’re only in the 400’s? I was #648. Son of a bitch. Some of us were ready to cry. It was the day that never ended.
Back on stage, gastric-bypass-chick introduced the next presenter. Guess who it was? Dr. I-Forget-Her-Name, Chief Resident Hoo-Hah over…you guessed it…Bariatric Surgery.
Sigh. It was like being trapped in a timeshare meeting for fat people.
It was a collective slap in the face. The doctor gave her presentation. I didn’t hear much of it. I started texting Hot Mess Hubby in disgust. We had waited all eff’in day for a chance to have the shit kicked out of us on the Biggest Loser. We wanted to learn from top nutritionists, chefs, and personal trainers. We were auditioning for a reality show called The Biggest Loser, not Surgery Island.
The wheels of change finally began to turn in my rusty noggin when the next speaker was introduced. A psychologist came to speak about the mindset you need for success. She wasn’t pitching weight loss surgery, she was pitching something that every weight loss seeker needs whether they seek it through surgery or not: change. I wanted to hear the presentation…but I couldn’t. Because two of my fellow fatties, seated in front of me, wouldn’t stop chattering.
Between the two of them, I’m sure they had at least 600 pounds to lose. I was (and am) a pretty big girl…and these folks made me feel small. Each of them was seated across two folding chairs and they filled up the space. They definitely needed to be here with us – but they sat there laughing and chatting with each other, making fun of the doctor as she spoke. In fact, when the doctor started speaking about change management, the woman looked at the man and said “Yeah, yeah, yeah already. Too much work unless it’s for $250,000.”
Wow. Not ready for change. At all. I sat there, half listening to the presentation and half listening to them. I was heart sick for them. Maybe they were just as beat down with exhaustion as we were. Maybe they were just venting. But I wanted them to want to be there for more than just a $250,000 grand prize.
Their numbers were called and they stood up to go. Our section applauded for them and they both turned to us and smiled, saying thanks as they picked up their belongings. My heart really went out to this woman. Her weight was everywhere. It was pushing her cheeks up against her eyes. Her neck was a giant roll. Her face was so full that her chin had a tennis ball sized protrusion at the end of it. She wheezed when she moved to gather her things. I wanted to hug her and tell her to kick some ass when she got in front of those producers.
As I sat there watching her slowly waddle away, I realized…she’s me. She’s me.
Since I was a little girl, one of my most prominent features have been my “big, brown eyes”. Everyone has always complimented me on my eyes. But at 381 pounds, my eyes had stopped being a prominent feature. My face was puffy. My body was huge. If I kept up living as I was, my body would only be getting bigger. As my new BFF’s chatted easily with each other, I sat there feeling ashamed of myself. What had I done to myself? I was on the wrong road. Whether I miraculously made it on the show or not, something had to change. I sat there with my mind reeling, knowing there was more for me to discover in this new realization, but not wanting to think on it too much in this huge room full of people. I needed quiet time to really think this through.
They called our numbers and we bolted up and ran for the door. Finally. We were ushered down another hall and told to wait. The volunteer in charge of us assured us that we were almost there, but I was hesitant to believe her at this point. I wouldn’t have been too shocked if the next room included a panel of plastic surgeons to pitch tummy tucks for when we all hit our goal weights. This was not the day of promise and possibility that I thought it would be when I woke up. It was a day of exhaustion, realization, and hard lessons.
We stood in the hall together, excitedly chattering and taking pictures of our group, vowing to keep in touch. Some of us lived quite far from each other, but we promised to get together when we could – especially if one of us made it on the show, as we would want to have a watch party some night. It seemed our time together was finally coming to an end and it made me a little sad to think of it.
Part of my BFF’s as we waited to see what was behind door #3…
The volunteer came back to us, this time with the air of a boot camp drill instructor.
“Everyone in here, quickly!” She pointed to an open door that led to a small meeting room.
As we rushed towards the door, she stepped in before us. There was a lone man, very young, sitting at a small conference table. He had a Hollywood hipster look about him, one I was all too familiar with since I’m from southern California. He didn’t even look up. The volunteer drill instructor spoke next.
“Quickly, put your things on the floor against the wall and have a seat. Bring your applications. Hurry up now!”
We dropped our shit and ran to the table and sat. It was time to win a spot on the hottest reality show on tv. The volunteer stepped out and closed the door behind her. Finally, hipster boy spoke.
“Welcome, everyone. We only have two minutes together today, so I’ll make this quick. My name is (insert hipster doofus name) and I’m a casting assistant for the Biggest Loser. Going around the table, tell me your name and where you’re from.”
He pointed at the person on his left and said “Go.”
Like military recruits, we spouted off our names and where we were from. The only thing missing was “Sir, yes sir!” at the end. He sat there, slouched in his chair, unimpressed. Inside, I was thinking “Two minutes? Did he say we only have two minutes???”
“Pass me your applications.”
We passed them. What happened next was a real eye opener for me.
“Okay, I just have one question for the group. Why do you want to be on the Biggest Loser?” He made an open gesture at all of us and said, “Go!”
Like a crazed pack of monkeys, everyone started chattering at him at once. They were almost yelling over each other, each vying for his attention. It wasn’t a discussion, it was a shouting match…and he sat there slouching in his chair with a slight smile on his face as this display went on before him. I sat there with my mouth hanging open in amazement as my new BFF’s threw all decorum out the window and just yammered over each other like this was normal every day behavior. I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. Our group went from being BFF’s forever to a bunch of screaming degenerates who’d stab each other in the back for a shot at this guy’s attention. And he sat there gloating…as if we were all on Atkins and he had placed a single cupcake in the middle of the table. I can’t imagine that he was able to hear much of what any one person said. I couldn’t stop giggling to myself over the absurdity of it all. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that warranted yelling it above everyone else. About 45 seconds into the melee, I heard myself say in my head “You are not the Biggest Loser.”
He held a hand up and there was instant silence. Hipster doofus had the power.
“Okay, we’re almost out of time. Quickly around the table: would you want Bob or Jillian…and why?”
Each person blurted out their answers one at a time. It was the only time I actually spoke while I was in that room.
Hipster boy explained that if we were selected to continue further we would get a call by 9 pm that night. I already knew the phone wasn’t going to ring at my house…and that was okay. I have a low threshold for crazy.
We hugged each other goodbye in the lobby and promised to let each other know if we got called. That night, I waited for the call that wasn’t coming and emailed the group at 9:05 pm to let them know I wasn’t selected. One of our group was chosen to go to a casting callback and another was asked to make a video tape and submit it. Despite that, neither was selected to go any further.
I spent the rest of the day overwhelmed with everything I was feeling. I was happy that I went, angry at the insensitive marketing done by the hospital, and absolutely aghast at the 2 minute brawl that ensued in that tiny little conference room. As much as I tried, I couldn’t fathom how anyone could glean enough information from that 2 minute shouting match in order to narrow down the contestant field. It seemed to me a process that was as ridiculous as it was futile. I would rather have been pitted against others in a more civilized forum – or even a physical challenge.
In the weeks that followed, I sent a few emails to my BFF’s to check on them. No one responded. We were strangers again as quickly as we were friends, which only added to the weirdness of the entire experience. Quite some time later, one of them found me on Facebook and we’ve stayed in touch…but everyone else is long gone. I wish them well.
I ached to the bone the following day from all the hours of standing on my feet. I was curious about the experiences of Biggest Loser contestants in a way I hadn’t been before. The casting call was an eye opener for me. I waited all day thinking I would have the chance to speak to a casting assistant for the show and instead I was thrown into a ridiculous situation. In this case, the reality of the reality show did not meet with my expectations – and I wanted to see if there was anything else about the Biggest Loser that I had misconceptions about.
There was, indeed – but that’s a story for tomorrow. It’s taken me over 3,000 words to tell you about the remainder of an amazing day…and I hope you’ve enjoyed it somehow. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what I learned in my search for answers. That will be Part 3. I doubt it will take 3,000 words…but like I said: I’m quite a wordy bitch.
I learned I wasn’t the Biggest Loser, but I also connected with the fact that I was on a dangerous path…and that I needed to find a way to change direction once and for all. This was the beginning of my beginning. This experience sent me looking not only for answers but solutions as well.
I’m pretty sure most of you are aware of the tv show that has motivated so many of us to lose weight. If you’re not, it’s a show where obese contestants are put through a rigorous boot camp and taught to eat healthy while competing to stay on the show by losing the most weight each week. Each week, the two people who have lost the least amount of weight are up for elimination…and the rest of the contestants have to vote whether to keep them on the Biggest Loser Ranch (where they all live, eat, and work out during the course of the show). One contestant is voted off each week. I have run the full gamut of emotions – from disgust to adoration and back again – when it comes to this tv show. I have loved it and I have hated it…and now? Well, I appreciate parts of the show for what it can give me – but my eyes are fully open and I no longer get the joy from it that I once did.
There is something highly motivating about watching a person go from morbidly obese to absolutely fit and healthy, especially in a short amount of time. Let’s face it: if there was a healthy way to lose our weight in a week’s time, we’d all be doing it. I know I would. So when we see these folks being monitored by doctors and personal trainers and losing weight so quickly…it’s inspiring. And I love before & after pictures. So motivating.
I missed the first season of The Biggest Loser. On purpose. I remember sitting in front of the tv one night and a teaser came on. I watched in horror as severely overweight contestants did push-ups with their faces dangerously close to plates full of donuts. I was mortified at the humiliation they were putting these people through for the sake of tv ratings (gimme a break…reality tv was still fairly new back then). I was adamant that I would never watch such a show. And then the end of the season came and the before & after pictures of the winner were splashed all over the media. Amazing. And I thought to myself “Ohhhh…that’s the humiliating donut push up show….”
Although I was happy for the winner, I still didn’t want to see the show. Somewhere in the next two seasons, I remember reading an interview of one of the producers who said they got a little carried away in the beginning and decided to tone it down from now on. There would be no more humiliating stunts like that, according to him. I was very glad to read that, but honestly…they’ve kept things dangerously close to the boundary between “good tv” and humiliating – and they’ve continued to do the one thing that always gets an eye roll from me.
In the conference room where the weekly voting takes place, each contestant’s name is on a lighted refrigerator case that’s loaded with the types of foods that made them fat. (Also tacky: when it’s time for the contestants to vote someone off the show, they reveal their votes by lifting the cover off a serving dish…under which hides the name of the person they’ve voted for.) Once the votes are cast the host says “I’m sorry, but you are not the biggest loser.” And then, in extremely dramatic fashion, the lights go out in their fridge and they say tearful goodbyes to their friends.
You can just make out the refrigerator cases behind these contestants. And, of course, there are the covered dishes concealing the doomed contestant’s identity. A little over the top in the “you’re fat, so we’re camping up the set decoration” department for me.
I eff’in hate this.
Besides, as a fatty who has fallen off the wagon many times, I call shenanigans on that shit. If they’re not the Biggest Loser, shouldn’t the fridge light go ON? I mean, really, what do we do after another failed diet attempt? We reach for a pint of mint chip. Okay, I won’t speak for you – but that’s the shit I used to pull. And when you hear what the contestants are really doing on the ranch in order to succeed, I’m hella surprised no one’s gone another way on voting day. That’s probably why all the fridge food is plastic – because I wouldn’t hesitate to go out with a bang.
Host: “Dianne, I’m sorry…but you are not the Biggest Loser.”
(dramatic music: dun-dun-DUN!!!!)
Me (crying): “I guess I shouldn’t have had that second spear of asparagus last night…”
Then I see my fridge. Buffalo wings, pizza, Pop Tarts, Little Debbie cakes everywhere…
Me (inching closer to the fridge): “I love you guys…stay strong, ok??”
Host: “It’s time for you to leave the ranch…”
BAM! I knock down the perky host, swing open the fridge door, and grab a buffalo wing before security can grab the back of my super tight spandex sports bra.
Me (mouth full of buffalo wing): “Later, bitches!”
Yeah. Dignity right out the eff’in door. I have no doubt I’d have gone right back on track, but if I’ve already lost a chance at $250,000 then fuck it…I’m eat’in a wing. Isn’t that what usually happens when we fail to hit the big goal? We go to the fridge to start snacking. BING! The light goes ON, not off.
Amateurs.
Okay, I took this train waaaay off track. This post isn’t about the ridiculous dimming of the refrigerator light, it’s about the time I auditioned for The Biggest Loser – Season 10. That’s right…I did. I auditioned.
Before I was a Hot Mess Princess, I was a Biggest Loser hopeful with a really bad haircut. Thanks, Supercuts.
This is coming up now because last weekend I asked the folks on my Facebook fan page what they’d rather hear about and my Biggest Loser 10 audition was the hands-down favorite.
It was a horrendously long day – so I’m breaking this up into two posts. I promise it’s not some skanky blogger trick to get you to come back tomorrow, it’s just that most people have a max tolerance for about 1,200 words (and that’s pushing it)…and this post is already well past that. So this is me trying to spare you the pain of rolling your eyes at me. Here we go…
Biggest Loser 10 auditions were at a Dallas hospital that year and I braved a storm of biblical proportions to get there. The rain was coming down so hard that I could barely see out the windshield with the wipers on their fastest setting. At one point, I had to pull over and wait because I couldn’t see at all. Finally, I got to the hospital where the auditions were – and even though I arrived two hours early, the place was a madhouse. I ended up parking in a covered garage that was quite a ways away from the hospital entrance. As I stood under the protection of the garage and plotted out my sprint-waddle through the downpour, I hear a loud honk honk honk!
As if it were Divine Intervention, a hospital shuttle van approached me. The driver popped open the door.
Driver: “Are you the Biggest Loser? Ha ha ha!!!!” He probably weighed 120 pounds soaking wet. Ass. I was tempted to ask him what gave me away. Was it the size 32 pants? I decided not to commit verbal assault that early in the morning.
I smiled and got on the bus, relieved to see other fatties already onboard. We struck up an easy conversation as the bus lurched over speed bumps on its way to the front of the hospital. By the time we were dropped off at the entrance, we were fast friends.
A volunteer waved us in through a large tent that had been set up. Inside, hundreds of my fellow fatties were already in line, looking bored and already hungry. The end of the line was nowhere in sight. We were ushered to the back, through a hall, through another hall, passing The Biggest Loser signs everywhere, down two flights of stairs and through a door…where we ended up at the back of the line…in a cold, dark underground parking garage. I surmised the garage was for doctors only, as there wasn’t a Toyota in sight.
The bus group instantly began chattering. Introductions all around. The camaraderie was awesome. Some of you may relate to this and some of you may think I’m a horrible person, but whenever I go to an event I immediately begin sizing myself up to every other person in the room. I’m usually the fattest person around, which puts me into wallflower mode. I’m quiet and shy (shut up, it really does happen!) If I know anyone at the event, I stick to them like glue. However, if I’m not the biggest person in the room then I’m much more myself. I joke around, I have fun. I’m relaxed. This is a hangover from my days as a dancer when I was constantly judged for my appearance. I’ve never been able to shake it. So imagine my euphoria at being around 800 of my fellow fatties…many of whom were bigger than 381 pound me.
We were there two hours early, so the line didn’t move for two more hours. During that time, the end of the line grew so far away that we couldn’t see it anymore. The hours passed and the line started to slowly crawl ahead. Every time we hit a landmark, our group would cheer. Seriously, we were making a spectacle of ourselves (which producers actually like). Made it out of the underground garage. CHEER! Made it up the first flight of stairs. CHEER!! Made it around the corner and could actually see the lobby. CHEER!!!
The scope of this thing was beyond us to comprehend. We spent our hours together happily fantasizing about how we’d all keep in touch if one of us was chosen for the show. We would start up Facebook groups and watch parties, gleefully cheering for our friend on tv. We had already exchanged emails and phone numbers. We were all BFF’s.
The line wound its way around the outside of the lobby and into the tent. By the time we hit the tent, those of us who were on the larger side of the fatty spectrum were in pain. We took turns sitting on the ground and helping each other up. There was no place to sit. Finally, the lobby doors were in sight. A volunteer stood nearby, counting off contestants in groups of 20 and waving them through every few minutes. Soon it was our turn.
When we came through the lobby doors, dozens of Biggest Loser volunteers stood up and cheered for us. It was quite an amazing, nearly tear-rending experience. After being lined up for hours like cattle and being hopped up on the excitement of the day, those cheers told us that we were nearly at the end of our journey. Soon, we would be in front of the casting directors of The Biggest Loser.
Or so we thought.
We were waved over to tables, where we were asked to sign waivers so that they could use our pictures on the show. (Picture the footage they always show on the season premiere of everyone lined up to audition.) One of the volunteers handed me an application with my contestant number on it.
“This is your golden ticket,” she said. “Do not lose this!”
We were handed goodie bags and sent to the hospital cafeteria, where we were assured that we could finally sit. Sounded like heaven to me after endless hours of standing. So off we went to sift through our goodie bags and fill out our applications, certain that our wait was nearly at an end.
In truth, there were several more hours and one big ass slap in the face coming our way…and that was long before we got in front of any casting directors. I’ll post the rest of the story tomorrow. Again, not to leave you in suspense but I’m quickly closing in on 2,000 words and you need a break. Am I right?
Until tomorrow, let me just say that I am not the Biggest Loser. (dun-dun-DUN!!!)
I’ve been blogging for a while about the difference in the way my clothes fit. And, of course, I’ll never forget the feeling I had a couple weeks ago when I wore jeans for the first time in two years. Mr. Scale may be moving a little slow, but April seems to be the month of NSV’s: Non-Scale Victories.
This morning when I woke up I realized I haven’t taken my measurements in a little while, so I busted out the ol’ tape measure of doom and started measuring. Imagine my surprise and delight when I did the math and realized I’ve lost a total of 19.5 inches off my body in the last 4 months. Ho…lee…CRAP!
I’ve lost an inch off my neck (do I look like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson or something?) I’ve lost 4 inches off my waist, 2.5 inches off my hips, an inch and a half off my thighs, an inch off of the cankles…and a whopping 3 inches off Starsky & Hutch (aka my boobs). I’ve also lost inches on my arms and calves. Only my wrists stayed the same, but I forgive them.
I went to work this morning with a big smile on my face, which was wiped clean for a brief period when a guy I call “Slurpy Slurpersons” was totally motor boating his morning coffee.
I perked up with some coffee myself (which I did not slurp, thank you very much) and had fun chatting with my super supportive co-workers about my newest non-scale victory.
But that’s not where this story ends, my friends. No, it is not. Sometime after I text messaged the Hot Mess Hubby to express my heartfelt condolences that my ta-ta’s are 3 inches smaller, a realization began building…slowly…in the back of my mind. 3 inches…hmm…3 inches…off the boobs….hmm….
I bolted out of my office chair and hit the ladies room faster than a vegan with lactose intolerance. I had to see if it was true. I’m sure everyone else thought I just had to pee, but I just needed to take off my bra.
What???
You heard me. I jumped into the nearest stall and took off my bra.
For a little over a year, I’ve had to use these horrible extensions on all my bras because I’m too fat to even wear the biggest bra you can buy in a retail store. No one else knows about it, of course, but it puts a little ding in my morale every morning when I get dressed and I see that damn extension.
I took the extension off and tried to fasten my bra without it…and it fit. Easily!
It was all I could do not to yell “YES!!!” at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t want to run the risk of someone I know seeing me exit the stall with a huge smile on my face. That’d be a quick way to flood the office with constipation rumors. I did a little happy dance in the stall before I hide the extension in my palm and left with my head held high.
Every once in a while during the course of the day I would reach into my purse and run my fingers over that little piece of nylon-lycra…and I would smile. What an amazing feeling to be free of that damn thing. Amazing.
This may seem silly to some, but it’s a pretty big deal to me. I hated having to use an extension on my bra. Removing it was just as big of a deal to me as fitting into those jeans two weeks ago. Another little victory in the battle of the butt. These little victories are adding up.
Other recent non-scale victories: when I look down at my feet now, I only see boobs. It used to be boobs…and then stomach. Now it’s just the boobs. I won’t see my feet for a while. I also have a pair of pants that are so baggy I can pull the waistband up to my chest like an 80 year old man. Not that I want to walk around like that or anything, but I could if I wanted to. I can also take them off without unzipping them. These are the same pants that left a red welt on my waist in December. Sweet!
Even though I hated the bra extension with a passion, I found myself thinking of it with a kind of gratitude. No matter what, the extension kept me from having to order my bras from some specialty catalog that also makes tents & awning covers. I was happy not to need it anymore, but when I thought of just unceremoniously tossing it in the trash, I thought to myself….no. No. Homage must be paid.
I’ll be donating the bra extensions to a women’s shelter along with all my size 32 clothes…but the one extension I took off today will be staying with me. It’s a souvenir. It’s a trophy of war. It’s going in the Hot Mess Hall of Fame.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to keep it in the living room next to the family pictures. What a conversation piece it would be, though! No, the extension is going on my trophy wall…right over the treadmill.
With 185 pounds left to lose out of 219 total, I am on a very long road. I have never enjoyed the journey like I am right now. Time and time again, yo-yo diet after yo-yo diet, I have won little victories like this and just blew right past them. I have not shown respect for the smaller victories that will eventually make up my ultimate victory: hitting my goal weight. What is it they say about the definition of idiocy? It’s doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Well, if I allow myself to blow right past these non-scale victories just like all those other times I’ll just be doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
I’m also, as regular readers of this blog know, a true believer in having FUN through this process. And it was in the spirit of fun that I imagined mounting this sucker on my trophy wall like the head of a ferocious beast I killed myself. Victory is mine. And, because I was in the mood and feeling quite sassy today, I wrote a poem in homage to my bra extension.
Let’s all bow our heads in respect and reverence:
Oh little scrap of nylon-lycra, Thank you for your sacrifice You stretched my bra, you held me up Your support was oh-so-nice
But now I am a smaller girl The time has come, you see For me to hang you on the wall My first symbol of victory!
A place of honor you will have For you have toiled so much It was no small feat you had, dear friend To hold up Starsky & Hutch
It’s Day 5 of 7 Days of Sanity…and, it’s true, I’m not wearing pants.
Calm down. Think rationally. Of course I’m not going to go running around my office completely uncovered. But this morning I didn’t slip on the typical frumpy, dumpy fat girl pants that I usually have to wear to work. And, no, for Heaven’s sake…I’m not wearing a skirt or a dress. Cankles, hello!
(drumroll….)
This morning, I put on (and zipped) the first pair of jeans I’ve worn in 2 years.
TWO YEARS!!!!!
Our office is closed tomorrow for Good Friday, so today is our last day before the weekend. Fridays are always jeans day at the office. I don’t have a pair of size 32 jeans and I have refused to buy any because I have a whole bunch of size 30 clothes in my closet just waiting for me. As such, I’ve never worn jeans at this job. Unlike most offices, we don’t get to participate in Jeans Day unless we donate $5 for the designated charity for that week. Every Friday is kind of like a nagging little reminder that I’m a big fat fatty…because someone comes through the department to check and see who’s wearing jeans and who has to pay up. And…every Friday…I say “I’m not wearing jeans.” And every Friday, there’s this tiny little voice that reminds me that I’m not wearing jeans because I can’t fit into the ones in my closet. It’s something that makes me fight to stay positive. I tell that little voice to shut up…and I remind myself that I’m working on it.
Sure, I could have gone out to buy bigger jeans, but I have adamantly refused to buy bigger clothes for myself and I’m sticking to it. I’ve burned that bridge. In fact, I’ll show you what I did with my last pair of size 32 jeans…tomorrow. It’s pretty funny.
But today…I am incredibly proud to be the girl who’s lost 32 pounds and is wearing size 30 jeans at work. 32 marbles have gone plink, plink, plink in the jar. 187 marbles are waiting to be moved. And they will move. It’s all in my power.
I’ll leave you guys with this for today: me in my jeans at work. Still a big fat girl, I know…but working on it every day and moving forward no matter how hard my personal demons try to throw me off course. I’ve got this.
