Secrets of a Former Fat Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Can we stop now, pleeeeeeze ?”
    Until then my imagination was the only thing about me that you could call active. Now I put to use the skills I honed creating elaborate daydreams about marrying the latest teen idol (Davy Jones of the Monkees was an early favorite). Some nights at the track I’d visualize myself running before a roaring crowd, slogging toward the finish line. I’d break the imaginary tape, and after looking around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I’d raise both hands in victory. Yeah, I can’t believe I did something so corny, either. But it had become a matter of survival. I was ready to do whatever it took to get to the end of that run, to win.
    That’s how I felt after every track session: a little more like a winner. Running did something for me that Jazzercise didn’t. Each lap I completed was an instant success, a task I’d checked off my to-do list. For the overachiever in me, it was like a drug. I needed more. Each lap was a goal I could tick off before moving on to the next. I worked my way up to running a mile and a half, then two, then three. The way I felt after a run—not physically but emotionally—dulled the soreness in my muscles, the aches in my bunions. Every time I inched a bit farther than before, I felt like an explorer breaking new ground. What I was doing was as impossible to me as it was for Neil Armstrong to walk on the moon or Keanu Reeves to do Shakespeare. I ran on that track exclusively for at least a year, spurred on by the strokes I got from finishing lap after lap.

    In the meantime, I was still up to my old dietary indiscretions, the ones that compelled me to polish off a supersize order of fries or an entire sleeve of Girl Scout cookies even though I knew I’d be doubled over in pain afterward. My favorite dinner at the time—my post-run reward—was a homemade ground beef soft taco piled with cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. Not exactly what you’d call light. Dessert was a pint of cookies and cream ice cream. (Okay, so I had downsized a bit from my usual half gallon.)
    Unbelievably, despite my food free-for-alls, I started losing weight. My waistbands started feeling looser, my thighs not as loose. After several months I was out of my fattest-of-fat pants and into my somewhat-less-fat pants. I went down a couple of sizes, from a 16 or so to a 12, without changing the way I was eating at all.
    I was no dummy. I knew exercise could burn off some of the junk a person eats. But I had never experienced it myself. I mean, I was eating ice cream by the pint several days a week, and still my body was changing. Amazing!
    The more weight I lost, the easier running became and the more I wanted to do it. I could see and feel the difference physically. The three flights up to my apartment didn’t leave me puffing like an old-lady smoker. Even shopping for clothes began to be less painful. I could actually find pieces that fit, though I stayed far away from leotards, swimsuits, and, of course, jeans.
    I loved what running was doing to my body, but at first I took the weight loss in stride. After all, I had been there before. I had lost my share of pounds at other times in my life, only to gain them back. I didn’t quite trust it. Not yet.
    The small flicker of hope that got me to Jazzercise in the first place continued to burn, and burn brighter, but it wasn’t connected as much to the weight I was dropping. In fact, I wasn’t really focused on the pounds I was losing at all. I didn’t even weigh myself. All I thought about was running, how to get through the eight or ten laps I had to do that day and how many I might be able to run tomorrow. I was chasing that “I can” feeling I first got from Jazzercise and felt even stronger from running. I was exercising for the positive things it was doing for my mind and my body, not to work off the bag of chips I had at lunch.
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