What
does it mean that America is now officially the fattest nation on the planet?
For one thing, it means you’re not alone. Do you hate what you see when you
step on the scale? Are you careful to never even go near one? Rest assured
you’re in the majority — 60 percent of Americans are considered overweight.
If you haven’t gained weight lately,
chances are you will. Obesity rates have doubled in the past 10 years. We’re
ballooning to new sizes, busting through airline seats, and getting diabetes at
record rates. We’re a whole nation of Augustus Gloops, the greedy boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,gorging ourselves in the river of
chocolate (and supersized fries). It’s only a matter of time before we’re
sucked into the pipes.
Overeating is such a major part of
our national character that we should all recognize the five stages of weight
gain:
1. Denial. “I always wear my pants unzipped with a baggy T-shirt covering them.”
2. Anger. “That darn dry cleaner
shrunk my pants!”
3. Bargaining. “OK, if I eat only
eat two of these chocolate Easter eggs, maybe the pants will fit me again.”
4. Depression. “What’s the point of
wearing pants? Might as well just crawl into bed and eat all the Easter eggs.”
5. Acceptance. “I’ll eat the
chocolates while driving to the mall to buy larger pants.”
When I was
firmly in the denial stage after the holidays, I made the mistake of stepping on a
scale. I had gained 15 pounds. Luckily, my body mass index (BMI) saved the day.
BMI is a measure of body fat based on your height and weight. (Many websites
can calculate it for you.) My BMI is 22 — well within the normal range
(19-25). Twenty-six to 30 is considered overweight and anything above 30 is obese.
Ignoring all the evidence that I was
gaining weight — the too-tight clothes and the scale’s soaring digits — I
clung to my BMI. I tossed any notions of going on a diet and pulled my chair
back up to the trough.
Then I was broadsided by an
electronic scale that sends a low-level signal through you to measure the
percentage of body fat. Twenty-one to 33 percent is considered healthy for
women. The moment I stepped on the special footpads, I knew I was busted. You
can’t run. You can’t hide. My body is officially 34 percent fat. Oink.
I know lawsuits like the
unsuccessful one against McDonald’s aren’t the way to go, but it’d be nice to
blame someone for my little weight problem. But who? Stever’s? Ben &
Jerry’s? That lady who invented Buffalo chicken wings? In the meantime, I’ve grudgingly
started to change my habits in the hopes of getting results. Ha.
Anyone who’s ever tried to lose a
few pounds knows it’s impossible. Taking a diet pill can kill you, so that’s
out. And the quote-unquote experts give us conflicting advice about diet and
exercise. Which is it? Moderate exercise everyday or strenuous activity three
times a week? Doing what? Walking briskly, lifting weights, or running
marathons?
Add to this the food pyramid fiasco.
First, fats were bad for you and carbohydrates were good, according to the
original pyramid. Now, the new “Healthy Eating Pyramid,” released by Harvard,
says fats are in and carbs are out. I love this pyramid, which prominently
features cashews, those delicious Carr whole-grain wheat crackers, and wine. It’s the cocktail party diet I
lived on in my skinny 20s. Add Marlboro Lights and I’m on the road back to
Thinville.
I recently got motivated to start
working out. A surprise gift membership to a local gym from my husband (subtle,
huh?) got me off my butt. But what to wear? You can’t just pull on your old
sweats. That’s so Clinton Administration. Tight tops and silky pants with white
leg stripes are in now. Good luck finding ones that fit, though. At the
athletic store the evilly thin clerk smirked as she handed me yoga pants that
were, she sneered, “more roomy.” Not on me, Cruella.
If that isn’t humiliating enough,
weight-room culture can be devastating, and I’m not talking about those steroid
studs. When I had my first lesson in free weights with a trainer, I noticed a
sweet grandma type smiling at me. I sent a self-deprecating smile back as I
strained to lift the tiny dumbbells skyward. Then I realized that her smile
was, in fact, one of contempt. Granny swept a barbell loaded with weights high
over her head and barked out a laugh. “She’s laughing at you,” the trainer said
helpfully.
Talk about elder abuse.
The best thing
about the
fattening of America is that pudge is actually becoming stylish, judging by how
many magazines have sections devoted to fashions for “curvy” women and girls.
And Torrid, a chain that sells trendy clothes in sizes 14 to 26, is a Fortune500 fastest-growing company. Who am I to buck the trend? I need to
emulate celebrities like my HipHop hero Missy Elliott and the hilarious
comedian Margaret Cho, who are not ashamed of their plus-sized stature; both
take an in-your-face approach to the topic in their performances.
My only fear is that someday a
successful lawsuit against a fast-food chain will force restaurants to list fat
grams right on the menu. That could really put a damper on an evening out. And
what if restaurants slim down their dishes in an effort to stave off
litigation? Would Nick Tahou’s switch to a — gasp! — low-fat vegetarian
garbage plate? Will the threat of lawsuits halt the happy hours and shutter the
ice cream shops?
I’m ditching my gym membership and
stuffing my face while the eating’s good. Some people outfitted “safe” rooms in
their homes with water and canned food. I’m stockpiling donuts and ribs.
This article appears in Mar 26 – Apr 1, 2003.
