Designated Fat Girl (6 page)

I was really good at my job, but I was horrible at the social responsibilities that go along with making it in business. I would avoid the company Christmas party every year. What in the world was I to wear? It was a black-tie affair, and most of my female coworkers would arrive in strapless gowns with slits up to there and stilettos. The only size-24 options for me were grandmother-of-the-bride-type selections. One year I found a black and gold long-sleeved sequined jacket and a long black velvet skirt. The jacket was kind of low cut, and I had to buy a special bra to try to create some somewhat attractive cleavage. Truly, I just wanted to crawl under a rock, but I knew I had to go, so I made the best of it. As I got ready for the evening, I tried to convince myself I was young and beautiful and glamorous,
but the reality was anything but. The special bra nearly cut off my circulation, and the acts of contortion I had to perform to get into the shimmery off-black Just My Size pantyhose were nothing short of breathtaking. I tried not to be bitter as I considered the fact that the entire outfit cost me almost $500, and I didn’t even want to go! I spent the evening smiling and laughing and trying to talk to all the right people. But inside I was mourning the fact that I was dressed way beyond my twenty-eight years—and trying to ignore that I was about to pop out of my 3X top.

The price of being fat was sky-high for me in so many ways. It had robbed me of my dream of being an on-air news reporter. When I settled for wanting to make it in news management, my size kept me from feeling the confidence I needed in order to succeed. As I failed in my career, suffered in my marriage, and started wanting nothing more than to hide from the entire world, I began to realize there was no hiding, no escape. Being morbidly obese affects every single aspect of your life. And to me, there was no way out.

The dress didn’t fit.

I’m pretty sure that ranks at the top of the nightmare list for every bride-to-be. For months leading up to the big day, we sweat every detail: Should we serve chicken or beef? Will a DJ be enough, or should we splurge and hire a band? Can I get away with seating my future cousins-in-law with crazy Great Aunt Lucille? We make lists, we research bridal magazines, and we consult experts, trying to make sure it’s a day everyone will always remember. I was no exception in this regard; after five years with an absolute toad, I’d found my Prince Charming, and I couldn’t wait to become Mrs. Joyner. Like all girls, I’d always dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding, and my gown was the centerpiece of that fantasy. Because I got married in the early 1990s, bigger was definitely better, and the dress I picked out was long and flowing in a sea of ruffles and satin and tulle. In my mind I was going to be a vision.

There was one slight problem. Six weeks before the big day, I resigned myself to the awful truth: I couldn’t fit into my wedding dress. Not even close. And no amount of alteration was going to solve the problem.

My wedding was toward the beginning of my weight gain—I was bordering on 180 pounds, and I was in an absolute panic.
When I picked out my gown eight months before the event, I felt sure that I could lose the weight necessary to get into the size-12 dress. After all, what better motivation could I find than looking good for my own wedding? I just knew that I could buckle down and do whatever it took to make my dreams come true.

Of course that didn’t happen. It was my sophomore year of college, and I was taking a full load of courses. I’d recently landed the on-air reporting job in Florence, which meant I spent three days a week commuting more than three hours. And the wedding I was trying to plan, on my own, was two hours away from where I lived. And we all know how I handled stress.

As the wedding drew near, I took drastic steps. I would vow to fast for several days during the week, only allowing myself to drink liquids and eat Popsicles. When the hunger drove me mad, I would alter the plan, restricting my diet to about 250 calories a day. Of course this strategy was disastrous and only led me to binge eat out of starvation and frustration. Six weeks before the wedding, I could deny it no longer—the dress just didn’t fit.

Here’s where my saint of a mother came in. She should have been furious. She should have let me have it on both sides for being so irresponsible, but she’s not built that way. When I tearfully told her on the phone that the dress wasn’t going to work, she soothingly talked me down, assuring me it would be all right. And it was, at least for a little while. The next day she called with the great news: Her best friend’s daughter was willing to loan me her wedding dress. It was a size 16, so it should be plenty big, my mom told me. I’d been to her wedding, and I remembered the dress as being quite beautiful. She and I were
about the same height, so I knew the length would work just fine. It was awful to think I would not be able to wear the gown I’d chosen for myself, that I would have to rely on the charity of others for one of the biggest days of my life. But I pushed those disappointments away, realizing I really had no other choice. Of course I didn’t tell my mom that I had recently started buying work clothes in size 18; my size 16s were getting a little snug.
No problem,
I told myself.
I’ll lose just a little weight, just to be sure. No problem.

I had six weeks before hundreds of my friends and family would gather to watch me exchange vows with the man of my dreams. My parents were spending thousands of dollars on my wedding, and I wasn’t sure I would have a dress to wear. Sure, I had a backup plan, but who really knew if it was a realistic one? I had to work every weekend leading up to the wedding; my new reporting job would only allow me a few days off for a honeymoon—there was no extra time. My weekdays were spent in classes, and I simply couldn’t make the two-hour trip home to try on the dress. In my moments of panic, I assured myself it would fit, that everything would be all right. Surely this had happened before—surely I wasn’t the first bride to do this, right? When my breathing got harder and my head got dizzy, I would have a little something to eat to settle my nerves, promising myself that I would do better the next day.

I lost zero pounds before my wedding.

I finally made it home the Thursday night before the Saturday evening ceremony. You would think the first thing I would do would be to rush right over to try on the dress, making sure that it was going to work. In fact my mom’s friend was going to
bring the dress right over, but I feigned an excuse, saying I was meeting friends who were coming into town. I just couldn’t face it—I was terrified at the thought of the dress not fitting, so I buried it away and refused to deal with it. My mom looked a little worried, but as I walked out the door I assured her it would all be fine.

I needed to try on the dress, but I couldn’t make myself. I was scared to death, and I just didn’t want to know.
But you’re going to have to know sooner or later!
that rational voice inside my head insisted. But once again, rational thinking was not at play.

Friday dawned, and a full day of activities stretched before me: final trip to the florist, lunch with out-of-town guests, quick trip to the mall for some last-minute bridesmaid’s gifts. I had a lot to do, many things to keep my mind occupied, but this overwhelming feeling of dread filled every minute. My powers of denial were no longer working, and the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach was growing with intensity. By the time we got to the rehearsal, I was a mess. The mood was jovial as family members greeted one another and everyone congratulated Michael and me. But all I could think about was the next day’s wedding and how the bride wore … what? Whatever I could find on the rack at Dress Barn? Because in my mind, there was no way that gown was going to fit.

The rehearsal dinner provided a warm and relaxed atmosphere, except in my mind. I didn’t touch the prime rib, finally finding whatever it took to refrain from stuffing my face. Too bad that didn’t happen three months earlier! The rising panic had made it past the pit of my stomach and was sitting in my throat like hot bile I couldn’t swallow away. Michael kissed me
and fed me a piece of the chocolate groom’s cake to everyone’s applause. I wanted to vomit, my fear was so palpable.

I wished Michael a goodnight as he set out to be with his friends, and my girlfriends gathered at the hotel where the reception would be held. We were debating exactly how to spend my last hours as a free woman, when I made up an excuse to go see my mother. I couldn’t bring myself to admit to these friends that I had to go figure out what to wear to my wedding the next day; I was too ashamed and embarrassed to admit my failures, even to my closest girlfriends. I don’t even remember what I told them, but the next thing I knew, I was on my parents’ doorstep at midnight.

“Moooom,” I couldn’t even get her name out when she opened the door. I sobbed as she hugged me, and like always, she worked her magic. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?” Of course she knew. She was Mom, and she knew me well. I was crying too hard to answer her, so I just nodded, and she took my hand, leading me to my old bedroom.

The dress hung on the back of the closet door. My mom had steamed it and poofed it, making it all ready for me to wear. Through tears I stripped down and waited for her to bring it to me. In silence I stepped into the dress, and she slowly shimmied the fabric up to my waist. We both held our breath.

It didn’t fit.

She couldn’t even get the zipper halfway up. As the reality hit us, a strange calm fell over me. So this was it. I had feared this for so many weeks, and at least now I knew: I couldn’t fit into my wedding dress. It was almost a relief to let go of the unknown.

While I was imagining what I would say in the hundreds of phone calls I had to make to cancel the wedding, my mom
was busy looking at the side panels of the dress. “I think I can let it out,” she said quietly, studying the fabric. My breath caught. Had I heard her correctly? Of course I had. This was my mother; she fixed everything! I felt relief wash over my body as she pulled, tucked, examined, and decided what had to be done. I hugged her so tightly and thanked her profusely. She gave me a tired smile, and I couldn’t help but note the bit of sadness in her eyes. She sent me off to have a good night’s sleep so that I would be beautiful the next day. She would stay up half the night to make it all okay.

I left her house and went straight to the drive-thru.

Some things never change.

The dress did fit the next day, Mom made sure of that. But I was terribly self-conscious about it. You would be hard-pressed to find a photo that does not have me clutching my large bouquet in front of my midsection. I used those flowers as a shield, trying to protect prying eyes from seeing what was happening to me, to my body. When I think back to our wedding, I should be filled with warm memories of dreams finally becoming a reality. Instead all I can recall is heaps of tension, mounds of stress, and tremendous relief that I was at least able to go through with it, that I did not have to cancel my wedding at the last minute because of a wardrobe malfunction.

When the wedding and honeymoon were over and Michael and I began to settle into our lives, the weight gain only increased. The more I tried to stop it, the more I felt as though I were in
quicksand. Just living my everyday life was difficult, carrying around all this extra weight I didn’t know what to do with. It was bad enough I had to go to school and to work heavier than I’d ever been; I certainly didn’t want to let my friends and family back home know that I was spiraling out of control. I started avoiding trips to Durham, too ashamed to see the girlfriends I’d grown up with. Of course I should have confided in them, perhaps they would have even been able to help. I certainly could have used some shoulders to cry on. But my best friends were two of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen, and I foolishly thought they wouldn’t be able to understand. How could they identify with my looking worse than I ever had and being unable to do anything about it? Instead of seeing them in person, I kept in touch by phone, never letting on that I was getting fatter by the day.

That was all well and good until a year after my wedding, when my friend SuLin announced her engagement. Because I hadn’t been home, I had yet to meet her boyfriend, now fiancé, but I was still so very happy for her and readily accepted her invitation to be one of her bridesmaids. Standing up for SuLin in her wedding as an obese woman was never an option for me; I wouldn’t even entertain the notion of walking down an aisle in a gown, well over two hundred pounds. The wedding was several months away, and once again, I stupidly convinced myself that I would be able to look fabulous in a dress by that time. Of course I remembered how my own wedding dress disaster turned out, but I used that as ammunition to try and get myself amped up for this very important weight loss.
I can’t let my best friend down! Time to buckle down and do what has to be done.

I made an excuse when SuLin tried to get me to come home and meet her intended. I feigned work when she asked me to go with her to pick out our bridesmaids gowns. These were fairly simple deceptions to pull off; we lived far apart, and we were both busy with school and work. But when she called asking for my measurements so that she could order my dress (red! strapless!), I could hide no longer. It had already been a couple of months since SuLin had told me she was getting married, several weeks in which I was supposed to have gotten busy with my weight loss. Had it happened? Of course not! What the hell was I going to do now?

I should have come clean, right then and there. I could have confided in SuLin about my continued weight gain and my inability to do anything about it; she was my friend. We’d known each other since fifth grade and had seen each other through some pretty tough times. She would have understood, would have helped me through it. She certainly deserved to know the truth as it pertained to her special day, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, couldn’t admit my failure.
I’ll be able to fix it,
I told myself. I came too close to ruining my own wedding, there’s no way I’ll ruin hers!

I puffed myself up with plans for drastic weight loss, and I gave SuLin
phony
dress measurements. Yes, you read correctly: I completely lied. One of my bridesmaids had been a size 12, and I found her measurements in my wedding planner. I sized them up just a bit to make myself about a size 14. Seriously, at this point I was a size 20 or larger. SuLin’s wedding was a mere four months away—a miracle would have to happen in order to get me in that dress. But I somehow convinced myself
that telling the truth was way worse than risking letting my best friend down in a huge way; it was easier to try to take it all on my shoulders and make it okay.

Gaining weight and being unable to stop it was one thing; lying about it and in effect sabotaging my best friend’s wedding was just inexcusable. If I’d stopped to listen to that inner voice, the one that was screaming at me to stop the nonsense and tell the truth, things would have been a whole lot better for all those involved. But doing so at that point would have meant admitting failure, and I wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to do that. I had to believe that I could lose this weight, that I could rid myself of this problem. Thinking otherwise, to me, would have meant giving up, and I just couldn’t face the failure.