Read My Hips

Our favorite troublemaker and speaker-upper, Kim Brittingham (Fat is Contagious), is guest blogging today! Her story below ain't light - in fact, it's downright heart-wrenching - but I think many of us can relate to and learn from it. Leave your feedback in Comments for our most fabulous newest WG addition...

How it all began
"When I was a teenager, my mother took a picture of me standing in front of our house.

I stood unsmiling beside a flowering bush. I knew I was bigger and uglier than most girls, but maybe the camera would strike a deceptive angle and make me look pretty.

When the picture came back from the developer, I was mortified.

I was going to make sure no one ever saw this awful image of me. I stole it from its paper envelope and scurried away to my room.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the semi-gloss print in my hands. I had no idea I was so misshapen! I knew I was pear-shaped; all the women in our family were. But genetics had hung themselves on my frame with an unnecessary flourish of cruelty. My hips ballooned out from my body, in freakish contrast to my trim waist. I was an extreme, like those apes with shockingly bulbous red bottoms.

I began to cry. My God, I thought. I’m deformed!

Clearly, I’d have to cover this up. Never again would I wear a shirt or sweater under 32” long -- or at least not until I fixed this problem. I’d wear tunics and dumpy cardigans, and men’s flannel shirts three sizes too big, just because they covered my hips.

I took the photo to my desk and with a fine-tipped black marker, oh-so-carefully, I shaved several inches off my hips, applying the ink in parentheses-like strokes until I’d blacked out the swells of excess flesh. I sat up straight and regarded the image of myself with a “normal” body, and felt overcome by a surge of shimmering hope.

I decided to go on a diet.

The dieting years a.k.a. the climb to 310
My mother and I joined Weight Watchers together. We took turns weighing our food on a little white scale. We monitored our food exchanges with vigilance and logged them on charts stuck to the refrigerator. My dad complained about the cases of diet soda we sucked down at record speed. For the first time, I tried cottage cheese. It was almost as thick as ice cream, but not nearly as good. I asked for the Jane Fonda Workout Album for Christmas.

Inevitably there came a day at the mall when I was alone with pocket money, and the aroma of crisp french fries glistening with oil and freshly dumped from their wire basket proved too much to resist. That day, I “blew my diet”.

Oh, but it had been so long since I’d eaten anything delicious! I couldn’t stop at the fries. I was like a starving orphan set free at the Fancy Foods Show. I ate Chips Ahoy cookies soaked in whole milk; hulking tablespoons of peanut butter whipped into soup bowls full of chocolate ice cream; Nutella on Wonder Bread. I ate like there would be no tomorrow, because tomorrow I’d be back on my diet. And surely, with all the weight I had to lose, it might be years before I’d ever enjoy these treats again.

Eventually my mother tired of buying and cooking “diet foods.” She didn’t want to pay the weekly fee at Weight Watchers anymore. Jane Fonda’s voice started getting on my nerves. The exercises bored me to tears -- literally.

I gained back what I lost -- plus ten pounds more.

In time, I gave it another go, this time with Nutri-System -- and then later with Jenny Craig, and Richard Simmons’ Deal-a-Meal. There were diets of my own making, like the Just Eat Pasta with Fat-Free Creamy Italian Salad Dressing All The Time Diet. There was the diet recommended by a crackpot nutritionist giving free consultations from the back of a health food store. He told me to eat nothing but meat and dairy. Without carbohydrates, he said, my body would devour its own fat. I lost weight so fast people thought I was sick.

What I really lost
There were many moments of triumph on the scale -- at home, at the weight loss center, on the big pay-scale in the drug store. And there were just as many moments of frustration, desperation and deprivation as I un-did all the dieting I’d done. 145 to 128; 128 to 155...one day I’d peak at 310.

Once upon a time, food was fuel for my body and a pleasure to my senses. But it became so much more. Now it’s supercharged with meaning and burdened with responsibilities it never signed up for.

Food is a merciless torturer. It’s a mirage in the Sahara. It’s a temptress who crumbles to dust at first touch.

Food whispers absurd promises, flashes neon pink and blue like Vegas, hums with the solemnity of religion.

It’s the husk of a dead therapist, taxidermized and set upright behind glass. It winks like a loose school girl. It’s a dolt who solves nothing.

Uncovering my past
Earlier this year, I was asked to appear on The Today Show, and the producer requested that I provide pictures of myself at different stages in my life. As I was digging through a box of old photos, I came upon the photo of myself with the inked-out hips.

Obviously I couldn’t see the true shape of my body beneath the black marks, but I stopped to study my 15-year-old upper arms, cheekbones and chin. Hm, that’s strange. I thought this was a Fat Picture.

I carried the photo to my kitchen table, hovered with a damp cloth and finally rubbed away the crescents of black ink that recontoured my hips. It came off easily; the picture was like new.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

Underneath the ink, there was almost…nothing.

But I remembered this picture. I remembered hunching over it alone in my bedroom, making delicate corrective strokes on an embarrassingly disproportionate girl.

What happened to the hips, those big goiter-like hips I fantasized about cutting off with our electric Thanksgiving turkey knife? Where were they? I remembered seeing them there! I know I did, I looked ridiculous! They were so awful, I’d been willing to do anything to get rid of them. I was determined to diet those hips off my body before I got stuck with them for life!

There was nothing wrong with the girl in the picture.

How I wish someone could have told her."

Thank heaven for little boys

A conversation from today at the gym. It begins by me entering the facility, being greeted by two young guys, maybe 19ish, behind the check-in counter:

Boys: Hey, Leslie. How you doin'? (Note: This was likely rhetorical)

Me: OMG did you know I've been on bed rest and in physical therapy for a bulging disk and it's Killing me to not be able to lift weights, blah blah, another three minutes or so.

Boys: "That sucks!"

Me: "I know! Especially for a freak like me who loves working out. I feel like I'm melting."

Boys (in tandem, no less): "Oh, NO! You look great! You have nothing to worry about."

Me: *bats eyelashes* "Oh my God, you two are so sweet! Can I eat you for dinner? Thanks for saying that! See ya later!"

I am a Cougar now.

Magazines: Dangerous to your workout?

Thursday is the happiest day of the week (yes, I realize today is not Thursday), for two reasons:

1) So You Think You Can Dance is on (altho I just came to the horrifying realization that my dream show actually runs on Wednesdays, and them someone is sent home on Thursday. I will need to secure the season DVD as soon as possible as I've been spending my Wednesdays sobbing in a corner, wishing Top Chef wasn't over and counting the days until Project Runway returns. I am a sad soul.

2) US Weekly arrives.

When I open my mailbox and a glossy, Angelina/Britney/Reese-topped maggie spills out into my awaiting, outstretched arms, I feel like a doctor delivering a healthy, bouncing, beautiful baby girl, full of promise and hope and potential. US Weekly is my baby. I know my workout the next day is bound to be good because I have 60 pages of celeburiffic crap to read through, thus distracting me from the ache in my thighs of the streaming rivulets of sweat streaking down my back, forming small lakes at the bottom of my Gauntlet (OK, for now it's the recumbent...but still).

I simply cannot workout on a machine sans reading material. US, Women's Health, Allure, Newsweek, Chicago Magazine - no matter what the topic, I know it'll help distract me just enough to crank out 40 minutes (though not so distracting that I slack off in the cardio department.) I'm not that guy who readers the Sunday Times while leisurely pedaling away at 2RPMs.

Anyhow, I thought of my penchant for reading-while working when I saw this recent study showing that muscle mags can undo the feel-good effects of exercise. Apparently, staring at pics of six-packs and cantaloupe-sized calves can rob you of the mental boost we all love from our workout.

Researchers recruited 92 college women to spend half an hour on an exercise bike while reading either Oxygen magazine, Oprah magazine or nothing at all. Those who read Oxygen during their exercise routine were more anxious, depressed and in an all-around poorer mood post-workout; Oprah readers or non-readers benefited in terms of mood.

The head researcher hypothesizes that women may become depressed when looking at images like this and this because we feel we'll never that good.

I think this is interesting...I personally have experienced the same feelings of "my butt will never look like hers no matter how long I spend on this machine" but that's why I stopped reading certain magazines that rhyme with "Mosmololitan" and certainly never pick up a copy of that one maggie that is named after the letter that follows "V" but comes before "X." True, my current issue of Allure does feature Ali Larter looking impossibly hot but, as my dad always said about his Playboy collection, I read it for the articles (great essays!)

In the MSN article I linked to above, Gary Sforzo, a professor of exercise and sport sciences at NY's Ithaca College said exercisers can generally be divided into two categories: associaters and dissociaters. "Associaters tend to be hard-core exercise enthusiasts and athletes who are addicted to their heart rate monitors and tracking their performance every step of the way," the article states. "Not surprisingly, though, 'most people are dissociaters,' he says. 'These are people who don’t like to tune in to their bodies while exercising.' Reading, listening to music or watching the tube can be a smart strategy to keep these people exercising and going for longer periods when they do because they get caught up in an article, music or show, Sforzo says."

Now, I don't color myself "dissociative," a term which carries strong connotations of craziness for some reason in my mind. And I would never say I tune out or don't pay attention to my body while working out. But I suppose I have been relying on the written word to carry me through. I could stop if I wanted, tho. And I'm saying that in a non-addicted-smoker-kind-of-way. After all, I never thought I could productively write at home and look at me now, post neck blow-out: I'm home-based and doing well. (Though I hear customers have been asking after me at Starbucks. I think they're going to retire my chair, actually!)

I'm off on a long walk to my gym, where I'll spin a bit on the recumbent. Reading a brand-spanking-new issue of Health Magazine. When I get back, I home to see lotsa comments from y'all - any fellow dissociaters in da house? Who reads National Geographic while they Ellipticize? Or do you iPod your way through? Watch Grey's Anatomy reruns? What does it for you?

Love!

Undercover dieting

Let's get real.

No one wants to go out to a deep dish pizza restaurant with a group of friends and be "that girl" who orders a small salad, balsamic vinegar on the side. But what do you do when you're watching what you eat - meaning either actively dieting or simply trying to stay healthy - and you're hanging with a big group and the orders for cheesy, greasy bar food start flying? Or when you're sitting at a tapas bar and that yummy potato omelet thing is passing from your right as the fried calamari is coming from the left. I mean, a girl can only handle so much!

It's hard to say no. Our friends have a crazy huge influence over what we eat: Food pushers are everywhere, saboteurs lurk in every corner. I recently wrote a story for Health about this - how to avoid the peeps in your life that bake you pies or beg you to split Creme Brulee or make a sour face when you order a salad and quip, "You're making me feel baaaad."

So here's what I'm wondering. Do you have any tricks for getting around this? (I know this seems off-topic for Weighting Game but it's for possible inclusion in a future Today Show segment so help me out!) Do you get the pizza but tap your friend on the shoulder and whisper, "You have a sesame seed stuck in your teeth" then stealthily blot the grease from your pizza as she checks herself in a mirror? Maybe you only order water because, really, who wants to be the paranoid freaking sending back her Diet Coke because it tastes suspiciously like "real" Coke? Maybe you're just up-front and tell the girls, "Listen, I haven't worked out in three weeks and need to eat light so back off when I order the turkey burger, no bun." Or do you pull a Leslie and politely decline dessert, only to lick the caramel off your husband's plate of cheesecake (not that I'm guilty of this or anything!)

Spill your dirty beans in Comments.

If a drop of back fat falls onto a Victoria's Secret runway model, does anyone see it?

You betchyer bippie they do.

Victoria's Secret model Karolina Kurkova, 24, is being attacked in the media over her recent appearance at Sao Paulo Fashion Week. KK deigned to walk the walk with what naysayers are calling "back fat," "love handles," and "cellulite."

An article in one Brazilian newspaper described how "shocked" the audience was when the 5'11" stunner appeared looking uncharacteristically chubby with "cellulite on her butt."

VS must've thought she looked hot enough because she opened the show...watch the video below to demolish your self-esteem for the day see her in the very beginning and at 7:35

FYI Brazilian model Ana Carolina Reston, 21, died of anorexia in November of 2006 from complications of anorexia. This VS show - and the ensuing hubub - took place in Brazil. Just sayin'.

PS Check out Huffington Post for more comments.

Calling all ugly

A few weeks ago, I received the following email which made me snort Jelly Bellies out of my nose when I read it:

Leslie,

I found your name through SheSource. Jim O’Connor publicity professional and award winning author, is writing a book about unattractive people who have faced the world and found happiness, a good job, and love. In a world which places so much emphasis on beauty, Jim wants to know what the secret is in finding success without being beautiful.

Can he interview you? Can we call and set up a time which is good for you?

Hahahahaha. Ha. That, I thought, is the most amazingly backhanded compliment I have ever gotten.

Alas, I was intrigued, and we set up a time to talk.

Yesterday we chatted and he explained his concept a but more and I think it’s fascinating and an important topic to address - the world is not all fluffy kittens and Angelina Jolie lips. People are discriminated against and teased about the teeniest, tiniest “imperfections” - we hold ourselves up to impossible standards and criticize ourselves for things (cellulite, a big shnoz) that we’d never even notice on a friend, let alone make them feel like crap for it. I mean, I was on the Today Show discussing “Would you rather be 40 pounds overweight and smart or skinny and dumb” for crying out loud! And let us never forget the day a random teenage boy on the street told me I have cankles.

I told Jim I would help him spread the word as he gathers info for his book. He’s already spoken with a number of people from the Ugly NY Talent agency (loathe the name but I “get” the concept of needing “real people” for films and such…and many of them are not traditionally “ugly“ - they‘re simply intriguing or extraordinary-looking -- something we need more of in the media, quite frankly) and is scouting for other men and women to talk to via internet. Here’s his pitch:

Jim O’Connor, a Chicago writer, is working on a book titled Facing the World, an inspirational look at how unattractive, odd-looking, overweight, too thin, or deformed people survive and even thrive in a culture that favors beauty. He would like to interview anyone who has a moving life story, a turning point that changed everything, or even a funny but meaningful anecdote in answer to some or all of the following questions:

1. Were you teased, bullied or excluded when you were a child?

2. How did your parents or family members help you—or hurt your efforts—to build self-esteem?

3. Did you have an exceptional quality—such as brains, talent, humor—that gave you confidence?

4. If you didn’t have a redeeming attribute, how did you develop acceptance?

5. Did your appearance influence your career choice? Were job interviews difficult?

6. What was dating like?

7. Do you have a spouse or partner? How did the two of you connect?

If Jim O’Connor decides to include you in his book, he will send you what he writes so you can review it. He would also be interested in knowing what you think about the concept behind this book. You can reach him at 847-615-5462 or by email, jimo@oconnorpr.com

If I haven’t totally insulted you and you understand where I’m coming from and this sounds interesting to you, contact him - could be verrrry interesting.

Please, though, I really want to hear your thoughts on this - do you feel your looks have helped or hindered your succes in life? It could be chronic acne, or an extremely ample chest, or kinky crazy hair, or a scar (speaking of which, have you ever read the story behind Padma Lakshmi's scar? Check it here- it's a great story/learning experience.)

PS I was looking up quotes on beauty and came across this - “Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that's a real treat.” - by Joanne Woodward. It reminded me of this time in college when I was walking down State Street in Madison, headed to class. A hippie with dreadlocks and a yellow/green/red beret was stopping people, asking them, "Are you interested in becoming a writer or poet?" I averted my soon-to-be-writer eyes and tried sweeping past him. He was practically yelling out his request and just as I had nearly passed him, he caught my eye and, with a sly smile, screamed, "BEAUTY FADES! BUT YOUR WORDS WILL LIVE ON FOREVER!" I truly am Queen of the Backhanded Compliment.

A model from UGLY/RAGE Models. Who is not ugly.

Should insurance cover treatment for eating disorders?

From today’s Chicago Tribune: “Illinois lawmakers can't do much about the physical and emotional toll [of anorexia and bulimia], but they did move to ease the financial burden on families, recently approving legislation that would require insurance companies to pay for treatment of anorexia and bulimia. If Gov. Rod Blagojevich signs the bill, Illinois will become the 17th state to mandate such coverage.”

Treatment for an ED can run as high as $2,500 a day. Eating disorders carry the highest fatality rate of any psychiatric illness.

Admittedly, I have zero idea if my family’s insurance covered my treatment when I was in college. All I know is I staunchly rejected the therapist they sent me, crossing my arms as she threatened to “fix me.” Today, I consider therapy one of the highlights of my week (behind So You Think You Can Dance but ahead of doing laundry) –a clear sign (to me, at least) that I’ve a) gotten better and b) found a guy who knows what he’s doing. I do pay a 30% copay because my guy is out-of-network. Believe me, I recognize that I’m fortunate to be in a position to do so. But this is not exactly ED treatment – it’s biofeedback for my sleep. Were I seeing a therapist for an ED, I’m pretty sure it would be covered; as for in-patient coverage, I don’t know. This news sounds like the answer is a big N-O.

Families can lose their house paying for a child with an ED to get help. It is THAT EXPENSIVE. How sad that, in addition to the stress and turmoil of an ED, financial ruin is a very real concern. I’m all for in-patient coverage…how about you?

Stop taunting me with your 100 Push-Up Challenge!

Oh, cruel world!

Please stop taunting me with your 100 Push-Up Challenge. I can't take it anymore! I'm thisclose to ripping my foamy, blingy neck collar into shreds, dropping to the floor and giving you...well, nothing, because I CAN'T DO ANYTHING WITH MY ARMS. No weights. No resistance bands. No Magic Circle. My doctor chastised me for picking up a pen. People, I am in trouble.

Before hurting my neck, I was lifting an impressive (pat, pat) 17.5 pounds per arm for upright rows; 15 per pound for biceps curls. I love weight-lifting - what else lets me release stress, get strong and stare at myself in the mirror, all at the same time? Trifecta Perfecta! Now, I can't even lift a grocery bag with three cherries in it. I mean, I CAN, I'm just not 'sposed to.

Today I'm going to tell my PT, "Look, I know I need to be patient but that quality goes against everything in my nature and I am starting to suffer psychic trauma as I imagine my decades of hard work dwindling away into nothingness. Also, I'm Matron of Honor in my friend Amanda's wedding next month and would like to have my buffness back before walking down the aisle (because, you know, everyone will be looking at me, not the bride)." Even if she can give me clearance to lift two-pounders (which, truth be told, I could prolly lift with my Kegel muscles alone but still, it's a start!), I will be happy and skip around. Carefully. The last thing I need right now is a patented Leslie fall/door-bashing/head-first slide into the hallway.

As for cardio, yesterday was a stunningly beautiful day in Chicago and I walked home from my biofeedback guy's office...about a 6-mile stroll with intermittent window shopping. I wore the brace after mile 5 and ducked through alleys because I looked like such a freak. I'm sure my bling scared at least three bums. But at least I got to MOVE!

No, I'm not starting a food blog. This is what my arms feel like.

PS I just happened upon this story in Self called Bad Karma which, I swear, could have been written by me - the author injured herself doing the exact same yoga pose I did! I can't believe this story ran at almost the same time I hurt myself - what a crazy coincidence! Ban the Plow! Ban the Plow! (Yogis, feel free to state differing opinions.)

3rd Rock..and 60 pounds...from the Sun

Y'all know Kristen Johnson? The 6-foot-tall (go on, girl!) actress from 3rd Rock from the Sun? (And who can forget her infamous portrayal of Ivana Humpalot in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me?) Well, I obviously know her and keep up on her whereabouts because we both belong to a special society of tall women...which is why I was so shocked to see a pic of her in People Magazine looking alarmingly thin. She always seemed so voluptous and curvy to me. Check it out:

Before:

And after:

Johnston says that, pre-weight loss, she was "miserable" as a result of an admittedly crappy diet - her post-filming meals would include numerous drinks, "plus a diet of pizza, BLTs and fries, dinner at 11 p.m.”

In December of 2006, she suffered from a burst ulcer (ouch) and spent manyl weeks in the hospital. That event forced her to take “a hard look at her life.” She dropped the alcohol and added vegetables, oatmeal, and salads with salmon (a lineup which sounds shockingly like what I eat, except I gobble down enough candy to give my dentist an anxiety attack.)

“I think it looks great. I feel amazing,” she says in People. “I no longer stress about my body. I’m in a happy place.”

BUT...she also acknowledges that the anorexia rumors came fast and furious: "When actresses lose weight, people can think they are anorexic. It is important to me to say that is not the case here.”

She dropped 60 pounds. I think she looks quite thin but I don't want to jump to any conclusions or judge her...after all, this was motivated by a medical issue. My gut says she did this in a healthy way and does not have an eating disorder. Over at The Daily Blabber, comments are ranging from "She looks like total crap...WAY too skinny! She used to look great" to "I think she looks great and if she feels great then good for her."

Whaddyouthink?

I mean, how do you even follow up that poo post?

Happy Monday everyone! I was in bee-yutiful downtown Detroit for my step-sister-in-law's wedding this weekend. We just flew back and boy, are my arms tired....from pointing and staring at numerous examples of innapropriately showcased cleavage. It was black tie only and apparently, a number of women interpreted that as "Be sure to pick a dress that showcases the inner, lower quadrants of each breas."' My God, there was some perilous jiggling going on as we danced to Lou Bell and the Mystics. Myself, I wore a gorgeoso dress from White House/Black Market (I am SO Michelle Obama!) that was halter top, plunging neckline...but when you've got tiny tatas, you can get away with that. Right? Right?!?!?

I'm tired and don't have much to say but will be back soon. Four too many martinis and not enough muscle relaxants make Lolly a tired girl. Oh - one thing...anyone have any tips for keeping the blood flowing to my tush while on the recumbent bike? It's the one exercise I'm allowed to do and I tried it at the hotel gym and my butt went totally numb in about five minutes. I tried putting a towel under there, too. Do I just have a bony ass? Maybe I should ask Dr. J. about this?

Leaving on a funny note (because clearly, I am as boring as watching wallpaper dry when I'm tired and cranky from flight delays and brokedown public transportation): As we boarded the plane, there was a sign with a cartoon suitcase smiling and waving which read, "Am I too big?" There was a compartment for you to put your carry-on in t make sure it complied with FAA reagulations. Dan pointed it out and said, "Look, Lol, even suitcases have body image issues." Which really did seem funny at the time but just is not translating into BlogVision. So I shall say nightie night. See you tomorrow!

xo,
leslie

Everybody poops!

A few months ago, a PR rep from All-Bran contacted me about a new product called All-Bran Strawberry Medley. Could he send some samples? he asked. Of course, I told him. Then I hung up and watched E!'s 20 Greatest Hollywood Meltdowns simply returned to my daily life of writing and blogging.

Ohhh, how naive I was. Within days, I had developed a crack-like addiction to the stuff - those sweet, tiny little sqaures, those chunks of berry granola, the dehydrated slices of berry that jump to life when cold skim milk is splashed across their bellies. I've actually gone out, late at night, like a junkie looking to score...except I'm heading to the grocery store desperate for a box of All-Bran. Sick. And. Wrong.

In light of Monday's shunning by Dr. Colon Cleanse, I have decided to invite a real doctor to Weighting Game. His name is Dr. John Johanson, he's a gastroenterologist, and he is up for answering all of our burning GI questions. He is also cool with us calling him Dr. J, which makes him The Shit in my book.

What issues are up your butt? Do you have any clue how much fiber you should be getting? Will you only eat prunes if they're labelled "Dried Plums"? Are you ashamed to be seen buying Metamucil and thus, living a life of pinch-faced constipation? Don't know your IBS from your PMS? Ask Dr. J! He's the MVP of GI!

I know, I know, delicate subject, blah blah blah. But if I can write a semi-serious story for the Chicago Tribune about "pebble poo," and if Oprah can ask Dr. Oz why poop is brown with a straight face, I think we'll be OK. Plus, there may be an amazingly regulating package o' treats in store for one of you. Butchya gotta enter a question for even the teeniest, weaniest chance.

Yes, I do own this tee-shirt.

Show Me Your Pics!

A fellow reader or ours just emailed me with this Happy Dance-inducing snapshot:

Oh, photo/photographer, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

1) You whipped out a camera in the middle of your locker room. Major fudgy brownie points.

2) You saw and instantly recognized the crazysassybeautiful body-positiveness of the message taped to your fellow gym-goer's locker door.

3) You told me that, upon spotting this pic, "the first person I thought of was you" and sent me the pic (*girlcrushswoon*)

4) You somehow scaled the pic to the perfect size so that I, a total Computer Illiterate who wouldn't know it if a memory card or hard drive smacked me in the face, didn't have to bribe, beg, or sleep with anyone to alter the dimensions.

5) You wrote, "I didn't know if the sign was a self-motivator or a friend sending positive vibes, but I have to say I wish someone put that on my locker! Maybe all lockers should have little affirmations like these on them."

Agreed, Snappy! We should all have such an upbeat, perky message waiting for us after returning from a sweat session. Much better than a hulking metal scale.

Let's start a project! I challenge you to start sending me pics of items/signs/images you spot throughout the day that remind you to love yourself. If could be a sign like the one above; it could be a You Are Beautiful sticker; maybe it's a certain inspiring ad on a bus or a little girl frolicking in the sun. Maybe you'll get all abstract and spot, Idunno, a furry little Labradoodle curiously sniffing an overflowing dish of kibble and think, "Wow, I really could learn a lot about eating only when hungry from my dog!"

Go forth and snap.
xo
leslie

Martini + painkillers + repetitive stress injury = Cervical collar

Just in case anyone wants to know what my bulging disk (heh heh) looks like from the outside, here you go:

Notice the fancy rhinestone work on the collar - I blinged it myself.

Hot glue fun.........................................................$5.99
Glue sticks...........................................................$0.50
Walking around in a shiny, sparkly neck brace................Priceless

And no, I do not currently have a wrist problem or even a Michael Jackson fetish - that is my former carpal tunnel brace, also blinged out for maximum attention-drawing. Just wanted to show off. For those who guessed correctly, no, I am not wearing a bra here. Sue me.

Now all I need is a tee shirt that whispers “I scare little children" a la "I see dead people."

PS Why are sexy actresses always trying to cop my style?

Queens, too.

Is this picture "sad"?

The photo above originally appeared in a New York Times article written by Tara Parker Pope. The topic: Childhood obesity.

Pope's comment: She found the picture "sad."

Now Pope is receiving angry letters from readers, denouncing her use of the word sad to describe a picture of an overweight little girl (on her way back from an exercise class, FYI), being led by two women who also appear to be carrying a bit of extra weight (I'm not judging, just describing the pic).

Is it sad? Sad because a little girl is perhaps being fed improperly? Sad that her she may be spending too many hours in front of the TV and not enough time horsing around outside? How do we know, just from the pic? What about the fact that she's being led by two adults, gripping her to keep her safe? That's not sad, is it? It's tricky.

Click here to read some of the comments, and please tell me what you think below.

PS For more on childhood obesity, MizFit has a great piece up here and, of course, we discussed the topic the other day here. (PS Check out those poll results:When asked 'Who is the worse parents - the ones raising the malnourished vegan or the overweight toddler, you tied at 38% each for "vegan"/"who am I to judge." Twenty-four percent came down more heavily on the fries-and-cola-feeding parents.

She just wanted to ask me a personal question

I was emerging from the shower at my health club last Tuesday (incidentally, the last time I worked out...no exercise for me for another week, min. Sweet.) when a naked woman greeted me with that statement. Her voice took me by surprise because honestly, the first thing I'd noticed when rounding the corner were her bare private bits peeking through from between her legs as she bent over, totally buck nekkid, washing her face. It was very National Geographic.

I busied myself, averting my eyes and making a beeline for the lotion. As I lubed up, No Holds Barred Naked Vagina Woman (NHBNVW) called across the way, "Can I ask you a personal question?" Never one to turn down an opportunity to divulge deeply personal information to a total stranger, I answered, "Absolutely!" Against all odds, NHBNVW stumped me:

"Are you enjoying being young and beautiful?"

*chirping birdies*chirping birdies*chirping birdies*

"Um, I, uh..." My stammering was embarrassing and not at all indicative of my ability to smoothly talk my way out of speeding tickets. (True story: I once got pulled over for going 20mph over the limit...when the policeman knocked on my (mother's minivan) window and asked if I knew why I'd been pulled over, I plastered the pie-sweetest grin on my face and asked, "Did I win the Safest Driver of the Year award?" I got off with a chuckle and a warning.)

"Because, you know," NHBNVW continued, "I didn't appreciate it and now I'm old and it's gone."

I noticed a bright flash from just outside the window, turned and saw a gigantic Debbie Downer signal being flashed into the air, a la Batman.

I know what the woman was saying - we grow old, we get aches and pains (or, in my case, you become 32 and wind up in a neck brace from freaking writing too much) and before you know it, our glory days of youth are but a distant, frolicking memory. How often do any of us stop and smell the firmness of our skin, the ease with which we climb in and out of cars or put our socks on while balancing on a perched Pelican leg, our relative ability to splurge on the occasional deep dish free from any real repercussions?

"Honestly," I said, "I'm not. I'm pretty positive that soon [OK, in 18 years], I'll turn 50 and look back and want to smack myself up the head for not realizing how strong I really am."

NHBNVW smiled and sauntered away, still totally nakesters. She went to her locker and sat down on a towel on the ground, leg spread, picking polish off her toes and reading a book. Clearly, I missed the boat by not getting her in my chapter on modesty in Locker Room Diaries. Meanwhile, I sat there rubbing in whatever remaining generic lotion was left puddling on my skin and feeling a mixture of embarrassed pride ("She thinks I'm young! She thinks I'm beautiful!") and contempt. Because how badly will that suck if we waste our lives trying to get firmer, thinner, anything-er, only to look back and realize, "What the hell was I doing? I looked amazing."

Why did Dr. Colon Cleanse crap out on me?

Last week, I received an emaii about a breakthrough product called Colon Cleanse, M.D., personalized especially for moi! I clicked on the link and wound up at this site, bastion of all things truthful and up-front, I'm sure. There, I learned about the deadly toxic gunk building up inside my colon, causing gassiness, bloating and possibly even an unsexy tummy - a fate worse than death. I could tell from all the exclamation marks and vague references to valid press sources that this was the real deal, so I decided to write back. Here is my letter:

Subject: RE: FLUSH Up To 20LBS! FREE Trial
Date: Mon, 9 Jun 2008 20:15:52 -0500

Dear Dr. Colon Cleanse,

Thanks so much for sending this! I've been thinking I could use a bowel-cleansing product lately (don't ask :-) so this
comes in the nick of time. I often do wonder, "Am I clean inside?" All of that crap traveling through my intestines can't possibly be good for me. Crap is SO gross! Ew!

Like you said in your email, I do shower, brush my teeth and wash my hair on a regular basis, but I often go weeks without rinsing out my bowels (Oh my gosh, do I have an amazing story for you: Picture this: Olin Sang Ruby summer camp, 1987, I was so embarrassed to use the public bathroom in the girls' barracks that I held it for - I kid you not - a week and a half. One day a camp counselor found me doubled over in pain and brought me to the nurse who was just shocked beyond all get-out when I told her the last time I'd pooped. I remember drinking some marshmallowy liquid - not bad, actually - and then shot to the bathroom. By some stroke of luck, electricity went out at THAT EXACT MOMENT - too many girls blowdrying their hair at once, methinks - and I spent about an hour on the toilet but no one knew. Sweet success!)

Anyways, I am a healthy 32-year-old woman but do fear that, like the dead people you mentioned in your email, my insides are plugged up to 80 percent with waste material.

So, how many bottles should I buy? What do you suggest? I'll pay anything. I do definitely want a flatter, sexier tummy. I hate gas. I love having energy and loathe the bloat that comes when I eat too many eggs (or too much matzoh - it's a Jewish thing.)

Looking forward to your response! Help me, Colon Cleanse, M.D.!

Leslie

I waited. With baited, bloated breath.

Two days later, I received the following message:

This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification. THIS IS A WARNING MESSAGE ONLY. YOU DO NOT NEED TO RESEND YOUR MESSAGE. Delivery to the following recipients has been delayed. today@b8sparrows.com

Alas, this weekend Mr. Internet informed me that my message had not only been delayed, but blocked. Dr. Colon Cleanse does NOT really care about me like the other e-doctors out there. There will be not two free trial bottles of pharmacy-grade, life-saving poopy cleaner arriving at my doorstep. I am doomed to a shitty life full of waste and bloated belly.

I also suppose this means that the 12,000,000,000 lira I deposited in the off-shore bank account of Sr. Sierra Fonsworth Leon (of the Cote D'Ivoire?) is not going to come back to me triple-fold, as promised. I need to be more careful of these internet scammers. So crafty!

Don't Hate The Playa ...

... Hate On These Folks:

Maggie S.
Gena N.
Fitarella
Workout Mommy
Kim B.

Nice work ladies! E-mail me with your addresses and I'll hook you up.

Thanks to everyone who read the Q & A and e-mailed me with such moving stories. This topic clearly touched a nerve and I think we should explore it more in the future.

But for now, I'm taking the weekend off to rest my weary little neck.

Talk to you Monday!

xoxo,
Leslie

Which parent is worse?

Let me begin by stating I am not a parent and never have been. And yet still, I am surprisingly good at judging. So let's examine two slightly horrific stories involving parents and food from a high-and-mighty standpoint perched numerous castes above the rest of society, shall we?

One on hand we have this story: A 12-year-old girl from Glasgow is suffering from a degenerative bone condition thought to be a result of a strict diet her parents have enforced. She has "the spine of an 80-year-old." The pre-teen has a severe type of rickets and has suffered a number of fractured bones as a result of woefully inadequate vitamin D.

And then we have this story: A baby girl in the UK, just 18-months-old, weighs as much as the average four-year-old. Why? Because her mom only feeds her chips (aka fries) and Coca-Cola. Mommy Dearest says it's been impossible to get her to eat anything else and hypothesizes, quite brilliantly, that her little girl's cravings come from her own prenatal cravings of fries dipped in chocolate sauce.

Who deserves to be locked-up (or at least publicly flogged) the most? The parents who allowed their 12-year-olds bones to become so brittle her legs are bowing into a horseshoe...because their (the parents') beliefs include not eating any animal products? Or the mom and pop who have turned their daughter obese before she can even speak full sentences?

Confessions of a Carb Queen

I recently stumbled across this cute, pink, square-shaped book about a month or so ago. The giant, sprinkles-and-chocolate-covered donut on the cover drew me in, but I thought that, with a title like Confessions of a Carb Queen, it would be jokey stories and funny anecdotes about women and our love affair with carbs.

I was wrong.

That said, Confessions was truly, truly outstanding. It is the personal story of a woman named Susan Blech who suffered from Binge Eating Disorder, eventually growing from an obsessively trim bodybuilder to a highest weight of 468 pounds. Susan is raw and open about her struggle; about her deep desire for approval from her father; about her sexual needs and failed dating experiences; about driving from drive-thru to drive-thru, picking up huge sacks of food along the way and stuffing it all down her throat - along with any unpleasant emotions she was facing.

An excerpt:

I order lunch. I start with the pizza place. I order a pasta dish — pasta puttanesca, which is pasta with olives, capers, and anchovies with extra extra Parmesan cheese on the side. When I call the Chinese take-out, they know my address by heart. The guy who always answers the phone stammers in broken English, "Yes, yes — yes, yes — we know." Susan from Long Beach doesn't have to give her phone number or house address. I always order the same thing: chicken wings, steamed vegetable dumplings, General Tso's chicken, fried rice, and egg roll. I leave the downstairs door open and the money on my countertop for each delivery. I don't like to get up in front of deliverymen. I need to order from two places so I'll have enough to nibble on during the afternoon until it's time for dinner.

I got the chance to interview Susan and her Q/A follows. I highly recommend this book to everyone - I'm a body image writer and have even done cover stories on the topic but still, i never truly understood the pain and desperation of this disease. (SEMI-HIDDEN FREE SWAG ALERT!! Visit lrdiaries.com for something fun!) Some of the situations Susan went through are just mind-blowing. I was particularly struck reading about a break-in gone horribly awry in her home; Susan was sleeping in the nude following a major binge when a drugged intruder entered her bedroom. When the police arrive -guns drawn - chaos ensued. After the man was restrained, one of the cops said to the others (about Susan), "She's going to have a heart attack - look at the size of her."

Can you even imagine being confronted with such a cruel, humiliating comment by a police officer who is supposed to be dedicated to protecting you? While you're naked, no less? (I will say, the cops semi-redeemed themselves when they allowed a now-clothed Susan to basically beat the crap out of the druggie as he lay face-down on the floor, handcuffed, in her kitchen.)

Here is Susan before:

And after spending years (including endless months at a live-in weight loss facility) relearning how to eat and deal with her emotions:

I have so much respect for this woman, and so will you. Get it!
And read on, after the jump, for the Q/A.

Do you think the average person truly "gets" BED - how prevalent or serious it is? And what would you say to readers who are suffering in silence?

Susan: "WOW! That is really a great question. One of the reasons I wrote this book was to have been realize they are not alone. That they don't have to feel isolated. I have gotten hundreds of emails thanking me for writing this book and "outing" myself. So many people who have BED think they are the only one. I certainly felt I was the only one eating enough food to throw a party. It may seem a little funny to some when I say that, but truth is it is devastating at the time it is happening. I ate to be numb. Many people that I have spoken to can completely relate to that emotion. To the people that are suffering in silence, I would say go buy Confessions of a Carb Queen because you will realize that you aren't alone!!"

You write about wanting so badly to hear your dad tell you he was proud. In your opinion, what kind of an impact do fathers have on their daughter's body image?

Susan: "What I learned in Psych 101 in college is that for a little girl your father is your first love. When your father isn't able, doesn't or can't give you the kind of love (being proud) that is needed for you to feel safe, to develop a good self esteem and feel that you are loved and lovable to others...the ramifications can be very difficult to reverse. I always knew my father loved me, but I needed to hear it. I think that can lead to behaviors that aren't healthy...using food as love or satiating the pain is certainly an avenue many people use as a way of coping."

Some of the scenes you write about in Confessions are absolutely heartbreaking - the stuck elevator experience, for example. You wrote about the looks and reactions you got from those around you, those trying to "help" you. How serious of an issue is this for overweight women and men? The stares, the glares - what does that do to one's mental health status?

Susan: "This is a great question....The stares; glares and especially what people have the audacity to say can be quite distressing. Some people are just down right mean, while others who give you "what worked for them" when you aren't ready to hear it so it can be very frustrating and quite humiliating. I think it takes a person of great inner strength not to be affected by this."

Do ever eat fast food now? What do you think/feel when you drive by McDonalds/Wendy's/etc?

Susan: Funny, for a person that was SO drawn to it I have absolutely no desire to eat it. I try and put things in my body that taste good, but more importantly, are good for me. When I used to drive past fast food places it was hard for me not to stop. Now I don't even notice them. At first when I realized that, it was very strange...now I just pass them on by!

Salt was such a huge issue for you, nutritionally. It's interesting, because so many people are obsessed with low-fat or low-carb. You consider yourself a (former?) salt addict, yes?

Susan: "That's a good question. Fast food is full of salt, so in a way, I would say that I was "addicted" to salt. I don't like to throw the word "addicted" around as it relates to food, but I would definitely say that food manufacturers and restaurants are not shy to add more salt if needed. (BTW..years ago Burger King changed their french fry recipe to add more salt!) It certainly makes a person want more of whatever it is they are eating. I still watch my salt, although not to the same extent at the clinic. Overall, I believe that a diet lower in sodium is a healthier for your body."

It sounds like the doctor's telling you about a possibly imminent stroke was the last straw in motivating you to seek help. Can you tell us a little bit about actually deciding to get help? What were the emotions you were facing?

Susan: "I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. How was I supposed to lose this weight? What was the first step in trying to lose it? I knew I needed a drastic change, but at that moment didn't know how to achieve the goal. I knew that I needed to feel safe and for me that was reaching out to my father. After a three hour conversation, he didn't have any answers either, but just knowing that I wasn't alone in this situation made it all better."

Would you say you are "cured"?

Susan: "I'm not sure what 'cured' means. I still have challenges that I continue to work on. I continue to make healthy choices, exercise regularly and manage stress accordingly. I'm not perfect, and I have never professed to be perfect, which is why so many people can relate to my story. It's real and it's honest. Food does not run my life. I'm so proud of my accomplishments and my continued accomplishments. I look forward to the future with gusto!"

Please check overhead compartment as your self-esteem may have shifted during the flight

And now, for your Walter Trolley Foxtrot (WTF) news item of the day:

Due to rising fuel costs, we may all soon be subjected to public weigh-ins...and according price adjustments...before boarding a plane.

A Bloomberg news story says this kind of discriminatory freak show is actually being pondered by certain airlines (thanks to DTBMULF for the tip-off!)

I SO bet Southwest Airlines, the company which empowers employees to discriminate against female flyers based on the length of their skirt, is the first to jump on the bandwagon. Hell, they already ask passengers to puchase a second seat if their size prevents the armrest from lowering. (PS For more of my thoughts of Southwest, the most ridiculous airlines ever, read this.)

Hook me up? This, my friends, is how baggage is weighed.

Just imagine - you're going on a tropical vacation, or your honeymoon, or an important business trip. You're rushing through the airport to catch a plane and are almost through security when you hear that anonymous booming male Voice of God over the loudspeakers: "Please have your boarding pass, photo ID, and BMI ready."

Fuel costs may have near-tripled since 2000, and airlines have been making all sorts of cuts - First it was meals, then peanuts, then charges for reservations made via phone, then extra costs for excess baggage (last month, American Airlines became the first U.S. company to charge $15 for one checked bag.) But guess what? If you start forcing people onto gigantic scales pre-boarding, there's gonna be a whooooole lotta baggage going around. And I ain't talkin' 'bout Louis Vuitton.

Not only is it uncouth, but some people actually try to avoid scales for emotional reasons(ahem); others may be embarrassed or humiliated by a public weigh-in - there's a reason this is considered a freak show carnival game, people. And can you imagine the groundswell of riotous insanity that would occur if you'd originally paid $300 for a ticket from Boise, Idaho to Detroit, only to her, "Whoa, 173 lbs?! We'll need an extra $75 to cover your ass."

Thoughts? Hysteria? Do you hate this idea as much as I do? Would you gladly hop on a freight scale with you boss hovering in the background...or would you lay the verbal smackdown on the pinch-faced, snarky employee with the pen and clipboard? Things to consider:

- Pride
- Moral standards
- How annoying it is already to just take your sneakers and coat off for security; now we have to deal with the woman in front of us taking off her watch and earrngs to appear .02 ounces thinner
- Possible jail time for assault
-It takes a very, very long time to drive from NY to LA and back.

Muscle relaxant + martini = fun

This weekend was my step-sister-in-law's bachelorette party (got that?) and she and about 10 of her friends converged in Chicago. I missed Friday night because my back felt like a herd of cattle had trampled up my spine and across my neck. Fortunately, I did make it dinner with my parents, grandparents, and pregnant brother and sister-in-law ... she's the pregnant one, I mean - I'm not trying to gain street cred by suggesting this guy is my sibling. They were visiting from LA and I got to kiss the bump that will soon become the luckiest little niece in the world, because I will be her aunt.

Anyway.

I bailed on the party and headed straight home, diving headfirst for the $75 Rx - and that's with insurance - muscle relaxants my doc had prescribed.

Yes, I know it's not funny to joke about drug mules...but I saw Maria Full of Grace recently and I couldn't help but think of this scene when I took my calcium supplement yesterday - they are seriously this big. Like little condoms full of calcium.

Then, I tossed back a Vicodin. And my usual sleep meds.

Aunty Lolly was feeling goooood. The pain just kind of dissolved away, like a hard chunk of milk chocolate slowly melting into yummy fondue. You could've dipped a banana in my back, that's how delicious I felt.

The stuff worked so well that by Saturday night, I was all dolled up in my new, birthday-discounted purple ruffled dress (here it is in pink), plus some black strappy patent leather high heels, dangly earrings and a push-up bra. Aunty Lolly was looking goooood. I slipped a Happy Pill in my purse and met everyone out at Whiskey Sky on the 33rd floor of the W Hotel. I did not drink. (Besides, the martinis were $15 each and I knew we had ordered bottle service - $1100, not kidding - at a hot club called Underground, where we arrived at 11pm.

Two bottles of vodka and two magnums of champagne arrived at our table. I sipped some fizzy goodness (no penis straw was hurt during this process - please do not try at home) and fished out the sugar-coated strawberry at the bottom.

Then I had a martini, mixed up by our private waitress who was dressed like a slutty Air Force captain, if there is such a thing.

The next thing I know, I was on a banquette, dancing to "Let Me Clear My Throat." I was jammin. I was bouncin'. I was shakin' my thing like Tina Turner. "Bad Medicine" came on and I spazzed out like Brad Pitt had just walked over and shoved his tongue down my throat. In a good way, I mean.

Eventually, I hailed a cab and headed home, zero cash in my purse. The nice taximan waited while I ran upstairs for a $20. I ran back down, paid and set about peeling my sweaty thong and bra off. Then I realized my phone was gone. I called it and the cab driver picked up. He told me he'd bring it back it 10 minutes so I made some instant mashed potatoes (classy, as always), banging and clanging dishes and microwave doors while Dan tried to get his beauty sleep.

Yes, I got my phone back. Yes, I took the Happy Pill. No, I was not overly productive yesterday. Yes, I had visions of becoming a go-go dancer for a year and writing a book about it. No, I don't think that will happen. Yes, my neck is feeling a bit better. And yes, I am currently at Starbucks, writing with laptop perched on a phone book and a dorky rolly-bag next to me. It looks like this. But I'm thinking of embracing the nerdiness of my back-sparing equipment and getting myself one of these.

PS Why the frick is my local grocery store ALWAYS out of Fage 0%? I'm mounting a two-day boycott, starting NOW.

"Why I love women’s bodies"

No, no, those are not my words - though it is true I've dabbled in a little, ahem, saphic seduction, during my crazier years. In fact, the title of this post is a straight-from-the-headlines MSN piece entitled "Why I love women’s bodies” - a compilation of men's quotes about why they love their lady's physique. A few examples (but more fun at the bottom, I promise):

Carl Steir, 31, from Clifton, New Joisey, declares, “I like muscles! My girl’s arms are cut, toned and sexy—and I love when she wraps ’em around me.”

39-year-old Brooklynite Anthony Abruccio says, “My wife is plus-size — and it’s a plus in every aspect of the word — especially when it comes to spooning.”

God love him, Dan Cooke, 24, from Asotin, WA, promises, “I’m not lusting after the classic Playboy centerfold. My girlfriend is a 32A, and I love when she goes braless—especially in a clingy tank-top.” (That cheering you hear is me, currently 34B and braless in a Hello Kitty tank top at Starbucks.)

Sir Mix-A-Lot was not reachable in time for publication, but his publicist sent the following image, which speaks for itself:

Sometimes a misogynistic picture truly is worth a 1000 words.

I asked my hardworking husband to take a break from work and pitch in his two cents. He really loves it when I send him emails during busy workdays with bizaree requests like, "Can you give me three sentences on why you love my body? NO PRESSURE!"

Here's what Dan sent:

"Hard in all the right ways, soft in all the right ways ... and we fit together perfectly".

Then, because he knows me so ridiculously well, he added:

Two notes:
1. By "soft," I mean things like cheeks and skin.
2. You don't think the end sounds too sexual, do you?

Too sexual? Pour moi?! He obviously didn't know I was leading in with a wink-and-nod towards The Lesbian Incidents of 2000, Part A and B.

Next, I called my 83-year-old Grandpa Morty who, incidentally, invented jogging (but that's for another blog) and asked him what it is about my grammy that still toots his horn after 61 years of marriage. His response:

"It's just her face; her look. Her aura. You can't put it in words. When I look in her face I see her as a young girl. I see her in her 30s. I see her when Linda (my aunt whom I never met) died. I see her when Donna (my mom) graduated. It's the eyes, honey. The way she smiles. The body is just a vessel, honey."

And now I'm crying in my oatmeal.

Daddy, Daddy, tell me, what do you heart about Mommy's body?

"I used to love waking up with our tushies touching in the morning. And I always thought she had the most beautiful brown eyes. I still love them."

Note: I cannot call TMI on the tushy comment because simply by virtue of their reading WG, my parents have been alternately horrified and embarrasingly entertained by the overtly personal Tic Tacs of information I manage to scatter around. Like today. Let's say it's a draw.

My weekend challenge for you (I know - it's never been done before. Everybody Wang Chung tonight!): Ask your boyfriend, husband, girlfriend, partner, lovah, whatever, to tell you what they love about your body. Not to be all Suzy superficial or anything, because inner beauty yadayadayada, but this could be an empowering exercise and may even lead to a little Leslie-induced late-night nookie. Ask away.

Then?

Post it HERE.

I dare you.

PS Singletons, you are equally adored. Tell us what YOU love 'bout yer bod! Or ask your kid - they just say the darndest things (like when my curly-haired Jewish girlfriend Diane was volunteerin at a Big Sisters event and a four-year-old told her hair was "nappy.") Or ask a bum. Just don't ask the bum who once begged me for change when I lived in Boystown and, when I politely refused, made an exaggerated Z motion with his neck, rolled his eyes and snapped, "Skinny bitch!" Because that's just a misguided catfight waiting to happen.

Happy compliment-hunting!

Kim from "Fat is Contagious" emailed me!

On March 12, I blogged about NYC writer Kim Brittingham who, fed up with the stares and obnoxioso comments she often receives while riding the bus because of her size, designed a fake book titled Fat is Contagious: How Sitting Next to a Fat Person Can Make You Fat. Chaos erupted, with a record-shattering 257 comments. Most of them, sadly, were not supportive.

Anyhow, Kim tracked me down a few days ago and wrote the following (reprinted with her permission):

Hi Leslie,

I've been meaning to write you for weeks now, but I recently moved from NYC to New Jersey and it's taken a while to get myself together. I wanted to thank you for writing about my "Fat is Contagious" stunt on "The Weighting Game". I was encouraged by the amount of commentary it provoked. While it's always disappointing to see that so many people still have an ignorant and unkind view of fat people, the fact that so many other people were willing to pipe up and take an energetic stand in favor of tolerance is heartening....

THANK YOU for all that you do! Write on!

Sincerely,

Kim Brittingham

Well, not only did I do a happy dance because of how uber-cool Kim made me feel, but I jumped over to her MySpace blog called "Fat is Sexier Than You Think." A snippet:

"'Oh, my God.' My mother slapped the steering wheel in percussive disbelief. 'Can you believe the nerve of that woman? Where does she get off wearing a skirt that short? At her size, she's got no business!'

We were driving along Byberry Road, past the old abandoned lunatic asylum. A fat woman was walking with relaxed purpose along the side of the road in a black mini-skirt and t-shirt. Her arms and legs were thick and alabaster, her rear end ample and heart-shaped.

It was summer and I was fat too. I wore jeans and a boatneck tunic with three-quarter-length sleeves to hide my sausage-like upper arms and flabby elbows. I was keeping my fat to myself, sparing the public of my hideousness. Just as 'The Elephant Man' John Merrick wore a burlap sack over his head when walking the streets of London. It was a simple matter of courtesy.

I was in my twenties then. I'm thirty-seven now, and I still wear three-quarter-length sleeves in summer. And I only bare my legs when I swim. The difference is, I don't think my body is ugly anymore.

But you do.

The fact is, I think my body is beautiful. Really. That's my honest-to-God opinion.

Tactically, I'm scrumptious. The pinkish-white swells of my hips, breasts and belly beg to be caressed, stroked -- kneaded like so much pie dough. And if you've ever actually kneaded dough, or pressed your fingers into a lump of dense but pliable clay and felt the sweet, aching satisfaction in your hands as you molded it -- feeling it give beneath your palms, subtly varying the pressure from your fingertips as you slid them across the endlessly fascinating surface -- then you know the pleasure of a body like mine beneath your touch...."

Go read more of her stuff and comment below - what do you think of her blog? Can you dig that entry I excerpted from above or not?

Napoleon had nothing on these dudes

“Did I mention, my leg is 44 inches from hip to toe, so basically, we're talkin' about 88 inches of therapy… wrapped around you, for the bargain price of three thousand dollars.”

Who doesn’t remember that insightful-in-a-perky-prostitute-way quote from Pretty Woman, as sugar-sweet Vivian (aka “What Do You Want It To Be”) took a hot bath with Richard "I Tear Apart Companies As A Metaphor For My Interpersonal Relationship Struggles" Gere?

I remember watching that in 1990, all 5’10” of myself, and running to my mom’s closet, ripping open her sewing kit and measuring my own legs. 44 inches? Done and done. Sweet – I was semi-officially as sexy and therapeutic as Julia Roberts.

Women have always craved the long limbs of Gisele and Heidi, but who knew men were in on the body envy? I mean, I know my guy watches the NBA playoffs with the kind of fervor I typically reserve for a slice of cookie dough cheesecake or a season finale of Gossip Girl, but I never contemplated the fact he might be secretly envious of Tayshaun Prince’s 6’9” gams.

But according to a press release my iVillage editor just forwarded me, apparently more and more US men are opting to undergo freaking painful and totally elective leg-lengthening surgeries. The procedure can cost between up to $200,000 and involves breaking both legs and having telescopic pins inserted that the men slowly twist to lengthen their legs over time.

I’ve heard of this happening – but it’s usually associated with Chinese women and men. Check out this gut-wrenching description from The Guardian:

“Kong Jing-wen has paid £5,700 to have both of her legs broken and stretched on a rack. The pretty college graduate is now lying in bed, clearly still in considerable pain three days after a doctor sawed through the flesh and bone below her knee to insert what looks an awful lot like knitting needles through the length of her tibiae.

These giant steel pins are connected by eight screws punched horizontally through her ankle and calf to a steel cage surrounding each leg. Once the bone starts to heal, these cages will act like a medieval torture device - each day over the next few months Kong will turn the screws a fraction and stretch her limbs more and more until she has grown by 8cm.

Despite the agony, the cost and the inconvenience, the 23-year-old says she does not regret a thing. ‘It hurts, but it will be worth it to be taller. I'll have more opportunities in life and a better chance of finding a good job and husband.’”

Elective limb-lengthening surgery - supply and demand at work, people!

Sweet cracker sandwich! (PS I WILL be using this phrase until it gains mainstream acceptance). Can you even imagine? I mean, I know women opt to have their breasts sliced open and augmented, to have their noses hammered and reset, to have their foreheads slit and pulled up…but this just seems to take it to a whole new level.

According to the press release, Beverly Hills-based therapist Rebecca Roy, M.A., has seen the trend happening among men and says, “Height is such a big deal in the US. Men are judged on it, relationships are based on it and careers are changed by it. No wonder these guys are going through such painful operations.”

Part of me wants to faux-rub my eyes and cry, “Boo-hoo. Men have self-esteem problems in our society? REALLY? And I should care because...they somehow even approach in the most minute way the issues bombarding women and our looks?!” But I do understand that pressures to look a certain way impact guys, too. All of those airbrushed-on six pack abs magazine covers and those full heads of hair floating around Grey’s Anatomy, ya know.

Do I think an alarmingly high number of American men are sawing their legs in half to gain a few inches? No. Plastic surgery procedures in general may be at an all-time high (according to the latest procedural statistics report from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, almost 12 million cosmetic plastic surgery procedures were performed in 2007 - a 7 percent increase from 2006 and a 59 percent increase from 2000. These include a whopping 10 million cosmetic procedures such as Botox® and Restylane®, 348,000 breast augmentations, 302,000 liposuctions, and a partridge in a pear tree with a really nice eyelid lift.

No leg-lengthening to speak of.

But we know it happens – even though China did ban leg-lengthening a few years ago (ooh – grisly pic.) I found a website called Make Me Taller where members discuss the pros/cons of limb-lengthening and discuss their procedures – one MMT member describes himself as a “Leg Lengthening Veteran (+6.5cm)”; another, named “Sir,” posts a blog which begins, “I gained 11 cm in Kiev on my femors (sic). My story.” The website also includes click-on ads touting “Asian Cheekbone Surgery - Work With A Board Certified Plastic Surgeon. Online Consultation Form! www.AsianCosmeticSurgery.com”

A poster named NapoleonBoneApart (Heh heh. Heh?) writes, in a forum on whether to tell your girlfriend/fiancee about your limb-lengthening: “I am interested in LL but my long term girlfriend of five years is pretty set against it. Mostly she is concerned for my well being and she the fact that my height has never been an issue for her (she is 170 cm tall while I am 163cm). Being above average height for a woman, she does not fully understand my desire for LL which is unfortunate…

For me, my primary motivation is professional ,where in business there is a distinct disadvantage being shorter in the climb for upper management. I am not saying it is impossible to do at my current height [but] the effort expended to match my taller counterparts is substantial. Although I also happen to be fairly successful in my career despite my short stature I just want to push the envelope further.”

OK, so this stuff really IS happening. How do we make it stop?

Or do we? Isn’t it a person’s choice what they do with their body, elective surgically-speaking?

"It's peanut butter-jelly time, peanut butter-jelly time..."

I meant to tell you all, as of Wednesday of last week, I am the proud owner of a shiny, brand new, never-before-opened jar of Skippy crunchy peanut butter.

Sagan got me thinking of the topic when she recently blogged about the creamy treat - it's a food that, until now, I typically have pilfered from my husband's side of the cabinet. Not that my man minds sharing food (indeed I am the one who actually waffles when he asks to try a piece of my sushi or feeaks if he polishes off the grapes. I am a bad, bad sharer.) But what I was doing was dipping a knife (safe, I know) into the PB, then into the jelly jar, then into my mouth. Repeat. Gross, yes, but whatevs- we swap spit all the time. But he quickly grew (and rightfully so) disgusted when he found little chunks of peanuts floating in his jam - actually, it must be jelly 'cuz jam don't shake like that - and asked me to stop defiling his product. So what did I do? I became a big girl, all growns up, and bought what I swear is my first personal jar of PB in over a decade. Some girls splurge on Manolos, others like fancy leather bags, I treated myself to some super chunk.

And you know happy I feel? THIS happy. (And of course, it's always funny to watch a dog do it, too.) Turn it up and rock out!!

PS My quickest surefire PB cookie recipe:
1 cup PB
1 cup sugar
1 egg.

Mix all up and cook in small scoops for 10-12 minutes at 375 degrees F. That's it! Add chocolate chips to double your pleasure, double your fun.

Dec. 21, 2007 - June 1, 2008

The scene of the crime: Leslie Goldman, in the locker room, with the Toledo scale (welcome, "Clue" buffs!)

PS Yes, I whipped out a digital camera in my locker room this morning and no, nobody batted an eyelash. Girls Gone Wild, here I come!

Look at how big this scale is. Seriously, look at it. It's massive. Taller than the bank of double-decker lockers, it dwarfs an industrial vacuum cleaner and makes a 5'11" me seem like a shorty next to it. It is a hellacious metal beast of thoughtless ridicule and unwavering hatred. It's name is Evil. Evil Moe the Scale.

I'm not sure how many of you knew this, but for the past 5+ months, I have not stepped foot on a scale. The last time I weighed myself was Dec. 21 of last year, before embarking on a chip-filled Nueva Vallarta vacation with Dan's family. I then decided to conduct a little experiment and see what would happen (most importantly to my mind, but also my body) if I kicked the scale to the curb like Denise Richards and her sanity when she chose to star in that awful, awful new TV show.

It has been wonderful. Just..wonderful. I would watch women step up the Evil Moe the Scale with looks of sadness or trepidation. They would kick off their flipflops and drop their towel and remove their watch to try and move the needle down a tad. I heard two prepubescent, 80-lb. girls arguing about who was the bigger "cow" and how disgusting their thighs were as they alternated jumping on the register.

I slapped a You Are Beautiful sticker on it, went home, and ate dinner. And dessert.

Let me tell you, it did not take long for me to get extremely used to NOT weighing myself. It was, at the risk of sounding cliche, like breaking up with a friend who always pinched and poked and made fun of me. I found it surprisingly easy to wipe my hands clean of the habit as I found how much more free I felt every single day. I recall almost skipping along State Street one day feeling like Mary Tyler Moore in her hat toss scene, thinking, "What if I just never weigh myself ever again?!" Not really feasible, I know, but not having to worry about that number just made everything better. Easier. Sure I was tempted a few times, like when my jeans started fitting a bit tighter in the waist and I quite consciously (but totally unrealistically) thought, "Oh no, maybe I'm gaining a ton of weight by not being vigilant with the scale." But then I just chalked it up to PMS and the Whoopie Pie I ate the night before and hopped along.

Then yesterday happened.

I was working out and feeling really proud of the way I looked. I got in a solid 40 minutes on the Stepmill and even lifted some light weights (I've been laying off them because of my sad clown back/neck). In the shower, I looked down at my stomach, all soapy and tan from the weekend, and thought, "Damn, I be lookin' gooood!" And the night before, at drinks with Dan and some friends, my girl Heidi had unintentionally grabbed my arm as she passed by and said, "Wow, I can feel those muscles!" And Dan, who is incredibly effusive when it comes to compliments in general, had been especially thrilled my bod that night. (Just trust me on this one.)

The day was coming when I was going to weigh myself again - in fact, I'd even thought of down a six-month anniversary blog on it with a quiz: "Should Leslie weigh herself?" But yesterday, before leaving for a bridal shower in the suburbs, I decided to just do it. There were no little girls around (one of my criteria for getting on a scale) and the coast was clear.

Guess what? (drumrollll.....)

I gained weight. Somewhere between four and seven pounds - it depends on what number I use as my "before." (Admittedly, in December 2007, I was artificially low - I think I had some sort of flu so it depends on if I use that sickie" number or what I normally was, a few pounds higher.) But the number in December definitely wasn't what it is now.

I dropped my wet towel and instantly felt like a fraud. The reading went down a pound.

So here's the thing (and I know this is a long post but I think it's a really, really important topic so thanks for bearing with me): I drove home and felt a huge flood of emotions. I felt angry at myself for getting on the scale. Then I felt angry for being angry about such a dumb thing. Then I felt like I might cry - remnants of my past creeping back up - when the number was the only thing that mattered. Then I felt elated because I wasn't crying over a dumb number - surely this must be a fantastic sign of how good I'm doing, yes?

At home, I asked Dan to sit with me on our deck and I told him what I'd done. "I weighed myself," I said. "I gained six pounds."

"That's great!" was his immediate reaction. Not a shred of BS, no faking - he looked and sounded seriously happy. Beaming, almost.

Me: "I think it's because I haven't been weighing myself."

Him: "I think that's definitely it...Leslie, you needed to put on a few pounds. You look so good and healthy and delicious now (yada, yada, too personal to share.)"

His theory, and I know he's right, is that by not being a slave to the scale, which had always meant adjusting my food intake to keep the number at a certain place, my body was able to naturally settle into a healthy and happy set point. He's right - in 1999, when I was out of college, working, in love, so happy with everything, I weighed five pounds more than I do now at my new and improved number and I looked, pardon my vanity, HOT. Curvier, luscious, healthy and strong.

Then, I was assaulted (that's another book to write, tho) and my old ED habits kicked in instantaneously in an effort to give me some semblance of control. Ten pounds, gone. My family was like, "No. Nuh-uh." I got some help, but the number never went back up. This is actually a very frequent occurence with women who have been attacked - there's a feeling of, "Well, maybe if I shrink myself, I won't be as visible to men and, therefore, won't be attacked again." I so miss that time in 1999 when I ate without thought and genuinely loved my curvier bod.

That, my friends, is the place my body wants to be. In the place it is right now. It doesn't want to me artificially thin. It wants to have a tad bit more meat on it so I can work out and run and write and do the things I want to do with energy and zest. Sometimes it wants deep dish pizza and cheesy artichoke dip and mounds of hummus and a steak and dirty martinis (all things I've eaten in the last month). Since I stepped off that Toledo monstrosity, I've been going by the way I feel and not the readout on Evil Moe the Scale. I also started taking a Body Pump class, where we work every muscle to fatigue. My arms are more defined. My legs are stronger. And more importantly, I've been more fun to be around (hard to believe, but true.)

I know some people out there will think my scale experiment was a failure - that this is proof that if you aren't constantly getting on the scale to monitor your weight, you're doomed to get bigger. But let's get real: I'm not going to balloon up 30 pounds. I would notice major differences in my energy levels and clothing before that happened. By breaking the weigh-monitor my calories-weigh myself again cycle, I gave My Body a chance to regulate and get happy.

Please understand (for the three of you still reading) - I want to be no-holds-barred honest here. I freaked out a bit at first. I heard a panicky voice in my head say, "See! See! If you don't weigh yourself, you're going to bulk up!" But the success here lies in the fact that I was able to drown out that voice with a more rational one. Sitting in the sun with Dan, I realized what a giant step this was for me. We hugged for a long time. I was wearing little black shorts and a cute gray tee that says, "This Is Why I'm Hot" against an illustration of a globally warmed sun. I changed into a slinky sundress I bought in Italy 10 years ago but still fits like a glove and drove to the bridal shower, where I ate an abnormal amount of lemon bars (there wasn't any "real" food), salted cashews, M&Ms and a mini cheesecake. The bride's grandmother-to-be commented on how my body, adding wistfully,"I used to look like that."

And I thought, "I used to look like that, too."

Speaking your mind - it's the new black!

I often get fan mail from the likes of Sting, Oprah, even Paris Hilton (remember when she guest-blogged for us?) But I rarely share the letters I get because they're often of a personal nature. However, this one literally made angels sing and birdies chirp all around my head because while I semi-consciously gab on and on about body image, I don't really realize it when I spout off about telling people - doctors, salespeople, ice cream scoopers, whomever - what you really feel. I got this email just after my 1999 Craptastic Cougar died in the middle of nowhere and I was PMSsy and upset and crying uncontrollable to the Triple A woman (hormones) and by the time I got home, I was in such a foul mood...then I opened my email and this fabulous letter was there and it made me smile SO MUCH! I probably looked like an idiot at my computer, grinning through the mascara streaks on my cheeks. Here it is:

Hey Leslie,

So this may be kind of a weird email but I had a Weighting Game-inspired moment of empowerment yesterday and I needed to share it with someone. You seemed like the natural choice.

I am an avid reader of and some time commenter (code name: rebecca, lol) on your Weighting Game blog. And your writings and those of my fellow readers continually inspire, motivate, and challenge me and Ido try to apply what I learn to my everyday life.

Anyway, I was in Kinko's yesterday getting something copied and bound. After being treated so incredibly rudely from the moment I walked in the door, I was then charged twice the price I was originally quoted without any justification beyond that the price was what it was. I was livid but it was a gift and I needed it. So I paid for it (that the credit card machine kept malfunctioning while I tried swiping my Mastercard did not help matters...at all).

I walked out the door, silently fuming. I walked two blocks, thinking okay, an oatmeal raisin cookie from Whole Foods is going to make this all better. And then, I performed the cliche tv show heroine moment of realization, stopped in my tracks and thought Leslie and the Weighting Game women would NOT stand for this. Yes, this was really what I thought as I flashbacked to your recent posts about the rude gyno, the Express dress discount, and the frozen custard girl. (LOL, what a weird combination of incidents when strung together like that).

Now, I am not known for my assertiveness. I am more of the passive-aggressive sort. But I marched right back into the Kinkos, asked for the manager, and in the most assertive voice I could muster, I told her that this was not right. I was quoted one price and charged twice that, without warning or any real justification. It could have been my assertiveness, or more likely that everyone in the Kinko's was now staring at us, but she relented and gave me my money back.

It was such a huge empowering moment for me! I felt like raising my hands in victory as I walked out of the store.

So thanks for the inspiration!!! Have a great weekend!
Rebecca

(PS If you haven't already, make sure to check out Rebecca's blog, I Wanna Be a Domestic Goddess)

Weee! While we're talking (OK, I'm talking) about my assertiveness, I must share the following tidbit with you. I was commenting on other peoples' blogs writing at Caribou Coffee on Friday when this woman came in, sat next to me and proceeded to engage in in - I am not kidding - absolutely the loudest and most intense Russian cell phone conversation ever. Now, I consider myself pretty tolerant of ear-splitting jibjab (hello, I write at steaming, pumping, grinding coffee shops every day) but this was just insane. I pictured her words, translated, as "Sure, I can speak louder than a freight train! How's this? Louder? OK, let me try mimicking Gilbert Godfried on speed!" Normally, I would simply get her attention and ask her to please keep it down a bit but I was feeling sassy and passive-aggressive so I called my friend Julie (fluent in Russian, I might add, and also not picking up her phone). Then I called Dan.

"Will you indulge me for a minute as I engage in a childish social experiment?" I asked him. He said he would. I then launched into a full-tilt auditory assault on the woman, screaming into the phone total nonsense like, "I REALLY DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'RE MAD, DAN. I BOUGHT THE BLUEBERRIES AND CORN AND PLACED THEM IN YOUR JACKET POCKET, JUST LIKE YOU ASKED."

"Um, what are you talking about?" he responded in an indoor voice.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" I scream-responded. "THAT IS THE BEST NEWS I'VE GOT ALL DAY! A TEDDY BEAR CAME ALIVE AND IS IN OUR BATHROOM?"

Dan: "Oh, is there someone talking really loudly next to you or something?"

Me: "DEFINITELY! YOU ARE SOOO RIGHT!" My voice was actually starting to hurt. The Russian never even looked up from her hot cocoa.