Editor’s note: This column originally ran in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution on Jan. 2, 2006. When John heard about the death of Weight Watchers founder Jean Nidetch this week, he was reminded of the impact of her principles on dieters everywhere, including himself. With his blessing, we are running this column today, along with a look at Nidetch’s life inside this section.
I know this from my own weight-loss story, which is much like Tyler's. The summer before eighth grade, I also managed to shed a third of my body after a lifelong fight with obesity.
In my mind, the story starts with a note. A mean note that is making some kids in P.E. laugh and cast sidelong glances in my direction. They lure me into a game of monkey in the middle, make me jump, let me win. I un-ball the note only to find my own name written in rotund letters surrounded by jiggle lines. I pretend to laugh along as I try to catch my breath.
Then, of course, I go home and stuff my face. (When I was 12, I used to plan my snacks through the afternoon into dinner. I'd scramble eggs, have an apple or a couple of popsicles, then heat frozen French bread pizza in the toaster oven.) Sitting in front of the TV, I feel queasy from the excess of food and start crying --- a big, blubbery mess, with only a cat and a "Star Trek" rerun for company.
At that point, I start thinking about doing something I've been avoiding. Something my parents have been suggesting over and over and over again. Something that seems too mortifying for words.
I agree to go with my mother to Weight Watchers.
It gets worse. Mom's friend, Millie, decides to join us.
Remember, this is 1974 in suburban America. So the first time I walk into the Weight Watchers meeting, I am flanked by two obese women in flowered muumuus --- Mom and Millie. We look like Tony Orlando and Dawn gone horribly wrong.
There are many sweet, plump ladies who tell me it's a good thing I'm doing. I'm so embarrassed I can't even answer them.
The woman at the front desk gives me a booklet describing the system of daily allowances, a weight logbook and a target: 111 pounds. After we check in, we line up to get weighed on a scale behind a curtain. Only the person weighing you can see how far you tip the scale. I come in at 163 pounds.
After everyone is weighed, we file into a fluorescent-lit room set with folding chairs to hear Jean, our group leader. She sees me and smiles indulgently. Of the 30 people there, I am the only kid.
Jean looks just like R. Crumb's drawings of his wife, Aline, with blunt features, a small waist and thick legs and buttocks. Compared with the women in the room, she qualifies as thin. She lost 65 pounds, she tells us, her face beaming, her hands reaching up like those of an evangelist. She may not be perfect, but she's happy with her body. And she flaunts it in her weekly outfits of long-sleeved minidresses and go-go boots. When she discusses her weight loss, she runs her hands over her tapering waist and down, smoothing the pleats on her skirt. I, the 13-year-old boy in the audience, watch agape.
Every week I lose 1 pound, 2 1/2 pounds, 4 1/4 pounds, even though I am growing. One week I gain weight after visiting my grandmother, who stuffs me full of noodles and candied apricots. But, otherwise, I am religious about my food regimen.
My mother and Millie, both serial dieters, soon tire of Weight Watchers. Still, one of them agrees to drive me each week. Sometimes they wait in the car while I attend the meeting.
Within two months, I have to switch to the stringent "maintenance" diet to drop the tenacious final 10 pounds. I am determined to reach my goal weight, because then I will get my Weight Watchers pin. Not a brooch like the ladies get but a black tie tack with two scrolly gold W's. I had to have it. I'm willing to starve for it.
And starve I do. My chest wall and pelvis stick out, and still I am 5 pounds from my goal. The only part of me with any substance is my head of hair, brushed into a fulsome " 'fro."
My father sees the maniacal determination in my eye and intervenes. He lines me up with a pediatrician, who promptly supplies a letter for me to bring to my next Weight Watchers meeting. It is my last. Jean calls me before the class and presents me with my tie tack. The plump ladies applaud me, looking proud and teary as I say goodbye and falsely promise to visit.
I finish just in time for school. Eighth grade. On the first day of school, I hear two of my tormentors walking behind me. One asks the other, "Who's the new kid?"
Me.
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