JENNY Craig announced on Wednesday that they were letting Magda Szubanski out of her million-dollar contract representing the company. The weight loss giant told the Daily Telegraph that the comedian would be pursuing her weight loss journey privately.
Well, hoorah for that. I hope she never goes back.
Being from the land of of big bones like Magda, I understand what she must be going through at the moment. I, too, this year have completely fallen off that metabolic wagon. After getting myself back into shape two years ago losing 25 kilos, this year I was presented with career changes, moving states and some well-earned time off. As a result I decided to eat most of Woolworths and pretty much every loaf of bread made since April. And just to give it that extra kick along, I completely stopped exercising. The longest walk I’ve done in the last five months has been to the fridge. I haven’t seen my pelvis since June and the only thing that fits me is my dooner.
I am not ashamed but I am embarrassed. I’ve stopped going out. I avoid photos being taken. I can’t remember the last time I skyped or facetimed someone. People are lovely but they do notice. “Don’t you look well?” they say with stunned expressions. “The time off is certainly suiting you!” Everything is uncomfortable, denim is impossible and don’t get me started on plane seats.
Being visibly overweight in western culture is only second to kidnapping children. A whole industry of blame is based on it. If you’re not bullied about it, you’re pitied. Shows like The Biggest Loser combine both these actions into a form of televised humiliation, the “feeding of the Christians to the lions” of its time. Then we have these companies like Jenny Craig and Lite ‘n Easy or the shake diets produced by Terry White and Optifast whose whole business model is based on you failing. They wouldn’t succeed if you actually kept the weight off.
I come from a long line of “big boned” people. Photos of fat men and women litter my family tree all the way back to the 1890s when my great grandfather was lost at sea in the South Pacific for three months and washed up in Far North Queensland, still resembling someone who lived in a pie shop. My ancestors were Vikings. They would eat two cows and several chickens for breakfast and then invade a country. I do the same, except I invade a couch.
It wasn’t always like this of course. Being gay and fat is not conducive to winning the boyfriend lottery. So in my 20s and 30s I lived on a healthy diet of cigarettes, diet coke and nightclubs. It worked. Throw into that, a mix of bootcamps and a barrage of water retentive personal trainers and baby I was burning. I looked fantastic on the outside but no doubt resembled a coalmine on the inside. I didn’t eat. I lived on hot air. Some would argue this hasn’t changed.
I snapped my right calf muscle in half about five years ago during a bootcamp session. This has since prevented me from running any long distances although not to my local McDonalds. My enthusiasm then for exercise in general has waned, as has my metabolism. This has resulted in the perfect digestive storm. My body now only just has to look at a piece of cake and it’s not only building an extension, it’s building an entire new suburb. It stores everything. It’s like it is eternally preparing for the next famine.
So here I am back at square one again. And my “what about me” self wants to scream and rant and say it’s not fair. How come my brother can eat what he wants and remain the same size for 35 years or my best friend can live on a diet of chocolates and white wine and keep his Audrey Hepburn figure? Why do I have to be the one who is worrying all his friends about potential heart attacks and diabetes? Why am I still shopping at Lowes? Boohoo. Poor me. Cue the violins. The fact is, it is what it is. I put on weight because I ate too much and married a sofa. I now have to divorce that sofa and throw out the cheezels. However, this time I have to do it myself. No fad diets, no screaming personal trainers, no 12-week challenges and no quick fixes. The only person who can fix it is me. Best of luck Magda, you can do this.
John Cahill is a writer based in Brisbane. You can read his work at cahillsrest.blogspot.com.au or follow him on Twitter via @johnbcahill
