DO YOUWANT TO EAT LIKE A VICTORIA’S SECRET MODEL?
VIDEO: Viral workout video of Adriana Lima.
Some background: holding myself accountable isn’t exactly my strong suit. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve slugged down a sugary Skinny Vanilla latte just because it was cold outside, ordered another round of sauvignon blanc after I’d already closed my tab, or eaten my husband’s bolognese in lieu of my own sensible plate of greens. And every time I indulge a compulsion, I swear up and down it’s the last time. And for a week or so it is. Until it isn’t.
It’s this lifestyle that has led me, a 5’3″, 29-year-old with a pretty decent rack, to my resting weight of 123 pounds. In my adult life, I don’t believe I’ve ever weighed less than 113 pounds (my wedding, a mere three months ago) or more than 130 (right after senior year of college when my roommate told me that, yes, I looked fat). Looking and feeling skinny has always been a brass ring for me. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been aware of my size as it compares to others. When I was younger, that awareness presided over how much my thighs spread across the tarmac at the pool; as an adult, it evolved into dissecting how big my arms look compared to those of my friends in Facebook pics. It’s a haunting and all-consuming state of consciousness that governs decisions ranging from what to wear to whether or not I should sit front row at SoulCycle. It’s so exhausting and upsetting that you might wonder why I don’t just lose the 10 pounds that long ago affixed themselves to my thighs and butt and move on with my life, right? Well, I’d counter your unsolicited suggestion with a different argument: losing and gaining those ten pounds is my life. Contrary to how it may look, my lifestyle isn’t one of decadent dinners, grueling boxing sessions, and a sometimes-distended, sometimes-concave tummy, it’s one of constant negotiations and justifications, self-loathing and self-celebration, all woven into a psyche that renders me, at any given moment, somewhere between manically happy and catatonically despondent.
To say I have food issues is an understatement.
It’s these issues that finally led me to Dr. Passler’s rather sterile Greenwich Village office a month ago. The best way to categorize Dr. P’s clientele is this: Victoria’s Secret models, actors—Sally Field followed a program to gain fifteen pounds for her Oscar-nominated portrayal of Mary Todd Lincoln in last year’s Lincoln—and the kind of Yelpers who post things like, “When I saw another patient of Dr. Passler’s last year at SXSW I noticed her glowing skin.” It’s a privileged group, of course, that can afford weekly $65 consultations, meal replacement bars at $2.75 a pop, and pricey supplements. And all of us felt our needs required professional attention.
At my very first appointment, Dr. P—an affable, balding fellow with a penchant for dad plaids and posing questions you couldn’t possibly know the answer to—asked me if I was a particularly stressed person. I’d had an incredible night’s sleep, was having an awesome hair day, and was seeing the doctor who helped an Angel lose nearly a pound a day. ‘Not particularly!’ I answered brightly. However, once he clipped a sensor to my big toe, which transmitted my vitals to his PC, it became clear that whether or not I knew it, my body was stressed. From my breathing patterns to my body fat percentage, which was shockingly high considering the amount and intensity with which I exercise, my body was trying to reconcile enough activity for two badly behaving 29-year-olds.
To illustrate the journey I was about to take, Dr. Passler drew two crude circles—a big one labeled 125 (the current me) and a tidier, smaller one labeled 113 (the future me). He then scribbled inside the heavier circle until it more closely resembled a gnarled black hole. “That’s you,” he gestured. “You’re a swirling, garbled, over-exercised, overfed nebulus of darkness,” I thought. And instantly, I felt like one.
