Sweeping Away the Crumbs

"We usually don't eat at the table since it's just the two of us," Janet informed me soon after I started housecleaning for her. "Bill eats in his recliner and I sit on my end of the couch, so you need to use the Dust Buster to sweep out the crumbs under the cushions every week."

One week, the Dust Buster didn't work, so she blamed me for not plugging it in all the way the week before. I guess I'm the only person who uses it. When I vacuumed the following week, I was surprised at the amount of crumbs that had accumulated under Bill's cushion.

"It's pretty crummy, isn't it?" Janet asked when I finished. As neat and orderly as this couple was, I didn't think Bill could generate that many crumbs in two weeks' time.

"Yes," I admitted.

Seeing how many crumbs were under his cushion made me wonder how crummy my own couch and chair were. How many times a month do I lift the cushions to clean underneath? More like how many times a year?

I viewed my weightloss in a similar fashion. I didn't clean out the junk in my life, I simply let it pile up week after week, turning to food to make me feel better. Just like covering up the crumbs with a couch cushion, I covered up my fat with layers of clothes and pretended I didn't see it. I hated clothes shopping because I always had to shop in the Plus Departments and it seemed every time I tried something on, I had to get a bigger size. Exposing myself, admitting I had a food addiction, was difficult. I didn't want to implement any self-discipline over what or how much I ate, nor did I know how to sweep the junk out of my life, so instead of dealing with all my issues, I ate to numb myself to my problems.

Which explains the mountain of crumbs in my life.

It's been a year since I started cleaning for Janet and Bill. This past week, she called me over to the hearth to instruct me on where she wanted the fireplace instruments placed. "I'm such a fussbudget," she laughed. I rolled my eyes as I followed her into the living room. You have no idea! I thought. She pointed to the square tiles on the floor. "It's the square that's catty-corner from the corner. Put it exactly like this," she said, setting the base of the tool holder perfectly inside the square to demonstrate how she wanted it. "That way, when I want to scoot through there to get to the other side, I can fit. Just think, maybe one day you'll fit through there, too!"

Wow. I didn't mind having to put up with her obsessive compulsive disorder, but when she took jabs at my weight, that was too much! No matter how perfectly I tried to set her antique beer steins from Germany back on her buffet table, she always corrected their placements. I can't even imagine what is was like to be one of her children. Or her husband, for that matter! I sympathized with them, to say the least.

My weight loss to this point was acceptable to me, but it seemed like my efforts were never good enough for her. Granted, we had a financial agreement: she'd pay me $5/more per hour if I lost 6 lbs. a month. She insisted on seeing my journal from Weight Watchers before I got started cleaning, and wrote down the numbers on a piece of stationery every week. That kind of control was a sign of some serious issues going on in her head, but I have to admit, they served to intimidate me into following Program more than the numbers on the scale every Thursday morning when I weighed in. One week in July I didn't clean because I was out of town for my high school reunion. I was thrilled that I lost 1.4 lbs. the week after, considering I had a crab feast while I was there and that the appetizers I had at the reunion weren't the healthiest choices. But when she said, "You've been a naughty girl," the smile quickly disappeared from my face and I despised her.

My "Love Language," according to Gary Chapman's book, "The Five Love Languages," is Words of Affirmation, so when someone tells me I've done a good job, affirms, or encourages me in some way, I'm on Cloud 9. Contrariwise, if someone criticizes me or tells me I'm bad, I shrink into myself, pull away from others, and cry. So when Janet told me I had been naughty, I was tempted to tell her to shove my diet journal where the sun doesn't shine, but I simply bit my tongue, fought back the tears, and said, "I'm doing the best I can!" Whether she believed me or not, I have no idea, nor do I care. But I sure don't need her criticizing me.

I try to remind myself how crummy HER life is. I mean, look at all that stuff under her couch cushions! But then I bring it back to me, and tell myself I have to pull off the layers, put the fork down, and sweep the crumbs away if I'm going to be successful at this weight loss thing.

You Have Such a Lovely Face ...

"You have such a lovely face ..."

How many of us pleasantly plump women have heard these opening remarks? Whether it's Pretty Face, Lovely Face, Nice Features, whatever...

The bigger question is, How many heartless people have been cruel enough to finish the sentence? Yeah, yeah, I'm so pretty, if only I'd lose weight! I've heard it too many times to count, but I do have to admit, no one has had the audacity to finish the sentence.

Yet.

When Janet (not her real name), the woman for whom I houseclean, started this sentence one day, I cringed. Then when she asked my weight on another day, I became mad at myself for not telling her off and quitting on the spot. Several months prior, while walking past the sturdy oak secretary that her husband built, I caused it to rattle and she commented, "It doesn't rattle when Bill (not his real name either) or I walk past it ...." Her unfinished sentence hung in the air like a stale fish odor, implying that the desk shook because I was so fat.

Her other off-handed, insensitive comments about my fluffy self made me feel offended, upset, crushed, pissed. My excess weight didn't affect my ability to clean her house, so what difference did it make if I was 225 or 125? Skinny people have no idea what it's like, so they should just keep their pie holes shut.

I didn't want to admit that I was overweight by 100 lbs. At my heaviest, I weighed 237 in January 2000. I joined Weight Watchers and 24-Hour Fitness and lost 70 lbs. in 9 months. I slimmed down from a size 26 (on good days) to a size 10, but I was hit with a family crisis and slowly put the weight back on over the next 5 years.

The other time I lost a large amount of weight was in 1991, when my daughter was a baby. I met a man who was interested in me, but only if I lost weight. At the time, I weighed 206. After joining Nutrisystem, I got down to 139 within 8 months, a weight I hadn't seen since I was 19. I hadn't worn a size 8 since elementary school, but it wasn't good enough for him--he insisted I have liposuction done.

So I ditched him.

Looking back, I realized I lost the weight for all the wrong reasons. I had to do it for ME, not for a man. I wanted to set a good example for my kids, but I didn't have the discipline to stay on track. Fast forward to 2007, I wanted to slim down before I got married on July 7th, so I joined Weight Watchers again (for about the 34th time) and was able to wear a size 14 dress on my wedding day. Before I gave up yet again after my father passed away, I was down to 161 and a size 12.

This time, after hearing the "You have such a lovely face" from Janet, I was bound and determined to gain even more. "I'll show her!" I told myself. Besides, my husband loved me for WHO I was, not for the NUMBER ON THE SCALE. It was THEIR problem, whomever it was complaining about my weight at the time, not mine!

Things changed when I got a call from my mother in March inviting me to go on a cruise in December--on her dime. Now what? I couldn't face my family as a size 26! I wouldn't dare set a bare foot on that Bahama beach in a bathing suit, not when someone could scream, "Look at that beached whale!"

Once again, I turned to my beloved Weight Watchers. "Just for the cruise," I told myself. Then I can go back to being fat.

I don't know what possessed me to tell Janet I joined. Was that a sneer on her face or was it a genuine smile from a woman who was happy to hear that I was turning my life around? Whatever the case, I desperately needed her support and approval.

"I tell you what," she bargained. "I'll raise you to $25 an hour if you can lose 6 lbs. a month." Her eyes gleamed as I considered her offer. Money has never been a motivator for me. "And I'll throw in a new bathing suit as a bonus if you reach your goal weight by Christmas."

Nope, that wasn't tempting me either. I just wanted to lose the weight to prove to her I could do it. And so that she'd stop complaining about her rattling secretary. And so that she'd let me sit on the very sturdy bench, also made by Bill, in their foyer. And so that I could squeeze past her in the kitchen while she was ironing without having her comment. And so that ...

See what I mean by insensitive remarks? My mother always taught me, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

This especially applies to remarks directed at fat people.

It Started Way Before Today

"Stephanie, come here into the garage. I have some things I want to give you."

I obediently heeded Janet's summons, wiping the dust from my frumpy, baby blue sweat pants after kneeling on her bathroom floor where I was scrubbing.

As I approached her 4'11" frame, I noticed a scowl on her face as she eyed me from pony-tailed head to my white-stockinged feet. She didn't allow me to wear shoes or go barefoot in her immaculate condo, and I didn't have a suitable pair of slippers, so I simply wore my socks. At least this week I didn't have any holes in them. The smile disappeared from my face as her scowl deepened.

"I'm going to put you on a diet!" she announced.

The air in my lungs caught in my chest and tears immediately stung my eyes. I blinked them back, refusing to show any emotion toward this cold, heartless woman.

"You'll feel so much better if you lose weight!" she continued, shaking her head in disgust while her top lip curled into an Elvis impersonation.

Yes, I know I'm fat. I don't need some 87-year-old biddy to point out the obvious. Wait a minute, I was the cleaning servant! But she sure was ornery! And mean, and insensitive, and heartless, and ...

In the ten steps it took to cross her spotless living room, I became a child again, cowering beneath my mother's cricisms: "You're too chubby to wear pleats." "You're too fat to wear searsucker." "You're too heavy to wear big prints like that!" Then my mother's endearment for me echoed in my brain: Chunky Wunky. She thought it was cute. I hated it with a passion.

Still blinking back tears and trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I followed Janet to the garage off the west side of her home. As I stared at the back of her head, I fantasized about wrapping my hands around her neck and cutting off her windpipe. Nah, I wouldn't harm a single gray hair on her narcissistic head. But I wondered if she had any idea of how much her words stabbed me in the heart.

Probably not.

She opened a box on the table to display all her throwaways from Christmas. It was only two weeks ago and she was already trying to unload her unwanted junk on me. I was too spineless to tell her I didn't want it. I would simply pack everything into the trunk of my Saturn and throw it in the Dumpster when I got home. Except for that wreath--I'll keep that. And that gold garland might come in handy. Ooh, that red candle would look lovely on my antique steamer trunk. Who was I fooling? Her junk was my treasure! I'm sure one of these days she'd pawn something off on me that was best tossed in her trashcan. She thought she was doing me a favor letting me take her junk. I thought it was because she didn't want to deal with hauling it down to Goodwill.

I agreed to take everything simply because I didn't want to have to come up with excuses as to why I couldn't use it. I would be too tempted to lie, and I sure didn't want to do that. As she went back to her ironing in the kitchen (who irons their husband's boxers?), I returned to the guest bathroom to continue cleaning.

Pulling my cell phone out, I keyed in the following message: "Janet just told me she's putting me on a diet." I programmed my husband's number in, clicked "send," and let the tears flow, being careful not to sob out loud for fear she would hear me.

"What?" came the reply.

I hurriedly keyed in further details.

"Are you angry?" he asked after reading my message.

"Yes, but I'm more hurt than anything."

"I'm sorry," he responded. "I love you just the way you are."

I smiled. "Thank you, Honey. I needed to hear that. I love you too."

I tucked the phone away and finished the bathroom. For the next three hours as I cleaned a house that didn't need cleaning, her words kept replaying in my mind, and each time I told myself I was no good, I was fat, no one loved me, I hated myself.

I had been dealing with compulsive overeating for as long as I can remember. I remember stealing cookies from the cupboards in fourth grade, so I imagine my food issues started before that, but I can't remember exactly when. When I look at my elementary school pictures, I was always chubby, but when your mother cooks for a family of seven, there are never any leftovers so it's not like I ever had seconds. Were the portions she served way too big for my tiny body? We were admonished to clear our plates before being excused from the table ... starving children in Africa, ya' know. Was my mother to blame or was it me? Just how many potato chips did I steal, exactly?

When did the nasty looks start? When did the condescending remarks begin? When did people start judging me for being fat? Whenever it was, it started way before today.