I wish I could show you a picture of myself as a baby. I would have made a perfect Gerber baby. Not because I was so cute, but because it was obvious that I had eaten a lot of Gerber baby food! My thighs looked like those wiener dogs that balloon artists make and sell at family restaurants. It was hard to tell where the thigh ended and the calf began. Actually, they weren’t calves at all—they were full-grown cows.
Even though I ballooned up most dramatically during my teens, I’ve always struggled with my weight. At the age of eleven, I was already “full-figured.” I remember the trauma of not being able to fit into popular jeans like Dittos or Luv-its. Everyone wore them—except me. I wore Wranglers.
When I arrived in Hollywood, my weight became an issue heavier on the scale of things than whether I would ever be able to squeeze into a pair of Wrangler Slims. The question of dieting first came up was while I was rehearsing a production number for the New Mickey Mouse Club. The choreographer walked by, patted my belly, and commented, “That’s quite a little gut you got on ya’, kid.”
The next day I started my first diet, and I continued dieting for three years. Then, when I was fifteen, my inability to lose weight at a normal rate landed me in the hospital—not because I was so sick, but because I was so well. Amazed at my “super-efficient” body, the doctors admitted me to a diagnostic hospital in Galveston, Texas, where I spent two weeks undergoing tests and experiments. Beginning with 1,500 calories a day and lowering that intake every three days, they determined that my basal metabolic rate was 600 calories a day. That meant I didn’t lose weight until they fed me three scrumptious meals that added up to 400 calories. If only I had lived in cave-man days, I would have been a legendary figure.
Twenty years ago it wasn’t clear what had happened, but with recent health discoveries, it’s now obvious. I’d been dieting and exercising strenuously since I was twelve years old. My body had been in famine mode for so long that it had hoarded every calorie as if it were its last. That also explains why a year later I stockpiled the pounds so quickly when I went on an eating spree during the actors’ strike.
I have only recently come to equate my weight struggle as a “thorn in the flesh”. The apostle Paul writes in the New Testament, “ I have plenty to boast about and would be no fool in doing it, because I would be telling the truth. But I won’t do it. I don’t want anyone to think more highly of me than what they can actually see in my life and my message, even though I have received wonderful revelations from God. But to keep me from getting puffed up, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger from Satan to torment me and keep me from getting proud. Three different times I begged the Lord to take it away. Each time he said, ‘My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness.’” (2 Corinthians 12:6–9).
I have experienced many blessings from the Lord and have been given much that I could boast about. My weight struggle has not only served to keep me humble but it has also been a point of identification with so many other women who might otherwise be tempted to think more highly of me than I deserve. I’ve asked the Lord more than three different times to help me lose weight, but so far his answer has been, “No”.
And I’ve done my part! For instance, early last year I was determined to lose the twenty pounds I had put on since getting married and having babies. I bought the bestseller Body for Life and joined a local gym along with my mom and two close girlfriends. You’ll know how really close friends they are when I tell you that we took pictures of each other in bathing suits for the “before” pictures. (I kept the negatives for blackmail fodder just in case I get into financial trouble years from now.)
