OVER THE PAST HALF DECADE OR SO IN HOLLYWOOD, something truly fantastic has happened. Several female TV and film stars have landed at the top of the A-list… without looking like they starved themselves to get there. Mindy Kaling, Melissa McCarthy, Lena Dunham, Amy Schumer—and yes, there is probably something to be said about the fact that the aforementioned are all comedians—have accomplished so much, from winning Emmys to starring in their own shows and feature films. But I’m almost equally impressed by what they haven’t done: lied, apologized, or otherwise felt the need to make any excuses for the fact that they don’t look like the super-thin starlets that otherwise populate Hollywood.
Here are some of the biggest lies size 0 (and under) celebrities tell about their weight:
1. “I don’t even really work out. I chase my kids around and believe me, that’s enough of a workout!”
2. “I eat around two thousand calories a day. But I eat really, really clean. I find I don’t really crave sugar or flour anymore. So I just stick to chicken, fish, grilled veggies. I absolutely looove kale.”
3. “I just have a really fast metabolism. I don’t have it in me to diet.”
4. “I eat like a horse. All the time. Trust me: I know I look thin, but I just had ribs last night.”
Look, I’m not saying that there aren’t celebrities that don’t work up a sweat keeping up with their toddlers, or that kale can’t be delicious. Sure, major A-list movie star, I have no doubt you’re gonna tear into a massive steak tonight (after all: no carbs in beef!). Yet the majority of people in this world, barring a metabolic miracle, will only achieve an ideal, ultra-trim, “I can shop at Gap Kids” celebrity figure one way: through a devotion to extreme portion control and a largely restrictive diet, coupled with intense exercise and the occasional trip to a spa offering a full regimen of colonics.
But Mindy, Lena, and Amy have literally laughed in the face of the Hollywood convention that a star has to be impossibly thin to be beautiful. And let me be clear: most stars in Hollywood? Including the “curvy” ones like Scarlett Johansson and Jennifer Lawrence? Are impossibly thin. They are a size 2 and under. Which is impossible in my book, anyway, unless you put one size 2 on each of my thighs, and another across my midriff, and another across my ass. And even my girls Mindy and company are, at most, a size 8 or 10. (Amy Schumer has said she weighs 160 pounds. I had thought I couldn’t love her any more than I did after Train-wreck, and then she said that, and I started planning our lesbian wedding in Vermont.) So even the “real” looking stars are smaller than the average “real” woman who, if she is like more than 60 percent of the population, is a size 14. Yet a size 8 is considered truly plus-size in Hollywood, and so it’s no wonder that so many stars eventually give in to the pressure to starve their way down into a slimmer version of themselves. I can understand that pressure, because even by being a mere bystander in the industry that perpetuates it, I found it all too easy to succumb myself.
At this stage in my life, entering my third decade postpuberty, I can safely say there is not a diet I haven’t been on. There was SlimFast in my teens, when I fretted about being a weight I then thought was catastrophic. (I would drown a kitten to get back to that weight now.) There was Atkins, which I heartily embraced as I prepared to become a bride, and which led me to carb-free rages that were so bad my then-fiancé would grab me mid-rant and beg me to eat some bread. There was Jenny Craig, a lifesaver as I waddled around post-childbirth, convincing myself I could construct an entire wardrobe out of elastic-waist pants.
All diets have worked for me, to some extent or another. I’ve largely been spared the sort of yo-yo regaining that follows dramatic weight loss. Perhaps that’s because my weight loss, usually in the realm of ten to fifteen pounds, has never really been all that dramatic. That is, until I discovered green juice.
Two years ago, I existed at a post–Jenny Craig weight that was perfectly respectable. All my clothes fit. I was not horrified at what I saw onscreen during my occasional TV appearances to promote something for the magazine. I was not, by any stretch of the imagination, heavy. I was also not what anyone would call skinny. And then I went out to LA for a three-day trip. While there, I had lunch with a publicist friend. I ordered my usual, a Cobb salad—a salad that is basically in the witness-protection program as it comes with cheese and bacon and avocado. My friend studied the menu and then turned to the waitress.
“I’ll have a side order of broccoli…” she began.
And then she stopped talking.
She’d ordered a bowl of broccoli on the side of her… nothing. All she ordered was a bowl of broccoli. Even worse, the LA waitress had simply smiled and jotted it down before going on her way.
“That can’t possibly be all you’re having,” I said to my friend, incredulous.
“Oh, there’s a ton of fiber in here,” she replied. “I’ll be so full. Besides, I had some green juice right before I got here.”
For those who are unaware, green juice is now as ubiquitous as plastic surgeons and fourth wives in Hollywood. A liquefied combo of kale, spinach, parsley, and as little added sweetness from fruit as possible (perhaps a dash of tart apple here, a squeeze of lemon there, with a dash of ginger for good measure) it is supposedly chock-full of antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals. Green juice is the answer to whatever ails you. In the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the heroine’s father, a Greek immigrant, believes Windex is a magic elixir that, when sprayed on anything, can fix it. These days, celebrities seem to feel the same way about green juice. Sandra Bullock, Kerry Washington, and Gwyneth Paltrow (of course) are all huge devotees.
I should have been appalled by my friend’s order. Part of me—the part that ate every last bite of my Cobb salad—was. The other part of me was thinking about Elizabeth Taylor.
Decades ago, Liz gave an interview in which she was questioned about her lifelong struggles with her weight. Asked if she’d ever been a weight that she’d truly been happy with, she just shrugged and then said something to the effect of, “You know what I’d like? To get to a weight where someone would say to me, ‘Oh, honey, you’ve gone too far. You’ve got to stop now.’ That’s never happened.” I understood completely what she meant, and I’d venture a guess that nearly every woman who has ever gone on a diet does as well. If you aren’t someone who is naturally thin, then there truly is no such thing as too thin, because thin is always going to be a state you have to work for and maintain and which will likely always be just beyond your grasp. Oh, to be “too thin,” I thought as I walked away from that lunch. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Six months later I found out.
Whenever I return from a trip to LA, I am full of promises made to myself to live as the beautiful people of the West Coast do. I will eat organic. I will shun gluten. I will “eat clean” and focus on “whole foods.” I will be disgusted and revolted by anything packaged and processed. Usually, within about a week of my return, something—celebratory cupcakes sent to my office, a package of cookies purchased for my kids, a trip to a favorite restaurant that serves rolls baked in duck fat—derails my best intentions. But in 2012, after years of vowing to run only when chased, I took up running and learned to last for longer than one mile, and even came to love it. Following my visit with Broccoli Babe (as she is now listed in my phone) that summer, my vow to live healthier was further helped along by an unexpected source.
“Get 40% Off Our Best Juice Cleanse!” blared the e-mail waiting in my inbox when I got back to New York. It was an offer from a leading maker of, that’s right, green juice. And not just green juice: multiple juices which, when consumed in a certain order as part of a three-or-more-day “cleanse” promised to “detox” and restore “alkalinity” to my body. I had no idea my body was so acidic, but apparently it was, and it was time to do something about it. For 40 percent off, suddenly green juice seemed a lot more appealing. Of course, I hadn’t ever tasted it yet.
That changed three days later when the first day of my planned five-day juice cleanse arrived. In addition to three bottles of green juice, I would also be consuming a bottle of some nut-based “milk,” a bottle of pineapple-mint juice, and a lemonade that also contained cayenne pepper. That was all I was to consume that day. Doing so would give my vital organs a rest from all that pesky “digesting” work I would normally ask them to do. I had committed to a five-day cleanse, because I figured if three days was good, five had to be even better. Besides, I thought, it’s not even for one full week. How hard could it be? Then I took a sip of the green juice.
At this point, green juice has become so popular that you could likely go and find some version of it at your local grocery store, no matter where you live. (Just know that the versions that contain bananas and a ton of delicious, sweet, yummy fruit are not what I’m talking about here. Kale, parsley, and spinach, with minimal fruit, is what I’m talking about here. If it tastes hugely sweet, it’s not true green juice.) But just in case you can’t access your very own bottle, here’s how you can get a feel for the experience. Go outside. Find your lawn or, if you don’t have one, go to the nearest park. Bring some scissors. Cut up some of the grass—weeds will suffice, as well—then mash it into a pulp. Add some water, and maybe some old dried leaves if you can find a few. Let it sit for about an hour, and then pour the result through a strainer. Squeeze in a little lemon. Take a sip. If you find that even remotely tasty, know that green juice tastes even worse.
I nevertheless remained determined to detox and re-alkaline my body—but those were just fringe benefits to what I was certain would be fantastic weight loss. So I choked down the green juice, and made it through the day. Luckily, the pineapple and nut milk offerings, though enjoyed only once a day, were much better. I even got used to the spicy lemonade concoction. I kept hoping that my palate would develop an appreciation for the green juice; if not, I worried I wouldn’t be able to make it through all five days. But I needn’t have been afraid, because after day two of the cleanse, I stepped on a scale. I had lost five pounds.
Yes, yes, yes, I know: it was all water weight. Tell it to my pants that I happily slipped onto my leaner, trimmer body. Just like that I was hooked. Green juice was my god, my religion. Sure, it still tasted like something that had been driven over by a John Deere mower. Yeah, I missed the sensation of chewing. No matter: I had the Emmys coming up in roughly one month, and suddenly the thought of wearing a size 4 dress on the red carpet was intoxicating enough to keep me sucking down the juice and reordering from JuiceCleanse Co. on a regular basis. I felt I had joined a special Celebrity Mindset Club: Food was for fools! This wasn’t a diet—it was a way of life! Now I, too, would have an ultra-thin body and could shrug it off as though it had been easily obtained. Throw in a few visits to, yes, a “colonic irrigation specialist” and by the end of the month I had lost twelve pounds. Before long, I was skipping the higher-calorie nut milk and pineapple juices and subsisting almost entirely on green juice and nothing but green juice. I was thinner than I had been since my wedding day, and no carb-deprivation rages had occurred, unless you counted me occasionally snapping, “YOU CANNOT EAT THAT IN FRONT OF ME RIGHT NOW,” to someone with actual solid food in their hands. Overall though, I looked great and so I mostly felt great. Of course, my husband might beg to differ.
“Oh god, are you still on the juice?” he’d warily say, spotting the green bottles in the fridge.
“Don’t say it like that. It makes it sound like I’m on steroids,” I’d reply.
“I think your mood would be more stable if you were,” he’d mutter, backing out of the kitchen.
When I arrived in LA for the Emmys that year, the compliments kept coming in from publicist friends. I was, at least, honest when asked what I’d been doing. No bogus claims about chasing my kids or having a fast metabolism.
“I’ve barely eaten solid food for close to a month and everything I put in my mouth tastes like Miracle-Gro,” I’d say breezily. Given that I was saying this to people who live in Los Angeles, the vast majority of them nodded with approval.
For three nights, I enjoyed going to multiple events while eating virtually nothing. In the daytime, I went for long runs through the flats of Beverly Hills. Maintaining my devotion to the green juice was easier than ever in Los Angeles, where some version of it was on the room service menu at my hotel. By that point, not a week passed without some celebrity being photographed with a bottle of it.
Two nights before the Emmys, Entertainment Weekly had their annual party. A hot ticket as always, that year it was being held in an industrial-chic space with concrete floors and lots of glass. As with all the best parties in LA, it made no sense to arrive before 9 p.m. So I met, of all people, Broccoli Babe for a drink beforehand, and slowly sipped half a glass of white wine while we compared notes on which brand of spicy lemonade was sweetened with agave as opposed to coconut sugar. I’d like to formally complain right now that no one at the bar stepped in and slapped us upside the head.
By the time I arrived at the EW party, it was in full swing. In fact, so many people had turned out that an LA fire marshal had already made one tour of the place due to concerns of overcrowding. It was easy to see why everybody wanted in: nearly any celebrity nominated for an award was inside, as were some of the most popular TV stars in the world who hadn’t been nominated. As I waited at the bar for my second drink of the evening, I found myself struggling to place the slightly dorky but rather handsome man standing next to me. He had a prominent nose and artfully disheveled hair, and looked vaguely like the hipster front man for some indie band I knew I should have liked but didn’t. Then I heard him order his drink and the voice clinched it: it was Simon Helberg, the actor who plays the absolutely unsexy ultra-dork Howard Wolowitz on The Big Bang Theory. Trust me: without the garish belt buckles and dickies his character prefers, Simon is far more attractive in real life. (Either that or I’ve always had a soft spot for slightly nebbishy looking guys.) Within a few minutes, Kaley Cuoco, the show’s main female star, arrived looking dewy and radiant and like a prom queen who reigned over the entire room.
I thought about approaching either of them, or any of the other stars present—like Eric Stonestreet from Modern Family or, be still my heart, Scott Foley from Scandal—but wanted to catch up with some of my colleagues from People and EW first. I began making small talk with several of the writers based in LA when I began to feel the oddest sensation. It was as though I had just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl, yet I had barely moved. Still, the room seemed to be spinning around me, and suddenly I was acutely aware of how hot and noisy the space seemed to be.
“Ummm… excuse me for a minute,” I said to Peter Castro, then the deputy editor at People.
I walked past him and several aspiring actresses who were milling around. I noticed a banquette along the side of the wall and sat there, hoping the spinning sensation would stop. Suddenly, a rather urgent inner voice bellowed: “PUT YOUR HEAD BETWEEN YOUR LEGS.” I don’t know why I was seized by this impulse, but I knew it was the right one.
I bent down and put my head lower than my knees, and began to feel a bit better. So much better, in fact, that it dawned on me I must have looked like a lunatic sitting in the middle of the party in a tripod-stance. “If you’re going to sit like that, go do it in the bathroom at least,” I silently admonished myself. Still feeling wobbly, I quickly stood up, determined to make a beeline for the bathroom.
Suddenly, I found myself feeling significantly better. All dizziness was gone, and instead I just felt a peaceful sort of calm.
“Wow,” I can remember thinking, “that was so weird. I was so dizzy but now I feel so much better… I’m glad I made it to this place which is… where exactly? Where am I?”
That’s when I realized I was slowly regaining consciousness on the middle of the floor of the Entertainment Weekly party, with a crowd of concerned people standing around me and a security guard slapping me gently on both cheeks. I had never even made it to the bathroom. Instead, by getting to my feet so rapidly, I had succeeded in getting all my green juice–laced blood to rush directly out of my head. As a result, I passed out cold. Oh—and for good measure, I took a nearby tray of drinks resting on a table down with me.
Though I’ve never experienced it, I assume when you pass out in a New York City party or club, the first thing a security guard who is shaking you back to consciousness is going to ask you is, “Are you on any drugs? What did you take?”
Here’s the first thing they ask you when you pass out in a party in Los Angeles: “Did you eat anything today? When is the last time you had something to eat?” the security guard leaning over me demanded.
It was September. I realized giving “August” as an answer was probably not ideal. Still, horrified and desperate to get up off the floor, I weakly muttered, “I haven’t really eaten much today, no.”
The security guard sighed and turned to someone behind me.
“Yeah, she didn’t eat anything,” he said in a resigned voice. “It’s one of those.” Then he and a completely terrified-looking Peter Castro helped me to my feet and walked me outside. I hadn’t thought I could feel more mortified, but emerging outside—where paparazzi were photographing the celebrities arriving and leaving—to find an ambulance and a pair of LA paramedics waiting for me certainly did the trick.
“Oh,” I heard a disappointed paparazzo say as I boarded the back of the ambulance. “I guess that’s not for Lindsay.”
(No, Lindsay Lohan wasn’t even at the party, which should tell you something about how accurate the paparazzi can be with their information.)
The paramedics took my vital signs and pricked my finger to test my blood sugar with some sort of contraption. While they worked, I admitted that I had been essentially eating and drinking nothing but green juice for the past several weeks. They responded by giving me yet another liquid—theirs was some insanely sugary version of Coca-Cola, and then they returned me to the curb, where Peter was still waiting.
“Ma’am, I think maybe you’ve taken this juice thing a little too far,” the paramedic said, and I completely forgot to feel thrilled. Instead, I found myself very close to breaking down completely. I just nodded numbly, and Peter could see that I was on the brink of tears.
“You’ve got to remember to eat something,” the paramedic was saying.
“And you’ve got to start laying off the crystal meth,” Peter added.
I burst into the kind of laughter that saves you from sobbing. I will always love Peter for that moment.
I took a cab back to the hotel, and the next morning ordered steak and eggs for breakfast. I haven’t had green juice since, and every day I skip it is a day I pledge my allegiance to the Mindy, Lena, and Amys of the celebrity universe. (I will admit to having the spicy lemonade again though. It is excellent mixed with vodka.)
Yes, celebrities have amazing lives: vast fortunes, creative jobs, impossibly beautiful homes and bodies and spouses and babies. At the end of the day, I still think I’m the lucky one. Fame is not for the faint of heart. I don’t need to have a perfect size 0 figure, or even a perfect size 4 one. When I do something wildly embarrassing, I don’t need to call a publicist to come and handle the crisis. I usually just need to eat some real food.
No, when it comes to stars, I don’t live in their world—I merely delight in visiting the outer fringes. The day that the thrill of standing on a red carpet or meeting George Clooney or getting a thank-you note from Melissa McCarthy (who still sends handwritten ones, even after three different interviews) ever wears off is the day I should retire. Luckily, I don’t see that day coming any time soon. I am older, wiser, heavier, and more humbled than I was when I asked for my first autograph. I no longer ask for autographs, in fact, or even believe that every star is the greatest person alive who would love me if only they knew me. (Though I do maintain that Amy Schumer and I could be best friends.)
But I am now, and always will be, a fan. A super-fan. The biggest one of all.