I hate my arms.
I didn’t always hate my arms. I mean, they won me medals in high school for the shot put, give outstanding hugs, and proficiently carry my prized handbags. But the heavier I got over the years, the bigger my arms got, until finally, about fifteen years ago, at size 28, I had to come to an unfortunate decision: I would no longer wear anything sleeveless, until further notice or hell froze over.
My fellow fashionistas out there know how severely that can limit a gal’s wardrobe. So many staples come sans sleeves—from bathing suits to tank tops to sundresses, not to mention the most gorgeous of gowns. Sometimes I had no choice but to go sleeveless. Like when you’re a bridesmaid (see chapter 6). It is a thankless job and your costume choices should be your own. Or on a red carpet, and when that happened, I’d make do as best I could. I’d wear a shawl, a scarf, or a little sweater to cover up my ample appendages.
That ploy seemed to work, maybe not like a charm but it was FINE. I got by for a time. Until one spring day, I, along with my female Parks costars, was named to People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful” list. A most flattering honor, of course; I’d be joining an elite club that includes the likes of Julia Roberts and Kerry Washington and George Clooney. But I wasn’t quite so flattered when I showed up to the photoshoot and the stylist wanted to put Amy, Rashida, Aubrey, and me in pale sleeveless gowns. Here I was, about to be on the most famous listicle of attractiveness, and my arms, not my favorite attribute but definitely my least favorite attribute,1 would be visible to People’s 40-plus million readers. You’d never know it by looking at the pic that made it in the magazine, showing us goofing around a croquet set in a lush green garden, but I was so self-conscious about my exposed arms I dreaded the day the issue would come out.
That photoshoot did a number on my self-esteem but wasn’t the wake-up call that got me moving, literally. Not surprisingly, it took getting dumped by a guy to give me the motivation I needed. That’s not completely true. It was my bestie Rosa who got me started, and it was this not-so-conscious uncoupling that kept me steadfast in my endeavor.
About a year after the sleeveless People incident, I got totally ghosted. This dude and I were planning a vacation together but suddenly out of nowhere he was posting pics of a girl I’d never met or heard about on Facebook. I didn’t know if something was for sure going on but it didn’t feel kosher. I decided I wouldn’t call him and I’d wait until he called me. He didn’t. I never heard from him again.
Needless to say, a bitch was salty. Salty, sad, and, not gonna lie, a little humiliated. I felt like shit. I wanted to call him and be like, What. The. Fuck. Dude? Really? But I didn’t. I at least committed to putting him/us in my past. That and to sticking to my workouts and food management with Rosa. I was gonna lose weight. Not for that dumb ass, but for myself (though, who are we kidding, looking good is the best revenge). I was committing to my regimen. Big-time. Working out. Hard. I’d already been doing some cardio in the pool at the Y but it wasn’t enough. Rosa had been house-sitting for Josh Gad, star of Broadway’s The Book of Mormon but probably better known to the parents out there as the voice of Olaf in Frozen. He had a nice pool and turns out she wanted to, as we put it, get in Bey shape. We created our own water workout based on things we’d done before and exercises we found online.
I am grateful for so many of my friends. Rosa is one of them. We met through mutual friends some years ago at a bar and have been laughing ever since. We connect on a different level. We have similar backgrounds in that we are both Jersey girls (although we met in LA) who grew up with immigrant parents. We understand having an outside American life and going home to an “old-country” life. We have similar senses of humor and similar vulnerabilities. Rosa is very much like my mother in that she loves to feed people and loves opening her home to people. I didn’t appreciate that quality as a kid but I see the goodness in it. Rosa has taught me generosity. She’s also taught me boundaries cuz you can be too generous. She makes me laugh and she makes me blush because she can be as filthy as an ex-marine. She’s as perfect a ride-or-die as you’re gonna find.
On July 31, 2014, Rosa and I hopped on over to Sport Chalet and cleaned out the joint. We got all sorts of aquatic equipment, like floatie belts and pool weights and webbed resistance gloves and cute little bathing caps to match our bathing suits, and, most important, Fitbits to make sure we were walking 15,000 steps per day. We promised ourselves if we met our weight-loss goals, we’d treat ourselves to Tory Burch’s cute new gold metal bracelets meant to hold the Fitbit. With all our aqua gear we went in and we went in hard. We worked out for two hours every day. Sometimes longer. And we did it seven days a week for two months. In that water, treading for six minutes at a time, alternating with two minutes of abs, arms, legs, and running. I’d been following comedian Kevin Hart on Instagram. He’s helluh fit and posts a gang of vids of him working out and often uses the hashtag #HustleHart. As a nod to his commitment to staying fit, whenever we got to the point in our workout where we had to run our hardest we’d say, “Hustle Hart!” That meant go hard, bitch.
We never wavered in our commitment. I attribute this to three things:
1. When Rosa puts her mind to something she sticks to it, and I’m codependent so I liked knowing I had company every day.
2. At the end of the workout, we’d sit in the hot tub and commiserate about the dudes who fucked us over. Free therapy. I came to realize Ghosty McVanished wasn’t my future. He’d never been. Never could be.
3. Once you start seeing results, you look forward to doing the work.
To make sure we were staying within our daily calorie allotment, we downloaded the app MyFitnessPal and followed it as if our lives depended on it. I didn’t cut out any specific foods. I just tried to eat like I had some damn sense. I’d set an alarm to make sure I ate every few hours and made especially sure that I didn’t go over my allotted calories per day based on my step count. That number fluctuated daily, but I can tell you that at a certain point I was up to 100,000 steps per week and was allowed 2,400 calories per day, so I certainly wasn’t going hungry. I still didn’t cook, so I just chose restaurants where I could feasibly count calories or look up the calorie count online—places like Tender Greens or Fresh Corn Grill so I knew exactly what to add into MyFitnessPal. This system allowed us to go to places like The Cheesecake Factory and get the light pasta and split a butter cake2 because we knew exactly what the calories were. As long as we were under the calorie count, it was pretty much anything goes.
Maybe that sounds crazy. After all, it’s food that got me in this predicament. In high school, I was on the track team and a cheerleader but as soon as I left for college, I packed on the pounds. First, it was the typical freshman fifteen … plus. Then, during my junior year, I injured my knee running track and stopped exercising for a really long time. And then when I broke my ankle in that deck collapse in LA it all went to shit. Add onto that all the booze and binge-eating I’ve done—short ribs, lasagna, fast food—and that adds up fast and permanently. I got to the point of no return, size 28, where literally nothing fit me and getting all that weight off my body was going to take a monumental effort.
But that never meant starving myself. I did try the Atkins diet for about five minutes before I decided I’d rather die a fiery death at sea than give up bread. And I did Herbalife for a hot second until I realized that the “tea” that was keeping me so motivated was packed with caffeine and I legit thought I was gonna have a heart attack. I never hit the cayenne pepper–syrup water stage or the mashed-up baby-food plan. That’s not real life. I don’t care if Beyoncé did lose twenty pounds on it. You can’t keep that shit up forever. Slow and steady wins the race.
Having said that, it ain’t easy to get healthy and it’s too easy to give up. Not even a week into our workout, feeling like Wonder Woman and Xena, Warrior Princess, we went to Bey and J’s On The Run concert at the Rose Bowl. Well, the Uber driver had to drop us off about a mile away, and by the time I got up to the stadium, I was sweating and heaving as though I’d just raced Katie Ledecky in the 1,500-meter freestyle and won. My legs were on fie-errr and my makeup had slid off my face. I went into the bathroom to clean up, but was so wiped out, I noticed in the mirror on the way out I had little pieces of toilet paper stuck all over my face from trying to sop up the copious sweat. I looked fucking crazy, sweaty and gross. Still had a long way to go.
About a month in, after weighing myself four times a day even though everyone and their mother says don’t, I was feeling good about what I had accomplished so far. And that’s when I went to the Emmys, thinking I was cute, and encountered that asshole who tried to fat-shame me on social media, saying I filled up two seats. Little did he know I was on a path and his insults were only fuel to my fat-burning fire. I had started seeing results and was full-steam ahead. I was doing the damn thing.
Two months after Rosa and I started, are you ready? I lost FIFTY FUCKING POUNDS. Went from a size 28 to an 18. I was feeling myself more than Kanye feels Kanye. I online-shopped like it was end of days and filling one’s virtual cart was the only way to keep Armageddon at bay. I got rid of a lot of stuff, too. Not everything, just the size 28s. I knew there was a chance I’d gain some weight back but I also knew in my heart I’d never go back to that place again.
Sure enough, when I started back at Parks and Rec for Season 7 and I couldn’t fit two hours of exercise into my day, I went back up to a size 22 (some size 20 jeans) and that’s where I remain today. I’m a super-organized person, but that’s different from being disciplined. If I was disciplined, I’d be the size I want to be and I’m not. I catch myself eating crap late at night. I’m notorious for going an entire day without eating and then filling up on some nonsense just before hopping into bed. I still love my short ribs and starchy potatoes and corn. I still find tofu creepy. I’m trying to eat more vegetables and replace red meat with fish here and there. White fish, that is. Salmon can kiss my ass. And I’m lactose intolerant but if you told me I couldn’t have cheese ever again, I would slap you in your face.
Hey, it’s hard to lose weight when you like delicious food. Shit, it’s hard to lose weight when you like shitty food.
Working out is great—it’s the bonus—but, bottom line, it’s the food. If I can wrap my mind around committing to counting calories for the rest of my life, maybe I’ll get there. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from this whole ordeal is that what I really want is not the skinniest body, it’s to live a life where I can just be a normal human being. There are plenty of people in the world who are fit who don’t punch in the food they eat on their phones every ten minutes.
Will I ever be one of those people? Doubtful. I don’t care anymore. Even though I’ve gained much of the weight back, I’m not as upset about it as I would have been before. I wanna look cute but I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve found decent clothes for a fat girl so I don’t ever feel like I don’t look cute. This is who I am.
I intend to lose more weight. I gotta get back to that if only for the health and well-being of my raggedy-ass knees, but right now I’m going to enjoy my life. You have to be happy in your regular life or you’re not going to survive the journey toward a goal. It’s the same with weight loss, you still have to be content. If you’re miserable the whole time, it’s gonna be too hard. You’ll get to that point where you say “fuck it” and go ham on the entire contents of your fridge.
I had to come to a place in my mind where I’m okay with where I’m at. Once you do that, the good stuff happens. You present as more confident to the world. My girlfriends tell me that Mr. McPhantom always likes the pics they post with me in it. All I can say is WHATEVUH. On to the next. You do you, boo. I’ma do me.
I get called fat on Twitter all the time. It used to bother me but now I’m like, “That’s all you got? Trust me when I say you’re not the first, you won’t be the last. I’m gonna need you to be a little more creative, papi.”3 I wish when I was younger I’d had an awareness of how unclever and lazy it is to call somebody fat. It might’ve saved me so much heartache.
And, finally, I’ve made peace with my body. When I was drying my hair one day recently I was like, holy shit! I can see my collarbone for the first time in my life! I can cross my legs like a motherfucking LADY. And, yes, my ARMS. Are they Michelle Obama-worthy wings of glory? Yeah, no. They are fleshy and they are striped with the stretch marks of this lived life. But the ban has been lifted and I’m rocking the sleeveless again by CHOICE. I went to the U.S. Open with my arms out. I went to the Film Independent Spirit Awards with my guns blazing. And that made me feel cool
1. because it was hot as balls at both the Open and the Spirit Awards but …
2. … more important, because I felt good about it.
I can’t say every day when I wake up I’m happy with my body, but I can say that every day when I wake up I’m happy for my body. We’ve been through a lot of shit together and I plan on going through a lot more. So if you see me out sporting a sleeveless look, know I broke out the big guns cuz I could.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT4
1. I don’t love arugula.
2. Finding pickles on a burger or sandwich that I specifically ordered WITHOUT pickles triggers a near psychotic break.
3. I’m partial to a pork dumpling.
4. I hate myself. But I still love bread.
5. Bread gives me a socially acceptable reason to eat butter. And for that I am grateful.
6. We get it, asparagus. No need to remind us that we just ate you. Stop taking over my urine scent.
7. Who is doing the PR for kale? And how can I get down with this company? Because kale used to be some bullshit underneath the salsa bins at Baja Fresh. Now it’s the headliner on every menu. And Brussels sprouts are right behind them. They must have the same PR team.
8. Atlanta + Pimento Cheese. Someone please explain.
9. Am I alone in feeling that cookies, if broken, somehow have less calories?
10. There should be more mini quiche at parties.
11. I’d cut a bitch for some capellini bolognese.
12. Was anyone brave enough to order the Fritos Chicken Enchilada Melt at Subway? I couldn’t bring myself to even say the words out loud.
13. Ummm, why have y’all been tryna keep pretzel M&M’s a secret? #Haters.
14. Was once so anxious over an episode of The Good Wife that I ate an expired bag of popcorn.
15. Do white people eat pork rinds?
16. I’m not mad at bacon.
17. I’m embarrassed by how far I’ll drive for some fried chicken.
18. Sorghum “syrup” can kiss my ass. You ain’t syrup.
19. I don’t care how many times you say it’s “edible.” If you eat the rind of Brie I’m gonna look at you funny.
20. Marie Antoinette would’ve been executed a lot faster if she’d said, “Let them eat carrot cake.”
21. I decided to make the healthier choice to exercise and eat better, but I gotta be honest, at this point I want Krispy Kreme more than I want children.
22. Fact: I’m at an age where what I have to do tomorrow dictates what I eat today. Dairy WILL delay a production schedule.
23. It is cruel that God gave me an unhealthy obsession w/ cheese AND made me lactose intolerant.
24. I always eat like I mean it. Just ask that Cornish game hen. He fuckin’ knew I meant it.