How I Learned To Live Large

The Washington-based National Academy of Sciences punctured the belief that a chubby baby is a healthy baby recently. The academy reported that fat little thighs grow into fat adult thighs, and it admonished caregivers of toddlers and infants to promote “healthy eating” and increase “physical activity.”

Sounds like baby's going on a diet. And the report reminded me of the first time someone told me to lose weight.

I was five years into my newspaper career when I traipsed into Manhattan to talk with an agent about switching to television. The agent handled top anchors and reporters, and he liked my clips and face.

“I meet a lot of print reporters, but you’re one I could see on television,” he said.

All right!

“You’ll have to begin in a smaller market, Boston or Hartford.”

Makes sense.

“You’ll have to schmooze station managers.”

I can do that.

“And you’ll have to diet down to fighting weight.”

Whoa, jump back jack!

At the time, I was 130 pounds – not a stick, but not overweight. Yet this paunchy, middle-aged guy was saying I must become – and stay --  “television thin.”

I hated the idea that my daily bread would depend on how many calories it contained. So, I drove home accepting that I had the perfect body for print.

I come from a long line of boxy women. I recently compared photos of my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and me. Except for our expressions, we look alike.

Our psyches, however, are different.

My grandmother, a joyless woman who eventually stroked-out from weight-induced high blood pressure, forever trained her critical eye on my mother’s size. When Mom was heavy, Gram harassed her to diet; when Mom was newly slim, Gram stabbed her with, “Planning to keep it off this time?”

I started out as a fussy eater: A child of baby-boom prosperity, I felt entitled to eat what I liked. My father, a child of the Great Depression, ate whatever was served and did a slow burn when I poked at my mother’s cooking. During one dinnertime battle, he threatened to tip over my head whatever I left on my plate.

I can still feel the cold, ketchup-soaked spaghetti sliding down my forehead and cheeks.

Not surprisingly, my relationship to food and weight has been fraught and complex.

But comparing those family photos made me realize that I'm not genetically destined to be “television thin.”  I’ve lost the battle. But I've won the peace of mind that comes with living comfortably in my skin.

Last year, at my all-time heaviest, AOL hired me to write and star in video reviews of As Seen On  TV products. After 30 years in the business, someone was paying me to appear on camera.

When my first review went live, I asked my editor for feedback.

“Keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” he said, revealing the video racked up 120,000 page views.

No makeover? No lose 20 pounds? No get your eyes done?

“Naah,” he said. “You look like a mom. You’re believable, and that’s exactly what we want.”

Credible and, finally, camera-ready.