Wheaton’s Way: A fairytale come to life

I believe I mentioned in a previous column that I am presently on a course of Mounjaro.
Yes, I succumbed, after years of yo-yo dieting, lifestyle changes, Atkins, Weight Watchers (now rebranded as WW, like Kentucky Fried Chicken is KFC; oh wow – game-changer), cabbage soup and intermittent fasting. I think I’ve tried everything, save injecting myself with a pregnant woman’s urine, which I think was a fad a long time ago. I mean, it’s not my cup of tea … or pee, but when you’ve been battling your weight your whole life, I get the desperation.

So far, things have been going smoothly for me. I know that some people suffer side effects, but I’m usually a rhino when it comes to those. I don’t get headaches, nausea, blurry vision, constipation AND diarrhoea at the same time … along with myriad other delightful issues that accompany medications. I confess, the idea of sticking myself with a needle (how Mounjaro is administered) didn’t really appeal, but mosquito bites are worse. Don’t get me started on that subject.

At the beginning, when I was bending my head to look at my tummy, where I was injecting, my face had to ‘clear my neck’ to get a good view. Now, I can practically manage touching chin to chest. It’s like being able to reach your toes again, but upstairs.

I’m now about six months in and I’m starting to see some real progress. My appetite has slowed to a crawl and clothes are getting looser. Of course, one of my goals is to reach a healthier weight, feel better about how I look and, hopefully, gain more energy. But what I’m really looking forward to is sitting in chairs with sides that don’t cruelly bite into my person.

You know those rattan bistro chairs that you see outside Italian coffee shops and Parisian pâtisseries? The ones with the rounded backs and the thin pieces that connect the back to the sides of the seat? You can almost hear “La Vie en Rose” on the accordion in the background?

Yeah, no way. I can only perch, not sit, and there’s more of an enveloping situation going on. All you can see is me and four wicker legs.

It’s like when I got my first motorcycle – I wasn’t as big as I am now, but I didn’t want it to look like I was riding a Tonka. I had to make sure the ratio worked.

I feel the same way about airline seats. Luckily, most of the time I manage to fly business class and although the perks are great, it’s the extra room I covet. Those economy seats have just got smaller and smaller over the years. I once sat in a bulkhead row, so the arms were solid – you couldn’t lift them – and my hips went cascading up the sides like storm waves hitting a wall. And the ridiculous thing is that I’m not huge. I ain’t a featherweight, but still … I want to be one of those women who walk onboard in head-to-toe Lululemon, with a scarf effortlessly tied around their swan-neck because the Caribbean is a little chilly for them. They only carry a small designer bag and once they’ve settled in their seat (in which they could basically slalom from side to side), they lift their legs onto their chair as well so they can comfortably read their book.

I mean, not if it was a requirement in a safety drill could I do that. I usually have to count to three and suck my stomach in so I get my foot high enough to pull a sock on before I black out. Yet, there they are, folded up like a tripod after a business meeting, feet all cosy practically underneath them. It’s not natural.

Another dream as I make my way through this journey is that I’d like to be able to choose my clothes, not have them choose me. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of stylish plus-size clothes out there, but I feel you have to do a lot more searching to find them. I’m often pushing past racks of Sister Wives shirts with random pieces of lace sewn around the collar or wrists, and jeans with such massive front and back pockets, you could carry four laptops in a pair at the same time.

I found myself falling into a horrible habit of trying on a top that I didn’t mind and then buying all the different patterns I could find in that exact same design. I chose a blouse that had elbow-length sleeves, a scoop neck and flared out at the waist. It was also long enough to cover stomach and upper thigh areas and didn’t need ironing. We have a winner.

Tired of searching any further for more options, I bought about five of the style. One was plain black; one looked like a Pollock painting; another had random roses the size of prize-winning cabbages all over it; and so on. That’s what I do. When I’m bigger, I just get lazy. Searching for a new wardrobe isn’t a joy, it’s a chore, but I can’t carry on wearing outfits that are almost 50% safety pins, so I take the easy route.

Wanna know the best part? The material of those tops started pilling after about the second wash. So I didn’t just have one piece of clothing that was unwearable after a while – I had multiple.

Dynamite.

Last, but not least, I’d like to be able to wear elegant shoes on a night out. I’m not talking stilettos – I’d need lessons to learn how to walk in those again. I mean ones that don’t have block heels, like something out of “Little House on the Prairie”. Ma’s finest eveningwear and all that; what you might find behind the beaded curtain at Oleson’s Mercantile. It would be nice to don some kitten heels, rather than shoes that look like I could be called back to the construction site at any moment.

I know that opinions are divided on Mounjaro and GLP-1s. I know this, because when I posted on Facebook that I was trying it, I felt like I’d just told my mother I was dating an ex-con. Loads of advice filled the page from well-meaning people. Some congratulated me on giving it a go and reporting on their success with it, while others expressed concern about what I was putting in my body.

I get it. And maybe 20 years from now I’ll suddenly lose half of my hair, or a toe will drop off. I’ll be a Grimms’ fairy tale come to life. But for right now, if I’m not putting GLP-1s in my body, I’m ingesting fried chicken, ice cream and butter. This medication-assisted weight loss has given me the motivation to start exercising again, and if it means I can look a little more like Jennifer Lopez (who is two months older than I am) before gravity really kicks in, I’m willing to give it a try.

Just pass me my wig and false toe and I’ll be on my way.