My Thoughts On Weight Loss Drugs.
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Last week, we talked about whether exercise helps with losing weight, and man--it really struck a chord. I haven't received that much feedback from you all since the war in Ukraine. On the mantle of personal objectives, I think it denotes an openness to replacing the ideal physique with fitness. The fact that exercise is so much more effective than being "svelte" when it comes to living longer (which is really the end goal for so many of us), gives us permission to jettison the unrealistic aspirations embodied by our "goal jeans." Actually, I donated my goal jeans (I'd had them since college) and it was one of the most liberating things I've done in a long while. I do wonder, though, what effect these new weight loss drugs will have on what had seemed like a recent and promising shift away from toxic and largely uniform standards of beauty. I've heard from more than one "expert" (by that, I mean fitness trainers, beauty influencers, body positivity activists, and even physicians) who've expressed concerns over how "body positivity" is losing its cache, now that it's so "easy" to be thin. But is it really that "easy"? I spoke with a friend today who told me her doctor was selling Ozempic for $450 per month (without insurance), which, though far less than what is often quoted (roughly $1,000), is simply still not affordable for most people. Moreover, the side effects can be significant: nausea, diarrhea, and stomach pains are the most common, but some physicians have now added something called "stomach paralysis" (which sounds terrifying) to the list of potential unintended consequences. I read an article the other day discussing the loss of significant muscle mass as yet another negative byproduct of these "get thin quick" drugs. I'm all for those who medically require these drugs in order to regain some measure of control over their diabetes or other metabolic disorder. I'm also empathetic to those who view these drugs as the proverbial silver bullet they've been searching for all their lives. Oprah Winfrey, who has unfortunately been forced to struggle with body image in the most public way imaginable, has said about Ozempic et al.: "The fact that there's a medically approved prescription for managing weight and staying healthier, in my lifetime, feels like relief, like redemption, like a gift." I can understand, to my core, Oprah's need for salvation and thus the hope that these injections provide to her and many others; however, I worry that for those relying on these drugs solely as the answer to all of their food induced anxieties, Ozempic and its peers may actually be more of a Trojan horse than a secret weapon. Not only have studies shown--repeatedly--that most people who take these drugs will have to do so for the rest of their lives, there is less of an opportunity for healthy habit formation, little chance to really understand the value of exercise (apart from weight loss), and, more importantly, no meaningful confrontation between what we've been conditioned to want and what we actually want. It's not unlike the worrisome loss of creativity that will inevitably attend the prevalence of AI "art." Those who have no problem with "creating" a beautiful photograph by asking ChatGPT to do it for them will never know whether they could have done something even better on their own. Those who are willing to create their own original work with their own two hands will be disincentivized from doing so, when fewer and fewer people are willing to pay for and recognize their labor. Ultimately, this leads to a dilution and a pernicious homogenization of art, since, at bottom, there will be only one creator of almost all art: the algorithm. Perhaps I'm getting a bit too Orwellian (it's been raining non-stop in LA and I fear it's affecting my mood), but to me, it's no longer as far-fetched as it once was that our future will be populated by one group of humans who all look the same, in lockstep conformation to a majority-rules decree on "what is beautiful," bereft of the scars and sinew of struggle; while the other, "less fortunate" group (i.e., those who couldn't afford access to the Ozempics of the future), will have to toil beneath the onerous yoke of an edict we agreed to before we even knew we could reject it. I say all this while perched on the high horse of intellectual hypothecation without dipping a single toe in the facts that inform my subjectivity: that I have an eating disorder, that I've struggled with not being "thin enough" my entire life, that there is some part of me that would likely sell my soul to be as skinny as my mother, and that every day is like treading water for me--keeping the fangs of my disorder at bay, lest they tear me apart and spit out what's left of the girl who just wanted a little cake on her birthday. I say all these things while knowing, with every cell in my body, the desperation of those who live each moment of their lives feeling like they will never really be able to live, because they are, by default, not as worthy of life as those who happen to be smaller. I say all these things as someone who constantly has to battle a voice that says "You're not doing enough," even though she's been dieting since she was 10 years old, is vegan, has run 6 marathons, and spends each conscious moment walking that impossibly thin line between unhealthy restriction and overeating. The truth is, friends, that even after everything I said earlier, there's a good chance that I'll eventually succumb to the temptation and simply give in to the tide. Take the easy way out, even if it means I'll be paying Big Pharma, instead of a personal trainer. And standing back--looking at the woman I've described above--how could I blame her? I think that's why I'm writing this here--hoping that you all will keep me accountable to the "brave new world" I see on the horizon, maybe encourage me to keep fighting, even when it gets so exhausting that I want to disappear. Maybe some part of this missive will do the same for some of you. This Week's Recipe Inspo.
What I'm... Parting Thoughts. Last fall, I was invited to be a speaker at Hello Sunshine's Shine Away conference--a summit featuring authors, entrepreneurs, journalists, and other powerhouse women from all walks of life. I went alone. My husband stayed at home with Lulu and I didn't have any friends who were going. I'm an introvert and therefore, these types of events fill me with dread--who am I going to talk to the whole time? I was also nervous about what to wear. It was a star-studded event, kicked off by none other than the company's founder, Reese Witherspoon, and I didn't want to disappoint the organizers by showing up looking like a slob. I must have tried on just about every dress in my wardrobe and, last minute, decided to go with a lacy, white dress with a tiered skirt. I knew that the dress was probably a little "much" for this type of thing. It was quite long and restricted my mobility, but I loved it. It made me feel pretty and feminine and even young. And it had been a really long time since I'd worn something "just because." Before I could stew over it and change my mind, I shimmied into the dress and hopped into the car that came to pick me up and drive me to the conference. When I got there, as I predicted, I had no one to talk to and was thus left to my own devices--literally. I stood in various unobtrusive corners of the courtyard that welcomed guests, scrolling through my phone as if I had something quite important to review. I pretended to scan the crowd for familiar faces, even while knowing I wouldn't find any. Finally, feeling a little lame in my "pretty" lace dress, I walked over to the line that was forming at the coffee booth, where a couple of ladies were handing out free iced lattes. I didn't need another coffee, but it was something to do. I thanked the volunteers who handed me my latte and began making my way backstage, even though I wasn't scheduled to speak for a few hours, hoping that the beverage made me look a little more purposeful. Just as I was passing the threshold into the warehouse that housed the main stage, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a woman I didn't recognize. She had a black turtleneck, dark spectacles (the kind favored by smart journalists or English majors), and wine red lips. She bent her head as if about to impart a secret and whispered to me, "Your dress is beautiful." I thanked her, artlessly, and swept my free hand across the ruffled tiers of the skirt as she walked away. Later that day, I sat on the main stage with three incredibly accomplished women and we talked about the power of storytelling, the disposition of grief, and the courage we can harness from one another. But as surreal as it all was, and as honored as I felt to be part of this incredible event, I couldn't help but think that it'd be the nameless lady with the black turtleneck, dark spectacles, and wine red lips who would leave the deepest mark. Wishing you all the best,
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