By Barbara Berkeley
Television’s roster of reality shows seems to be increasing with every season. For networks, these shows have been a godsend; cheap to produce and enduringly popular. Like most everyone else, I have my favorites. As a frustrated dancer, I can’t get enough of the vicarious thrills provided by Dancing With the Stars. My daughters love Top Chef and Project Runway. And of course, American Idol.
Reality shows can take many forms, but they seem to be anchored by common themes: adversity, emotional upheaval, competition, and most of all…transformation. Think about it:
America’s Top Model: Ordinary pretty person becomes celebrity glam queen
Top Chef: Unknown cook becomes the next Bobby Flay
Survivor: Regular people become lean, mean survival experts
Dancing With the Stars: Uncoordinated celebrities lose tons of weight and become ballroom dancers
American Idol: The high school kid next door morphs into Carrie Underwood
The Biggest Loser: The caterpillar emerges as the butterfly
Human beings love transformation. We are fascinated by it. We all love the moment when the guy on Extreme Home Makeover yells, “Move the bus!” and reveals that the shack is now a palace.
Transformational themes have been part of our cumulative psyche since Hans Christian Anderson turned a duckling into a swan and Cinderella went from ashes to the ball. Transformation is thrilling and offers us hope about the human condition. Nothing is fated. We have a hand in our own destiny. We can remake ourselves.
In the past several months, I had a small taste of personal transformation and discovered a bit about its heady power. My own mini-change occurred when Karen, my long-suffering hair stylist, announced that she could tame my ultra frizzy hair with a process that irons on keratin. I don’t want to get into my whole hair story, but suffice it to say that I spent the younger years of my life trying to iron, roll, and chemically brow-beat my hair into submission. After years of this, I had reached a point in life where I accepted that I had a lot of hair and most of it had a mind of its own. My frizz became something of a personal emblem. I even enjoyed it, except on days when things got so out of hand that my daughters would tactfully remind me that I had “Bozo hair” and should try a little gel or something. Despite the fact that maturity had included making peace with my follicular challenges, Karen’s offer awoke old dreams. Why not try it? I thought.
On the big day, I had to devote three hours to the process which involved getting a lot of chemical gunk brushed onto every hair strand, lots of waiting time and a prolonged period of heating each section with a flat iron. At the end of it all, I left with stick straight hair that felt almost plasticized. It was as if I had grown a head of doll’s hair overnight. Karen carefully instructed me not to wash or wet my hair for three full days. She needn’t have worried. For the first time in my life, I had hair that wasn’t going to do anything but lie there like an obedient, shiny blanket. I wasn’t messing with it.
On the way home, I continually checked my car mirror to see if I knew who I was. The change was remarkable, even to me. As soon as I got in my house, I realized that my clothes no longer fit my hair. I started to try on things in my closet by combining them in novel ways. Sure enough, I found that the pieces looked completely different on the “new” me. It was as if I’d suddenly inherited a whole new wardrobe. Drunk with the power of transformation, I had the ultimate thought. What if I stopped wearing my glasses? I had an old pair of contact lenses in my bathroom drawer. I somehow got them into my eyes and stepped back to survey the result. The first reaction was horror. There was my whole face, no longer camouflaged by metal rims and tinted glass, with the lines and bags that I’d avoided confronting. What the heck? I was so intoxicated that I didn’t care. I raided my daughter’s dresser and pulled out a pair of glamour sunglasses – the kind I’d never been able to wear because of my own glasses – and went out.
The baristas in my local Starbucks, who see me every day and know my life story as well as my rather complex coffee order, failed to recognize me. What a hoot! The women I play doubles with thought I was a new member of the tennis club and several actually came over to introduce themselves. I was due to give a presentation to the senior hospital staff later that day. When I arrived, literally no one knew who I was. I met my mother-in-law at the mall and she didn’t recognize me until I got within 10 feet. Even better, most people said that I looked younger. For about a month, I had a ball going out every day. My transformation had made me the center of attention – a hot topic – and everyone wanted to discuss it.
But inevitably, reality set in. After several weeks, everyone I knew had seen me in my new incarnation. One morning, I woke to find that my doll’s hair was looking a little fluffy, a bit frizzy. Bozo was beginning to battle the chemicals. Although I determined to stay with my new style, I saw that it would take some doing. That was ok, but what nagged at me was a sad sense of let-down. I felt mournful, like someone who had discovered that the guy they had big crush on was just another human being. In short, dear friends, the thrill was gone.
You can probably see where I’m going with this.
Weight loss in America is a transformation game. Many of the successful dieters I’ve met over the years started to fall apart as soon as the change got old. The let down allowed them to become uncertain. Was the whole thing really worth it? Were they really going to have to do this forever?
The period of transformational high after weight loss and its subsequent let down can be destructive. It reminds me of a tennis analogy. When I hit a really good shot that gets my opponent on the run, I have the tendency to stand and watch. The shot seems so good that I believe the ball will never be coming back. My husband calls this “Admiring the ball” and it drives him crazy when I do it. “This is where you get beat,” he tells me. The moment you hit the good shot, you need to run in and take an offensive position so you can anticipate the next ball. If you stand around, an unexpected return will rocket right by you. In tennis, this is so true. And it’s true also for weight loss. At the end of a diet, we stand around and admire the ball way too much. We do this at the very moment we need to be preparing to go on offense.
As we approach the New Year, tens of millions of people will be resolving to get thinner. Although the vast majority will never act on their resolution, some will succeed and will be rewarded with that sublime moment when they become someone they no longer recognize; someone new. For awhile, the skinny clothes will fit, the jealous glances will come their way, and everything will be magic. But after awhile, their new persona will become just them and life will go on. For most, the cycle will repeat itself. If the thrill comes only with transformation, we can only get it by starting all over again. That means regain.
Those of you who are keeping weight at bay have discovered another kind of pleasure and you’re not falling prey to the transformation cycle. You’ve figured out that the thrill that lies there will break your heart. Perhaps you’ve traded in that big, addictive jolt for the quieter joy of continual, small transformations. Successful people seem always to be adding to their personal portfolio. Did they do pilates? Now they’ve started learning yoga. Did they figure out how to lose weight? Now they’re running a weight loss group. Did they start walking? Suddenly they’re running a 5K. This is better known as personal growth.
Take it from me, there’s nothing wrong with the big thrill. I enjoyed it for a moment. But the slow steady pleasure of adding to our biggest accomplishments? Now that’s a thrill we all! can live with.
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NOTE: On December 21, Barbara was a guest on "Good Company" on WKYC in Cleveland. Click here to view.
