“So how are the jabs going?” my friend said to me in the local pub, using her index finger to poke me in the leg. It didn’t feel friendly. “Has your hair fallen out yet?” I laughed… sort of. A month ago, I started Mounjaro at a low dose. I somehow feel like I have to say low dose. I anticipate less judgment than a high one perhaps? I had reached a point on my “weight loss journey” where I tried all the different options. I’d exercised (weights, running, swimming). I’d eaten protein until I couldn’t face chicken breast or one more tin of sardines. I’d cut out crisps and anything delicious. Nonetheless, it seemed that I was gaining weight in my early fifties.
I’ve got a mixed response to being on the jab train. There’s a fair amount of judgment and ridicule when you tell friends. It kind of teaches you a lot about who they really are and how they feel about you. “You’ll look like Golom,” said one. “You’ll end up hobbling about like an old lady,” said another. And the worst: “It’s a massive shortcut. Such a shame you’re resorting to it.”
These are just some of the comments friends and acquaintances have made. I find it funny that women can be so vehement in their opinions when it comes to weight. The key themes are that you’ll go too far with the weight loss, (like some of the celebrities who haven’t done a great job advertising jabs), or that you’re too lazy to do it the proper way. “I would never inject myself with a medication just to lose weight,” one friend commented on a post I’d written on Instagram. I’ve been open about using jabs, chiefly because I felt a need to demystify the experience, and also I am a notorious over-sharer.
Before I started, I was quite an anti-jab person. I went to a party, and half the women in there had lost a dramatic amount of weight. Instead of congratulating them, I remember feeling resentment. There I was, sweating it out at the gym, restricting my calories, not enjoying life, and then they waltz in and they’re three stone down?
We are in this position thanks to the age-old paradox that tells women we should work to be beautiful, but we should also pretend that it’s not work at all. “Oh this old dress! I just found it lying in a skip!” – not revealing that we spent two weeks searching various retailers to find something with the exact right fit. “Oh no, I wasn’t dieting. I just did a lot of walking,” the friend told me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was quite obviously on Mounjaro.
The reason some choose to keep it to themselves is obviously fear of what others will say. And rightly so, in some cases. One friend told me I was a “complete cop out”. (This was the same friend who told me it was a cop out when I paid someone to make a cake for my daughter’s birthday rather than make it myself.) We seem to prefer heroines who struggle, who triumph over adversity, rather than taking the “easy route”.
Female friendship is rooted in self-deprecation. It’s the triumphing over adversity thing. We secretly enjoy the stories where things go wrong. I have one friend who rings me once a week to hear about any negative side effects. “Is your face drooping? Do you have bad breath? Is your hair coming out? Do you feel depressed?” When I say that I’ve had a few twinges in my leg and not much else, she sounds disappointed. “I’m sure you’ll get some of these things soon,” she says, gleefully.
There have been other friends who have been celebratory and backed me up. “I’m happy for you, I hope it works out,” one friend said, “I had a go last year and they really helped me.” These friends are hopefully not secretly hoping your hair falls out and you look like a Golom. They genuinely want you to be happy. There are a couple of thin friends who seem miffed – like they want to say something but can’t articulate it yet. Is this because there are only limited spaces in the universe for thin women? Are they peeved that I might join them one day? There is, of course, always competition. We all feel it with friends.
I’ve found that the removal of all the food noise and incessant thinking about dinner is truly liberating. Why should I feel bad about that?
These days I no longer think you have to go through hardship to be thin, or feel beautiful. I am less judgmental. A good friend just started on Mounjaro yesterday. “I’m here if you need to chat about anything,” I said. I wanted to be a good friend to her. I want her to do well and nothing more.