Fed Up!: The Breakthrough Ten-Step, No-Diet Fitness Plan

Fed Up!: The Breakthrough Ten-Step, No-Diet Fitness Plan

by Wendy Oliver-Pyatt
Consumers spend $30 billion a year on diet programs, pills, and special foods, yet none of these products seems to deliver lasting results. The truth is that between 95 and 98 percent of dieters fail to keep weight off permanently. Worse still, many actually gain weight because dieting distorts the body's natural ability to sense internal cues of satiety and


Consumers spend $30 billion a year on diet programs, pills, and special foods, yet none of these products seems to deliver lasting results. The truth is that between 95 and 98 percent of dieters fail to keep weight off permanently. Worse still, many actually gain weight because dieting distorts the body's natural ability to sense internal cues of satiety and well-being. Dieting wreaks havoc on the mind, body, and soul. The weight-loss industry preys on human insecurities. The media bombard us with advertisements for new diets, weight-loss creams, body wraps, and expensive exercise equipment. Frustrated and overwhelmed, many eventually give up on the idea of ever reaching a healthy or normal weight. The simple truth is that we haven't failed dieting. Dieting has failed us.

For years, Wendy Oliver-Pyatt, M.D., suffered through countless diets that eventually led to bulimia. She was a victim of weight cycling -- the medical term describing the agonizing merry-goround of losing and gaining weight, starving and bingeing. Through a long process of self-discovery, she broke free from the prison of dieting and found her way to a healthy, fit lifestyle. Since then, Dr. Oliver-Pyatt has spent much of her career developing a program to help men and women free themselves from dieting and lose weight safely and permanently. Her techniques are based on her personal and professional understanding of the complex reasons people become caught up in an endless cycle of dieting. Not just another diet book, Fed Up! is a medically backed resource that takes a holistic, intelligent approach to adopting and maintaining a fit lifestyle. Here, Dr. Oliver-Pyatt introduces the Ten-Step, No-Diet Fitness Plan that combines the power of psychology and medicine to help you achieve and maintain a healthy weight for a lifetime. Step-by-step, she demonstrates how you can free yourself from weight problems forever.

Editorial Reviews

Shape Magazine
"The book's plan centers not on counting carbs, fat grams or calories, but on looking at how your weight affects your entire life and how culture has influenced your body image. From there, you discover how to trust hunger and fullness signals, relearn the youthful art of combining play and exercise, and develop the knack of getting encouragement from friends and family. Its personal tone and intelligent style make this book a compelling read."
"Oliver-Pyatt leads readers into the thorny psychological issues that beset dieters: cravings, overeating, and body image. Like a smart best friend and guide, this book offers motivation, advice and support for readers discouraged with dieting. This woman knows of what she speaks...[Fed Up] exposes a world of food fear and negativity against the human body. In doing so it helps to build a new view of fitness not just thinness for readers...[Oliver-Pyatt] has has devised a ten-step plan that encloses dieters in the warmth of a path she has herself travelled successfully.

This book is not for the faint-hearted or unmotivated. It calls out to those who are truly ready to let go of diets and get healthy and fit".

Natural Health Magazine
"Inspiring...[Fed Up] also considers some important but neglected food-related tops, like male eating disorders and how to inculcate healthy eating habits in your child."
Publishers Weekly
Oliver-Pyatt, a psychiatrist and expert on eating disorders, contends that the weight problem in the U.S. is compounded by America's obsession with thin and beautiful superstars. She argues that dieting is the problem rather than a solution and stresses that sometimes dieting is unhealthy and can lead to other difficulties ranging from heart ailments and gallstones to tooth decay. Oliver-Pyatt believes that people must accept a more realistic individual weight and recognize that their happiness and success is not dependent on their physical appearance. Understanding these factors are the first steps toward successful weight management, and only then can people learn to manage food intake and exercise realistically. The advice is straightforward and sensible (how to plan for smart eating when you know that you'll be going to a restaurant or eating with friends; how to discuss your issues with food with family so you can avoid unpleasant arguments at the dinner table; take the time to exercise, even simply walking to reduce your stress and help you maintain a healthy attitude). Oliver-Pyatt has double credibility as a medical doctor who struggled with weight problems as an adolescent and teen and knows firsthand how difficult it is to maintain a healthy weight. The book is a refreshing approach to weight management but is unlikely to take the place of specific diets. Furthermore, this reasonable approach may not be enough for people who have spent years fighting their weight or need to follow a specific diet in order to eat properly. (Nov.) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.

Product Details

McGraw-Hill Companies, The
Publication date:
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6.20(w) x 9.24(h) x 0.98(d)

Read an Excerpt


My Journey

Who am I to tell you that you can lose weight, permanently and healthily, without dieting?

It's a good question. To begin with, I'm a medical doctor--but doctors have betrayed you before. They've given you photocopied diet lists and pep talks and told you, "All you need is willpower," and when their diets failed, they've wounded you with their condescension and disapproval. So even though weight loss is one of my specialties, I don't expect you to believe me simply because of the M.D. after my name.

But I'm an expert on weight loss for another reason: I sacrificed more than a decade of my life to dieting and found out the hard way that diets don't work. I tried low-cal and low-carb diets, fasting, salad-only diets, the TWA stewardess diet--you name it. Eventually I became so trapped by dieting that I put my mental and physical health at risk--yet I still didn't lose weight.

My story has a happy ending, however. My medical training, combined with my personal experiences, finally convinced me that to lose weight I had to do something counterintuitive: I had to stop dieting. Through a process of trial and error, I discovered a way out of the prison of dieting and into a new world. In this world I eat what I want and I maintain my desired weight easily. I never starve or sacrifice, I don't spend hours in the gym trying to sweat off calories, and I never--never--worry about losing control when I'm around food.

Better yet, I've discovered that the steps that freed me from dieting work for others as well. They work for my friends. They work for my patients. And they will work for you. You can achieve long-term weight loss, if you follow my Ten-Step No-Diet Fitness Plan diligently.

How did I discover the path from diet preoccupation to diet-free fitness and health? It was a long road and sometimes a dangerous one.

{Start quote}

Nancy and I stood in line at the movie theater's concession counter. We both ordered popcorn--"No butter, please"--and waited to pay. As we watched, the concession clerk picked up a tub of popcorn and squirted butter into it. Simultaneously, nearly throwing ourselves over the counter, we said, "No butter!" Irritated, the clerk said, "This isn't yours."

We'd panicked because it was unacceptable, in our world, to eat butter. Butter meant fat. And if we were fat, we'd be pathetic and alone the rest of our lives.

{End quote}

I was nineteen and a premed student at the University of Denver. I had a grade point average of nearly 4.0, and my future seemed limitless. I dated interesting men, and I had close female friends. From the outside, my life probably looked perfect. Other women may have even envied me. It was ironic, because they had no way of knowing that I desperately envied them.

I watched them at football games, eating hot dogs and nachos. I saw them arguing politics over pizza, buying candy bars at the Student Center, or making late-night runs to McDonald's or the International House of Pancakes. I couldn't do any of these things, because all of them involved food--and food was the enemy.

I can remember, looking back, that I first started to worry about food, weight, and my body when I reached puberty. Two incidents stand out in my mind, marking the beginning of my knowledge that my body was "wrong"--too big, too feminine, too round.

When I was in sixth grade, I spent a night at my ballet teacher's house and realized the next morning that I had no clean clothes for school. "Don't worry," my teacher said and asked her daughter, who was about my age, to loan me a pair of jeans. Until that point I'd never really compared other girls' bodies to my own. But as I tried to squeeze into Donna's petite jeans--first standing up, then lying down--I realized how tiny her body was compared to mine. I could just barely squeeze my hips into the jeans, but no amount of sucking, squeezing, or squirming would allow me to zip them up. Instead of seeing my developing body as evidence of my femininity, I suddenly saw it as something grotesquely fat and misshapen.

A second incident, a year or so later, helped to convince me that my fears about my weight must be valid. I was thirteen years old and trying out for cheerleader at my junior high school. I asked my older brother, whose approval I craved, what he thought of my figure.

His reply stunned me: "You look a little sloppy."

Moreover, he said, I had large thighs. At 5{ft}7{in} and 130 pounds, I suddenly was labeled, by myself and by others I respected, as unacceptably fat.

I started my first diet then, talking my mother into paying to send me to a weight-loss center--an act she never questioned, reinforcing my belief that my body was too big. Every week the program staff weighed me, celebrating with me when I reached 125. The weight kept coming back, however, and eventually I discovered diet pills. For the next seven years I "watched my weight," a cheerful euphemism for my unsuccessful struggle to tame my exuberantly female form into model thinness.

At the beginning dieting was almost fun, like a frustrating but challenging game. I remember going on the TWA stewardess diet with my friend Tara, a four-day diet limited us to peculiar food combinations such as cauliflower and lamb chops on day two. (Hamburger patties and apples on day three were a thrill.) Tara kissed me out of sheer joy after she weighed herself on day five and discovered that she had, in fact, lost ten pounds. But she gained the weight back in two weeks, and so did I.

I tried diet after diet, and with each failure dieting became less a challenge and more a battle. In time dieting stopped being something I could laugh about--"No cake for me, or I'll be fat as a cow tomorrow!"--and became the focus of my life. The change was so gradual, so subtle, that I had no idea that dieting and my quest for weight loss were damaging my health and my psyche.

My struggle with weight reached its climax when I became a young woman. In college, living in the dorm away from my chaotic but familiar home, I frequently became overwhelmed with a faceless, floating anxiety I couldn't name. As the months went by, food, and my need to control my intake of it, insidiously became the defining force in my life. But increasingly, when the anxiety struck, my control disappeared. I would find myself becoming detached, as though the world around me were unreal, and I would turn to food and eat shocking quantities of it.

When I binged, I was in a temporary state of altered consciousness, a euphoric daze. After years of dieting, food had evolved to represent something more far-reaching and intense than a simple physical need. It was the forbidden indulgence, providing temporary but powerful comfort during a binge but causing terrible shame and guilt afterward.

I can't pinpoint the exact time when dieting, and my pursuit of an "ideal" body size, became an obsession. It happened gradually and inexorably, as each diet left me less and less able to regulate my food intake by robbing me of my ability to sense my internal cues of satiety and well-being. At some point I stopped eating when I was hungry and ate only when my current diet "let" me. I stopped looking at food as delicious or fun or satisfying and started looking at it as "good" or "bad"--"good" foods being those that wouldn't add inches to my body and "bad" foods being the forbidden ones I craved but couldn't eat. As dieting took over my life, my initial goal of losing a few pounds by occasionally dieting mutated into a constant, never-ending burden that took the joy out of each day.

By losing enough weight, I gradually began to believe I could achieve the perfect body and all that came with it. With a slender figure I could find the right man, the perfect relationship. Magically, I could achieve the joy I was missing in my life, because being thin was the key to happiness. Inside me, hidden, was a sleeping beauty. It was my job to excavate her from under the layers of excess flesh that rendered her invisible. Gradually it became my obsession--an obsession fed by magazine articles, television models, and diet books telling me I could be thinner, more attractive, a new person.

But there was a darker side to that fairy tale. If dieting was the key to a perfect body and perfect happiness, then my continual failures at dieting meant that I might remain forever trapped in my body--which I increasingly envisioned as large and grotesque--and, by extension, trapped in a failed life. The prospect terrified me. Each time I failed at a diet I had to try again, harder, better, more perfectly. And each failure made me feel more and more out of control and unacceptable.

I became more secretive and withdrawn. Only one best friend truly knew about my diets, binges, and purges, because she too was in the grip of food preoccupation. Feeling singular, separate from other women, we shared our "secret" lives--lives that revolved around food and our dissatisfaction with our bodies. We filled our days and nights with diets, binges, and more diets. We filled our shelves with books on counting calories and carbohydrates and articles on how to lose weight by eating grapefruit, drinking vinegar, or fasting. We weighed our food portions on a postage scale and measured out half-cups of applesauce and quarter-cups of rice. We threw out good food that wasn't on our diet of the week. We made mental lists of things we shouldn't eat, which we usually wound up eating, and lists of things that we were "allowed" to eat but usually wound up eating in a desperate, compulsive, and joyless manner.

Eventually I no longer knew what was normal. My life became a tedious system of strategies and games that revolved around eating, food, and my perception of my body. I obsessed constantly about my ability or inability to control my weight. Hunger, and all that went with it--for hunger is a deep emotional experience--frightened me. If I ate normally, I might end up bingeing. If I binged, I would either be stuck with the fat or have to purge. And so I dieted with a sense of dramatic mission. I was dieting in an attempt to create an acceptable and lovable self, although in fact I was moving farther and farther from loving myself and being capable of giving to, or enjoying, relationships or my life. I felt as if my future depended on mastering my body, on disciplining it, making it smaller, more angular, more polished. The sensation of hunger was the antithesis of that body, and so that sensation became the enemy.

{Begin quote}

I remember the day I said to my roommate, Nancy, "I see no reason to have bread in this house." Looking back, it is hard to believe that something as basic, as innocuous, as bread could have created so much anxiety and tension in me. I was terrified of bread--because I hungered for it.

{End quote}

The more I attempted to control my weight, the more out of control I became and the less I could trust myself around food. As the cycle progressed, the possibility of ever having a healthy and fit body became more and more distant. Looking back, I am reminded of Sisyphus, the mortal condemned by the Greek gods to roll a rock up a hill in the scorching afternoon every day for eternity, only to see it fall back to the bottom each evening. Like him, I was condemned to spend every day struggling to lose weight, only to find myself farther and farther away from the goal of a "perfect" body.

As dieting became more central to my life, so did self-sacrifice--not only of food, but also of other desires. "I won't buy that beautiful suit until I lose ten more pounds." "I'll get a bikini next year, after I've lost fifteen more pounds." "I'll buy that jewelry when I deserve it, when I'm done with my diet."

Inevitably I progressed to ever more dangerous stages of food preoccupation. I vomited after eating or purged my body with laxatives. I became more fragile, both physically and emotionally. I withdrew from friends whom I felt didn't and couldn't understand my problem and from the campus activities I had once enjoyed. I turned down dates. When my control broke, I binged and then felt devastated afterward. Yet it was only during these binges that I could experience a momentary glimpse of how rich the world was and how much I could really have.

Like most people suffering from body and food preoccupations, I was an expert at disguising my inner pain. I functioned well in my classes, although I was almost as anxious and perfectionist about my grades as I was about my weight. Men continued to ask me out, but I usually said no, and they probably thought I was "playing hard to get." The truth, however, was that I often avoided social situations because I felt my body was not acceptable. I often felt alone, in spite of having several good friends--friends I couldn't let fully into my secret, shameful world, no matter how loyal they were.

After a day of bingeing, I felt massive, ponderous, and innately unworthy. I would swaddle myself in dark blue sweatpants, disappearing into the loose folds of the material and for a moment feeling less bloated and repulsive. When I wore this outfit, it was a sign to my friend David that something was wrong. "You're wearing the sweats," he'd say ominously. "What's going on?" But even though he was a close friend, he only had a vague idea of how trapped I was in my warfare on the battlefield of my body.

My preoccupation with food and weight kept me psychically encapsulated, as if a thin layer of an evanescent bubble barred me from genuine contact with the people around me. Yet I felt an unrelenting gnawing of envy in my gut as I watched other people living, falling in love, being excited, and discovering themselves. My relationships with other women whose bodies were more "perfect" left me feeling diminished and envious. I frantically desired the idealized form they seemed to maintain so effortlessly and felt powerless for wanting what remained outside my reach.

As time went on, my life centered more and more around lies, not just to other people (who never knew that I sometimes sneaked off to vomit up the pizza I'd just eaten or that I compensated for nice meals by fasting the next day) but also to myself. When I was dieting, I wasn't happy, but I rationalized that dieting was better than being fat. When I binged, I told myself I deserved a break after struggling so long and so hard. And when I purged, the voice inside me, desperate and scientific, told me that I must react to the food within, in an effort to somehow unite these two worlds, to have the whole cake and eat it too.

I told myself other lies as well. At the outset of my dieting and bingeing episodes I said, "Well, I diet, but I don't have an eating disorder, because at least I don't vomit." Later, of course, I did begin vomiting up my food and then taking laxatives to purge myself of "bad" calories. At one point, when a glimmer of awareness made me frightened at what I was doing, I stopped using the laxatives and went back to simply dieting--because diets were acceptable, weren't they? My doctor, with the best of intentions, had in fact recommended a diet to me, to my mother, and to most of the other women who visited him. What could possibly be wrong with doing what my doctor had told us all to do?

As time passed, my dieting became ever more desperate. I became intolerant of vomiting and laxatives so I turned to exercise and fasting. Sometimes I went one or two days without eating at all, in a desperate attempt to compensate for a day of bingeing or for eating forbidden foods. And each time I gave in and binged, I began all over again. I felt as though I'd lived this way forever, and I didn't believe that there would ever be a way out.

For brief moments, now and then, I saw myself honestly--and in those moments I was frightened. At one of those times I went for a screening at an eating disorders program that I'd read about in the newspaper. I remember being stunned when the doctor there told me I had bulimia nervosa and recommended hospitalization. I left his office scared and sat in my car trying to collect my thoughts. A hospital? For me? Was he crazy? It was too much, too soon, for me to even begin to accept it. (No one can give up an all-consuming obsession immediately; it requires time, planning, patience, and, above all, readiness, a fact this well-intentioned doctor didn't recognize.)

Nonetheless, my visit helped me. There was power in knowing that my problem had a name--that I wasn't alone, that millions of women nationwide were doing the same "crazy" things, feeling the same exhaustion and shame. It was a first step, but the anxiety of taking that step was almost unbearable.

After I left the doctor's office, I felt the tension stirring within me. I can clearly remember that warm summer night in Denver, with a vivid sunset of crimson and plum clouds. Students were milling on the lawns of the campus, awaiting a concert by a local jazz band. They were full of excitement; I was filled with anxiety. It wasn't long before I started eating.

I started at a fast-food Mexican joint about half a mile from the dorm. I ate a burrito quickly, sitting in my car. I could scarcely taste it, because the emptiness was not in my mouth or my stomach but in some nameless, deeper place. I went back for a couple of tacos, and then, instead of going home, I stopped at the 7-Eleven and picked up a pint of H{a dia}agen-Dazs and some red licorice--which I'd read was healthier than other candy because it contained whole wheat--and downed them when I returned to my dorm room.

I was vaguely soothed, and yet further wounded, as the greasy food settled in my distended stomach. Emerging from the "rush" was the letdown: again, I'd failed. I sat in my room, deeply alone, and the words scrolled in my head with the random implacability of a medieval torture instrument: Ugly. Large. Unacceptable. Imperfect. It wasn't just that I was too big, I was . . . too much. Moving without volition, as if guided by a force outside myself, I grabbed my keys and headed for the store. It was embarrassing to purchase laxatives, but it was late at night and nobody would know. What I had done to myself needed to be undone.

I drove to the store, bought the laxatives, and began the drive home. And then, out of my despair that evening, came the first glimmer of light. Perhaps it was born out of fear, out of images of hospitals, but I don't think so. In retrospect I believe I was recognizing for the first time just how inexpressibly tired I was.

As I headed home from the store, I dreaded the idea of taking the laxatives. The thought of spending another evening huddled in the bathroom while other people lived real lives--listened to jazz, studied, kissed, went to movies--suddenly exhausted me. I realized, in a moment of clarity, that the doctor was right about something: I'd gone too far.

Without hesitation I rolled down the car window and flung the laxatives as far as I could. The white pills, still coated in their plastic wrappers, slid across the asphalt as I drove on, feeling courageous, reborn. I felt like a hostage.

I wasn't done dieting yet; in fact, I dieted until I reached medical school. But I had begun to wonder. What was I doing to myself? Why wasn't it working?

I'd begun to see that it wasn't about appetite or food. It was about my body and my conflicting needs to fill it and to deny its existence. It was about the belief that other people, women in particular, had something that I didn't. It was about the shadowy, flickering newsreel of my unconscious, playing out the endless scenarios of my own inadequacy. And, as my psychiatric training revealed to me, it was about cultural programming, cognitive distortions, childhood influences, psychodynamic defenses, and biological imperatives.

Sorting out the threads that held me captive in my preoccupation with weight and dieting required more years, but they were years of dawning self-awareness. Gradually I learned to trust myself, to take the risk of giving up on diets, and to change the terms I'd imposed on myself. I learned that I could surrender my rigid eating patterns without falling apart or becoming heavier. I learned to eat naturally and normally and discovered to my astonishment that I could control my appetite and my weight without diets, compulsive exercise, laxatives, vomiting, or diet pills. I learned to experience my body as lovable and beautiful, even though I wasn't razor-thin like the magazine models I'd once emulated. And, most important, I grew to accept and genuinely like the person I was. I learned to take myself seriously in all areas of my life, which allowed me to take my own hunger and need for satiation seriously as well.

{Begin quote}

I'm sitting in my kitchen with Nancy, my roommate from college, my former dieting partner, and still a close friend. We're listening to classical music, letting the harmonies wash over us like gentle lapping waves at a beach, while we catch up with what's been happening in our lives.

Once upon a time, Nancy and I would have talked about our weight gains or losses, our unacceptably "fat" thighs or stomachs, or the latest miracle diet plan. But we no longer spend our days preoccupied by dieting, because we know how to keep excess pounds off without struggle and sacrifice.

Now, instead, I talk with Nancy about my challenging and fascinating job and about the everyday joys and trials of family life. Nancy lives in New York and is a successful magazine executive, and like me, she has more important things in her life than food and body preoccupation: her study of language, her friends, her children.

We listen to the music and talk about the fellow travelers we've met or read about on our journey. Some of us are healthy and can laugh at our memories of dieting, even though the pain will never be forgotten. Others still struggle, caught up in a battle with their bodies, continuing to believe that dieting is the key to thinness, acceptance, love, and success. Trapped in the cultural myth that starvation will set them free, these "normal" dieters suffer the unending misery of food restriction and body dissatisfaction. But they are more fortunate than others who died for the cause of thinness, victims of eating disorders that stole their spirits and then their lives.

As we talk, we realize how lucky we are to be survivors of this war on our bodies--because it is nothing less than a war and one that continues, year after year, to claim millions of victims.

{End quote}

The steps to my healing were long and hard, in part because few professionals were available to help me. Most doctors have little understanding of why women (and many men) try diet after diet, why dieting doesn't work, or how to help a person caught in the grip of repetitive dieting or overeating and longing to escape.

Moreover, few professionals know that overweight people can lose weight--and they can lose it without dieting. As you know if you've made the rounds of doctors, many believe (a) that weight loss is simply a matter of dieting and (b) that overweight people simply don't try hard enough to lose weight. They don't understand the counterproductive effects of dieting, the physical and emotional toll that dieting takes, or the state-of-the-art medical literature showing that permanent weight loss is possible--but only through nondieting techniques.

For these reasons I've spent much of my professional career studying food preoccupations and designing a program to help men and women free themselves from their crippling effects and lose weight safely and permanently. My techniques, based on my own healing and on my successful efforts to help others, are based on an understanding of the complex biological, cultural, and psychological reasons why we become caught in an endless cycle of dieting, too terrified to escape and too tired to continue.

Although I began this book with my own story, it's important to emphasize that the problems that people with "food fear" experience are universal, whether their preoccupation takes the form of eating disorders or compulsive overeating or remains at the "normal" level of yo-yo dieting. In conducting classes and workshops for psychiatrists, medical students, and other health professionals, I'm consistently struck by how many fail to appreciate the devastating effects of any level of "food fear." But food is so central to our lives that those of us caught in the web of chronic dieting can identify with others, whether their food preoccupations are milder or more severe.

The four-times-a-year dieter who hates her own body, the overweight woman who hides cookies in the clothes hamper and eats them in secret, the anorexic who puts her life at risk, and the bulimic who binges and purges all suffer from the consequence of debilitating food and body preoccupations. The forty-five-year-old woman who dreads her son's wedding because she "looks fat" in her dress, the twenty-year-old gay man who fears losing his partner if he gains ten pounds, and the teenager who gives up dinner because her boyfriend says she's "getting hippy" all will recognize themselves in this book.

The victims of food and body preoccupation come in all sizes and shapes. Some of us maintain a healthy weight, but we struggle constantly and our issues with food cause incredible tension in our lives. Many of us are overweight, because the very act of dieting forces our bodies to gain, not lose, weight. Some of us are dangerously gaunt, because we've bought into the myth that there is no such thing as "too thin." And some of us are very large in spite of constant yo-yo dieting, because society's scorn drives us to food, seemingly both our best friend and our worst foe, for comfort.

We are all sisters and brothers, struggling, suffering, and missing out on the joys of life, and there are more of us than you can imagine--all deluded by the myth that dieting will make us thin and set us free. But, as I'll explain in the next chapter, nothing could be further from the truth. You can have the sexy, beautiful body you deserve--but you won't get it by dieting.

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