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the weather at the last minute, from our studio. “Go find Steve Hawley! He’s done weather before!” One of the anchors calls out during a commercial break. A moment later Steve rushes into the studio, out of breath. “I didn’t bring my jacket today!” He has a shirt and tie, but because he’d helped sports earlier, he doesn’t have his blazer. We all look at each other helplessly as the floor manager ticks down how long we have until the commercial break is over. “Thirty seconds!”
    Steve looks over at me, reluctantly. As he starts to walk over, I’m confused. How can I help? “Twenty seconds!”
    Steve picks up the pace. “Jennifer!” he whispers, urgently. “I need your jacket!”
    I don’t have time to be embarrassed, humiliated. And I suppose I don’t think to be right away. Time is of the essence, and I’m in a hurry to help any way I can. I jump up from the teleprompter station and take off my black blazer. It isn’t until Steve throws it on, and not only does it fit, but it is a little loose, that the lump starts to form in my throat. Steve is not a small man; he is over six feet tall and has a nice masculine build. The fact that my jacket fits him makes my cheeks flush and my eyes smart instantly. Everyone in the studio looks away immediately, suddenly very busy with getting into place and shuffling papers. Steve makes it over to the weather wall just as the floor manager ticks down the final seconds with his hand. Crisis averted. The show goes on.
    I sit at my teleprompter station, and, as discreetly as I can, untuck the purple shell out of my black skirt. No need to add to my humiliation by having the fat rolls once disguised by my jacket now on display. Tears threaten to spill over, but I can’t allow it. What has happened is bad enough; I don’t want to add to my humiliation at this point.
    The weather segment ends, and Steve walks over to me, sheepishly. With as little fanfare as possible, he takes off the jacket and hands it over. “You’re a lifesaver!” he says, a little too enthusiastically. I beam up at him, my smile equaling his banter. “No problem!” I reply. He quickly shuffles out, and I quickly put the coat back on as discreetly as I can.
    The rest of the newscast is a blur. I bite my lip and focus on the teleprompter belt, pushing the tears as far down as I can. My face feels hot, and I can’t look at anyone. When the final credits wrap, I bolt.
    I already feel as though I could be fired at any minute because of how I look, and this certainly doesn’t do anything to boost my confidence. I’m a rookie reporter with limited experience, and my weight is definitely an issue. How long can it be before they let me go? Every day I fear I will get called into the news director’s office and given the boot. I’m incredibly anxious, and my anxiety drives me to eat. It’s a vicious cycle.

    It was a miracle I was even in a newsroom in the first place. Growing up chubby and with low self-esteem, you wouldn’t think I would conclude that broadcast journalism was the perfect career choice for me. Indeed I feared from the beginning my looks would be a sticking point, a fact that I would have to work around. But I’d always known since I was a little girl that I wanted to be a reporter. I can remember starting my own newspaper when I was nine years old, the
Neighborhood Observer.
I would ride around on my purple bike with the pink basket, gathering news stories about the Walkers’ cat who was missing or the exchange student staying at the Davenport house. I’d type up the stories and deliver them to my neighbors, ringing the doorbell and running away in my shyness. As a freshman in high school, I became the representative of my high school for the Saturday page of the local newspaper—a real job that paid real money! News just fit with me, it felt natural.
    Public speaking also came very naturally to me. I couldn’t hold a tune, and acting wasn’t my thing, so instead of