Four weeks ago, I started on Mounjaro, the injectable weight-loss drug. I had delayed going on the jab – the newer, zoomier version of the more famous Ozempic – for a number of reasons. Chief among these is the fact that choosing to deprive oneself of food is a deeply unJewish pursuit: more on which below.
I’d been thinking about this for a while. Historically a skinny young thing, I had gained a significant amount of weight in the 2010s after the end of my first marriage; the menopause probably didn’t help. And so, in my mid fifties, I no longer recognised the person reflected back at me in shop windows, and certainly not in those merciless show-you-the-back M&S changing room mirrors that make you wonder if they’re actually trying to sell you a bra, or send you straight to the Samaritans.
Now, I was hardly The Jerry Springer Show enormous, but I was finding it hard to struggle into my size 14 jeans. On the BMI (Body Mass Index) scale, the take-no-prisoners scheme in which the medical establishment declares you a healthy weight or otherwise, I was a bagel away from “obese”.
Not that this particularly bothered Jeremy, my new husband. Jeremy, a Jewish New Yorker, declared he was attracted to me despite, or maybe even because of, my shapely figure.
When I first met Jeremy, he described me as “zaftig”. I wasn’t entirely sure how to take this. I was unfamiliar with the Yiddish term – derived from the German word saftig, which means juicy, or succulent – and which, according to Google, has come to imply “an attractive, rounded figure”. Marilyn Monroe was described as zaftig in 1950s Hollywood.
Zaftig being a compliment or not, there was another kicker: the results of my midlife health check. The blood tests showed that my cholesterol and blood sugar levels were ticking up. And if there’s another thing Jews like to talk about (apart from food), it’s their “numbers”, and the verdict of their cardiologist.
High cholesterol, type-2 diabetes and high blood pressure run in my family. Hence, it made sense to take a look at my weight in a preventative way. Yes, yes, I did still want to get into into a slinky dress without continually throttling my kishkes with a pair of ferocious Lycra Spanx, but I also quite reasonably wanted to lower my risk of a stroke or heart attack.
Why didn’t you just eat less and move more? I hear you cry. The truth is that I had tried both these things for quite some time. And while I had some success – I still do boxing and weights with a trainer once a week – when the result of several months’ carb-depriving and slogging in the gym three times a week is a miserable half-a stone weight loss, one does start wondering whether there isn’t an easier way of doing this.
And then everyone started talking about the “miracle” Ozempic, Wegovy and Mounjaro. Put simply, these are type-2 diabetes medications that have been re-licensed for weight loss. They help you lose the pounds by mimicking hormones that trick your body into feeling full sooner and staying full for longer. Ozempic (sold as Wegovy in the UK) mimics the hormone GLP-1, and Mounjaro mimics GLP-1, as well as another hormone, GIP, making it more effective. These drugs don’t just make you lose weight: an increasing number of clinical trials have shown they significantly lower your risk of heart disease, certain cancers – possibly even dementia.
But it’s the weight-loss that captures people’s attention, of course. All around me, I noticed friends and colleagues starting to become smaller, svelter versions of themselves. Yep – if everyone was “on the pen” (so-called because the syringe looks a bit like those old-fashioned Poppa-point pens with four different coloured cartridges), then why shouldn’t I?
Somehow, many of them kept it a secret, as if it were a taboo. I’ve never quite understood this: why should a person’s weight (and the way they decide to lose it) become a moral issue – “cheating” somehow? Why does the fact someone wants to become slimmer and healthier provoke jealousy, and ire? I’m more than happy to be open about my decision to use Mounjaro (obviously) and will never judge anyone else who makes a similar choice. Or not.
Perhaps more pressing was the fact that stopping yourself from eating just isn’t very Jewish. “The way we Jews commemorate survival or success is through meals,” says Jeremy, and he’s right: from the Friday night Shabbat meal to bagels and babkas and, particularly, Pesach. Could there be any more Jewish way of showing resistance – we even eat the pyramids, in coconut form! (Speaking of the festivals, there could be an appropriate use for Mounjaro – they could sell one-off 2.5 shots to help people fasting for Yom Kippur.)
Anyway, finally, in mid-March, I bit the bullet and ordered my first £149.99 month of 2.5mg Mounjaro. It arrived without fanfare in a large but discreet refrigerated box. I kept finding reasons not to start: a birthday, a dinner out, this being a day ending in “y”. In the end, I thought I’d better get started. I timed my first weekly dose so it would be running out (and hence my appetite would be on the climb) the day before the Seder. My digestive system rallied just in time to enjoy respectable portions of brisket, chicken soup, and kneidlach – all lovingly prepared by Jeremy for a large family gathering.
So, does it work? Four weeks in, the answer is: yes, it does! I honestly think Mounjaro is something of a miracle. It’s early days, but I’m still enjoying food, I still get hungry – I just get full more quickly, and so I eat less. I am currently losing about 3lb a week, with minimal side effects apart from tiredness the day after my jab. In a couple of weeks, I’m planning to go up a dose, and my weight loss will probably escalate.
At times my mission can be tricky, because my new husband is something of a Jewish mother. Jeremy shows his love with food: cooking elaborate and tempting dishes (see above: his Pesach catering), forever popping out and bringing me back a Crunchie, or Gail’s croissant. I’ve been having stern words with my new husband, as he attempts to lure me into temptation.
Domestic temptations aside: I think Mounjaro is a great thing. If you’re worried about your weight, you can afford to do it, and the side effects are not too bad, why not? There’s really no need to go all Sharon Osbourne and turn yourself into a scary waif. I’ll set myself a healthy target, stop at that point, and continue on a maintenance dose if necessary.
I’m going to plan my Mounjaro journey so I still enjoy food, wine, and fine company. As far as I’m concerned, “zaftig” is a state of mind.
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