There they were staring at me, their murky eyes squinting, shining from the plastic film covering them. So tender and innocent, you would never assume that they possessed the power to entrance even the most defiant passer-by.

They were my nemeses.

The succulent, softball-size demons had the power to bring me to my knees. The moist, venomous grenades launched their attacks on my weakened and feeble state. With one enchanting smell, one delightful nibble and one glance, I was done for: Costco’s double-chocolate-chip muffins devoured me.

For long as I can remember, I have obsessed about food. For 23 years, I was in a relationship that consumed my thoughts, words and actions. I was controlled by a selfish lover who thrived and played upon my weaknesses. He knew my insecurities and fears; he knew what would calm and relax me. Most of all, he knew that I would turn to him without the slightest hesitation. At $1.25, he was my cheapest addiction.

My love of muffins began during my first year of high
school. My nights as a baby sitter were finally paying off. I was able to pocket an easy $40 for an evening’s work, and that kind of money went a long way. But it wasn’t only chocolate muffins.

I loved them all indiscriminately -- small, medium, large and heifer-size; chocolate, blueberry, banana nut; underbaked, overbaked, even from an Easy-Bake, they were my comfort. It started with muffins, but as the years passed and my waist expanded, I became a pastry connoisseur. There were very few foods that I turned down. It became an unstoppable illness.

My background has a lot to do with my love of food. I am Romanian, which does not necessarily make my problems, issues and attitude toward food evident. If you aren’t fortunate enough to share my remarkable yet somewhat pompous heritage, let me explain. Romanian women are great cooks.

No, correction: Romanian women are incredible cooks. It is widely accepted that a Romanian woman’s cooking has ended wars, squelched deadly feuds and ultimately soothed an entire nation’s immense depression over losing the FIFA World Cup.

My mother is no different; her abilities in the kitchen easily put Martha, Rachael and even Wolfgang to shame. She can cook, bake, sauté, grill, barbecue or fry anything at anytime, all from scratch. She opened my eyes to a world of marvelous, tantalizing food.

Thinking back to my years as a teenager, I now realize that I was not that corpulent. I didn’t battle severe obesity like some of today’s youth do. I was 5 feet 10 inches tall, and I carried my weight as modestly as a 200-pound girl could. I was often told that I was a big girl or -- more subtly -- ‘‘big boned.” I became accustomed to this label. It’s not that I was enamored of the title, but it was better than being called a “fatty.” Throughout my years of playing basketball and rugby, I clung to my “big boned” label like a desperate girl clings to her silk dupioni Marchesa gown on prom night.

During my first year of college, I began to analyze my relationships. I realized that in my friendships, I had become the “safe friend.” The safe friend is the girl who has many male friends but never a boyfriend. She is the friend whom her girlfriends trust with their own boyfriends, assuming that their men would never cheat with the fat girl. I was never a threat to them. This frustrated me.

It was time for my years of binge eating to stop. Leaving the ones you love is hard, but it’s even harder when what you love tastes so good. No more of Mrs. Freshley’s consoling honey buns, sweet Little Debbie’s Cosmic Brownies or Aunt Jemima’s fluffy banana pancakes. No more of Sara Lee’s boxed yellow cake with double chocolate icing, which, on several frantic occasions, I baked, iced and ate in one sitting. Things were going to be different.

I think back to the good old days as I sit on a flimsy gray plastic chair whose ability to uphold my queenly weight I question. The chair’s metal screws dig into the fat of my thighs leaving saucer-like welts for all to see.

Tugging at my name tag nervously, I look around and immediately feel out of place. From wall to wall, a sea of middle-aged women nod their heads in agreement, sighing heavily as if someone were going around the room deflating their hot-air-balloon bodies. An army clad in multi-colored stretch pants and loose White Stag T-shirts, they confess their struggles of the past week.

Suddenly, she appears, and my heart begins to beat faster than when I run up the two flights of stairs to my office. I study her carefully -- late ’50s, medium build, long stringy blond hair with gray roots trying to hide beneath her faded pink velour scrunchy, slightly sunken cheeks masked by rose blush. She wears a BeDazzled, sheer purple dress shirt that resembles something my mother would have worn circa 1992.

Gazing down, I notice her simple black polyester-blend pants; nothing wrong here, I think. Oh, but wait. Mistake No. 1: Her pants are far too short for her lanky frame. And mistake No. 2 is a clear result of her first offense: They reveal her white athletic socks, which try their best to hide in her shiny black Mary Janes. Any female with the slightest sense of fashion would tell you that it is an inconceivable no-no. I’m fat, not blind.

She looks out into the crowd of eager women and smiles, revealing a set of porcelain veneers that could use some whitening. She gazes at us lovingly, unaware of the dry flecks of mascara that have pelted her weathered cheeks.

“Hello, ladies! Welcome to Weight Watchers! My name is Verda. That’s right, Verrrda, as in ‘Have ya heard-a Verda?’”

Shit. If looks could kill, I would have annihilated every woman in that brightly lit room, starting with Verda. Are you kidding me? I’ve got to listen to this skinny bitch for the next half hour? I am ready to leave. I sit in the back row, prepared to bolt if things become too weird or if they ask us to share
our feelings.

As Verda continues to speak, I try my hardest to find other flaws. Nothing. Frustrated, I lean back in my chair and listen. Her facial expressions are more animated than Krusty the Clown’s and her jokes are cheesier than my father’s, but all in all, she is nice. Crap, now I have to like her. Feeling somewhat guilty for my prejudgments, I decide to give her a chance.

Her words become entangled; I pay little attention. Blah blah blah … “You are in control of yourself” … blah blah blah … “Portions are everything” … blah blah blah … “If you want to succeed, you need accountability” … blah blah blah.

And then, out of nowhere, she speaks seven magical words: “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.” It finally clicks. I’m sure she repeats the same words hundreds of times at other meetings to other women, but for once in my life, someone is speaking those words directly to me.

The other women in the room don’t matter; my 282 pounds of out-of-control eating stamped in my booklet don’t matter; the stretch marks on my stomach don’t matter. Sitting here listening to the always-honest Verda, I know she is right. I don’t know how and I don’t understand why, but I’m certain that I’m already changing.

Losing nine pounds during my first week of Weight Watchers encouraged me to trust the program, and the next few months were surprisingly easy. Working out is now actually part of my routine. My diet now consists of fiber, lean proteins, leafy greens and water.

After my workout, I arrive at an empty home, plunk my black and pink gym bag on the counter and head to my laptop. Scrolling through my emails, I see a message from a familiar Weight Watchers address. “The Joy Fit Club” is interested in my story? I can’t believe my eyes.

An avid viewer of NBC’s “Today,” I would watch Joy Bauer’s “Joy Fit Club” segments envious of the women it featured. These women would lose 100 pounds or morenaturally, and would then be inducted into her club as a reward for their accomplishment. Now they were interested in me.

Within minutes, my phone begins to ring; salsa music fills the room, shattering the silence.

“Hi, Bianca! This is Melanie Jackson from the ‘Today’ show in New York.”

Oh, my God. I can’t breathe. My heart is racing, my palms are sweating, and I try my best to keep my voice from shaking. As if sensing my distraction, Melanie repeats that the show is very impressed with the fact that I’ve lost 102 pounds in a year. No, I’ve never been to New York. Yes, I would love to be a guest on the show. Yes, Sept. 1 would work for me.

Some short weeks later, I sit on my direct flight to Newark, N.J. Two rows in front of me, New Kids on the Block chat excitedly about their upcoming appearance on “Today”.

The band’s manager turns to me like an old (but very attractive) friend asking if I want to ride with the New Kids to the hotel. I want to scream “yes” but refrain, as I know that my driver is also waiting for me.

Nervously clutching my ivory H&M pashmina, I pass Rockefeller Center and step inside NBC. My black leather stilettos click on the marble floor as a production assistant leads me through the glorious entranceway, past the green room and into hair and makeup.

“Bianca!” I turn to see a beautiful, petite brunette whom I quickly recognize as Joy.

“I’m so glad to see you! I’m so excited that you’re here,” she gushes.

I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks burn with excitement, and I can feel my eyes begin to tear. Kathie Lee Gifford sits in her makeup chair, a crew of artists preparing her for the next segment.

Hours later, I go into the ice-cold studio, waiting in the wings for my cue.

I peek past the producers and see Joy Bauer, Hoda Kotb and Kathie Lee Gifford smile at the cameras before them.

“10, 9, 8, 7 …” This is it.

As the door opens, I know in that instant that my life and body image have changed forever.