The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (15 page)

21. The underwire of my bra is attacking me.

22. I hope Rhiannon is thinking what I’m thinking. Pizza from Zeffirelli tonight. Sometimes only carbs and mozzarella will do.

23. One can never get enough hugs.

24. Life is so much bigger and better than worrying about the size of your thighs.

25. I just want there to be some sort of heaven. Full of chocolate-covered almonds with a Johnny Cash soundtrack, all for you.

Ever since the funeral I’ve been feeling oddly energetic. It’s as if the last of the fog has lifted and life is coming back into focus.

It’s been comforting to ease back into an everyday routine. Today I had my first weigh-in for two weeks and I’d lost three and a half pounds. I had my measurements taken too—two and a half inches off both chest and hips, and four inches off my waist! I knew something funny was going on because I’ve had to pull my trousers up all the time. I thought they’d stretched in the wash!

I’m amazed by the dramatic results. I put it down to clean eating and trekking up Mount Ainslie every Sunday afternoon.

The first twenty minutes are still purest hell. My thighs scream, my chest rasps, and I bitch to Rhiannon, “There is no fucking way I am going to fucking climb this fucking hill any fucking further!” She just laughs and hands me a bottle of water.

Once we get to the top, I limp around triumphantly like Rocky until my jelly legs force me to sit down. On the descent I have enough energy to appreciate the quietness, the rustle of the trees and the crunch of gum leaves and kangaroo shit beneath my shoes. By the time we get back to the car I’ve forgotten all about the uphill bit and say, “Hey, that wasn’t so bad. Same time next week?”

During BodyPump today I realized my attitude to exercise is changing. Last year I was so obsessive—it was not about fitness but about weight loss and punishment. I saw my sweat and red face and screaming muscles as signs that I could wield control over my wayward body. But now I crave exercise because it soothes the soul. It’s hard work squatting forty pounds for six minutes, but it’s peaceful too. I like the camaraderie of being in a group class yet slipping away into my own thoughts at the same time. My trembling legs and flushed cheeks are now signs that I’m getting stronger.

Lately I feel calm; full of hope and possibility. I want to move forward and make the most of everything. I need to make some plans.

So my twenty-fifth birthday came and went. There were no goal weights, wild parties, champagne, or size 12 dresses, but I had a good time anyway.

I stayed the same at weigh-in today. I’d vowed to be SureSlim superstrict at my birthday dinner; but my resolve cracked after three sips of red wine.

I sat at the head of the table gazing at my friends like it was an episode of
This Is Your Life.
There was Jenny, so hilarious, loyal, and down-to-earth. And Peita, who unwittingly helped me through my university days with her wicked humor and sharp mind. Then Emily, who brightened my public service days and cheered me on when I started Weight Watchers. And of course Rhiannon, my long-suffering sister and best friend. Where would I be without her?

I stared at them through my wine glass and felt a surge of gratefulness. I wanted to crash-tackle them to the floor with ferocious hugs. They’ve stuck with me through thick and … less thick. So many times I thought I didn’t deserve their friendship; sometimes I still do. But I know I’ve got to stop wasting time and energy being paranoid, and start being a better friend instead. No more hiding, no more doubts, no more sitting back feeling sorry for myself while my friends have fun.

“Screw it, ladies, it’s my birthday.” I drained my glass and slammed it on the table. “Let’s get some dessert!”

“Yeah, baby!” cheered Rhiannon. “More vino too.”

I picked the apple and blueberry crumble, the least rich of the desserts, but still the richest thing I’d eaten for months. I can still taste it right now. Because I haven’t brushed my teeth since Friday. Well actually, just because the memory of cinnamon and sugar still lingers. But most delicious of all was the rush from eating something sweet in public—openly, surrounded by friends; without shame or apology. I’m not hiding in cupboards any more.

“Oh girls, you are going to have a great time!” Anna smiled. “You have no idea what you’re in for!”

Rhiannon looked at me and grinned. I bit my lip and looked at the floor.

“Go on!” she hissed. “Hand over the check!”

We were in Flight Centre today, buying plane tickets. One-way plane tickets.

I’ve lost nearly eight pounds over the past four weeks but I think I’ve also lost my mind. Remember last year when Jenny got back from her UK jaunt and Rhiannon said we should do the same? I laughed her off, and part of me still wants to laugh her off. But today we bought one-way plane tickets to Edinburgh, Scotland. We’re leaving four months from now, on March 26, armed with a two-year working holiday visa.

There’s a long tradition of young Australians doing a stint in the UK and traveling around Europe. It’s so commonplace it might as well be compulsory. I never thought I’d be one of the masses. I’m too fat for adventure! That’s not the sort of thing I do!

But it’s time to be bold. As Aunty Marg said, you never know what’s around the corner. Make some plans, she told us. I don’t want to ignore the little voice inside me that’s screaming, “Get out there! Push your boundaries! Do something scary!”

Ever since Poppy passed away and I emerged from this last blast of depression, I’ve become increasingly aware of a new Shauna who wants to do something with her life. It’s the Shauna that was there all along, but I’d hidden her under a layer of blubber and convinced myself she didn’t exist.

We’ve decided to base our adventures in Edinburgh. London sounded too big and scary for me, plus Scotland has all those hot men wearing kilts.

Why now? Why pack up and leave now when life in Canberra is pretty much perfect? I’m blessed with great friends, I’m finally losing weight, I’ve finally scored a great job, I’m finally getting my act together.

The fact that it’s going so well makes it the perfect time to go. I want to push forward before I have a chance to falter. And as Rhiannon declared, “It’s high time we had some proper fun.” We’re young and we should be having adventures, darn it. And why should I wait until I’m skinny to do that? I’ve spent too long waiting for life to happen to me.

Anna handed us our receipt and actually spun in her chair with delight. “This is almost as good as going again myself! You do realize this is going to change your life.”

“Bring it on,” I said, and I really think I meant it.

Here I am after another weigh-in. Three pounds down and I’ve squeezed under 240 pounds! I’m trying to be less obsessive, but my inner geek still loves a good milestone on the scale.

In other news, I leaned forward to brush my teeth last night and I saw my collarbone! Oh my goodness. A visible collarbone! You can’t see it if I just stand up normally, but this is progress! I’ll continue to develop it in secret for a few more months and then I’ll flaunt it to the world.

It’s all happening, folks. My trousers are starting to fall down, so I went to the hideously named My Size yesterday. The saleslady was bigger than me! I’ll probably go to hell for thinking that, but it was incredible not to be the largest person in a room for a change.

What’s going on with clothes this season? Every garment has that bohemian peasant hooker thing going on. I spied a shirt and thought, Ooh, lovely! only to pluck it from the rack and discover ruffles spewing down the front like an old man’s beard. Ruffles rarely look good on waifs, let alone buxom mamas like myself. Who the hell are these designers kidding? All I want is simple, classic clothes I can wear near a naked flame.

No luck in My Size, so I ventured back into one of the “normal” chains to see if their XL would fit me yet. The shirts were still a bit too snug. I stormed home and whined to Rhiannon that I’m never going to be normal and I’ll die alone because no one will ever want to see me naked, and furthermore I don’t want anyone to see me naked because my body is so utterly horrible.

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

But I wiped my tears and went back to the shops today, because I really do need those trousers. We went to Katies, where they stock the “16-26” label for fat chicks. In January 2001 the size 24 was too small, but now I’m a size 16! I know it’s a Fat Shop and the sizes run big, but doesn’t it sound nice?

Most of the clothes were of the peasant hooker variety, but I found a few nice tops for work. At first I bitched that they were too fitted, but as Rhiannon pointed out, “That’s why they’re called clothes, not potato sacks!”

“Wow, Shauna!” said the SureSlim ladies today. “You’re really shrinking!”

It’s nice to be getting compliments again, but these days I’m pretty damn pleased with myself too.

Well, people, can you believe I’ve just returned from the company Christmas party? It’s the first time I’ve actually stayed for the duration instead of running away at half-time!

I drank a whole bottle of red tonight, which is approximately 10,000 Weight Watchers Points! and strictly forbidden on SureSlim. I also walked into a tree on the way home, but at least I walked, right? It’s all exercise.

I haven’t written much about my job lately because I love it so much. If I say it too loud a piano will surely drop on my head. But tonight I’m drunk so I confess, I love being the communications officer chick and writing things and being creative and working with lovely people who make me forget about my fat and feel like I actually have a brain.

SO WHY AM I LEAVING THE COUNTRY, THEN?

I forgot to mention I’ve lost another four pounds, which means I’ve got less than 70 pounds to go! Doesn’t that sound far less horrendous, now?

It’s been 101 weeks of marvelous fat-fighting adventures, my friends. This year was chock full of ups and downs, and I’m glad there’s a new one coming soon. And there might even be a white Christmas at the end of it.

And so begins another year of lard busting. Can you believe it’s been two years since that fateful moment when I was shocked by the sight of my giant pants on the clothesline?

I’m happy to report the smalls situation is much less dire now. I’ve ditched the Bonds Cottontails, but I kept one souvenir pair. I like to put them on sometimes and marvel at how I can pull the waistband up over my boobs. How did one arse manage to take up so much space?

These days all my knickers are black. Not because they’re dark like my tortured soul, but because they make me feel almost sexy. They have alluring hints of lace at the hips. Sure they’re a size 18, but they’re more dainty and daring than I’d ever thought possible!

Speaking of daring, there’s just over two months until Rhiannon and I leave for the Land of Kilts. Already I’m pondering what to pack for a colder climate. All last year’s winter clothes are too big. I wonder what the Fat Shops are like over there? Do big lasses get decent clothes in the UK or will I be donning a thermal mumu?

Something strange is happening lately. The days in which I like myself and feel somewhat attractive are starting to outnumber the Die You Fat Ugly Cow days.

How did this happen? Perhaps the vanishing pounds and the prospect of skipping the country are making me feel cocky and reckless. All I know is it’s high time I stopped telling myself that I’m the obese incarnation of the devil.

The Mothership once said that I exuded “Go away, don’t get too close” vibes that scared off all the boys. I thanked her for the amateur psychoanalysis but insisted the problem was actually my voluminous arse. But now I’m wondering if she wasn’t entirely batty. I went to a party on Saturday—which was an achievement in itself—and tentatively tested out a different vibe.

I had an internal pep talk as I put on my lipstick. Forget the sprawling stomach and the dimpled thighs tonight. Don’t think about the 62 pounds you’ve still got to lose. Focus on your cute nose and not-bad boobs. Let’s get out there with the humans!

A little confidence and red wine went a long way. I actually talked to people. I smiled and listened and did not hide behind a plant pot. Instead of the Sad Fat Chick at a Party, I was just another chick at a party. It was so wonderfully ordinary I could have wept.

I think you could even classify some of my conversations as flirtatious. I started to chat up a cute bloke over the punch bowl and he gave me his phone number! I had a brief playground flashback, and looked over my shoulder to make sure his friends weren’t sniggering behind a tree, but he seemed genuinely interested. I couldn’t hide my grin as he volunteered his number and suggested we meet again. That’s item number two on my to Do When I’m Skinny list done and dusted while I’m still a plus size!