The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (20 page)

But I seem to be invisible to him. I’ve seen him make eye contact with everyone else, from the nubile lasses down the front to the old grannies and the token males. But he never ever looks my way. He never corrects my form. He never tells me to kick harder or to squat deeper as he prowls around the class.

So I seethe beneath my barbell, my brow beading with perspiration and paranoia. What the hell is wrong with me, buddy? Why won’t you acknowledge my presence? Is it my freakish lack of coordination? Is it because I am usually (still, after all this effort) the fattest person in the room? Why? WHY?

I must learn to channel this petty rage into my workout. Thighs of Steel shall be mine.

I’m probably just projecting anyway. I feel like a big fat Blobby McBlob lately, despite the fact that I’ve now lost twenty pounds since we moved to Edinburgh. My body is the smallest it’s been for almost a decade, but it’s disguised by my sad and baggy clothes. I came to Scotland with just one suitcase and didn’t think very hard about what I tossed inside. I’ve got twenty pairs of undies and quite a few books, but for six months I’ve been wearing the same lonely pair of jeans, three pairs of trousers, and five tops for both work and play. Now they’re all faded and ratty, not to mention too big. My gym pants have reached the point of indecency, so now my pajama bottoms are doubling up as workout gear. The new jeans I bought in August are getting roomy, and even my watch is too big! I never knew wrists could shrink so much.

Since Rhiannon and I have plowed all our money into travel and rent, I kind of forgot about clothes for a while. But now that I’ve got some semblance of a social life, I’m conscious of my disheveled appearance. Meanwhile, the Mothership keeps asking me when am I going to find a Nice Scottish Boy? It’s hard to feel attractive when you’re constantly hauling your trousers up.

Gareth and I have been corresponding! It all started with one of those unwieldy group e-mails about the next Curry Night. David had asked ages ago if he could borrow Gareth’s copy of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s:

David, my memory is pants! Would you like me to bring Roman Holiday as well? I love that film, as it combines lots of my favorite things—Italy, Vespas, and Audrey Hepburn.

My heart leapt to my throat.
Roman Holiday
is my favorite film! Could this be—a heterosexual Audrey fan? I immediately hit Reply, and in my excitement I abandoned my grammar and punctuation.

no bloody way … you are my hero! i can’t believe you like roman holiday! audrey! rome! gelato! Gregory Peck’s eyebrows!

Twenty minutes later he replied:

Excellent, another Audrey admirer! Roman Holiday is one of my cheery-up movies. My favorite parts are when she first escapes from the castle in the back of the moped/ van thingamajig and she’s looking out at the city streets, when she batters the dude over the head with the guitar and when they’re at the place where you stick your hand in the hole and Gregory Peck pretends his hand has been bitten off (can’t remember what it’s called).

It’s called the Mouth of Truth, as I so helpfully responded. He thanked me graciously and continued:

It’s such a sad ending with Gregory Peck’s long, lonely walk out of the palace. And no matter how many times you see it you want Audrey to come running after him … but she never does!

Next time I’ll have to look out for Gregory Peck’s eyebrows.

And it just went from there, back and forth for three days. We talked about music and movies and books and travel and I found out so much about him. He’s thirty years old and has one brother. He just passed his motorcycle test and he plays bass guitar in a band and he’s going to Amsterdam next weekend. He has a tattoo on each bicep and his Ph.D. thesis has something to do with electrical engineering. And he seems to be the most thoughtful, genuine, and witty guy I’ve ever met. He’s so positive and enthusiastic about life and just seems to match the head space I’m in these days.

I wonder if he likes me. How are you supposed to tell? Maybe he only writes back so quickly because he’s procrastinating with his thesis. And do I like him? I think I do, because I’m poring over every word of my replies, correcting my spelling and striving for a balance of wit and cool intelligence. No more lowercase babble, this could be courtship!

The Mothership called yesterday to get her weekly Status Report.

“So how goes the Being Healthy?”

“It goes pretty good.”

“And how much do you weigh these days?”

“Two hundred nine pounds!”

“Wowee! So what does the body look like?”

“Well, my waist is getting smaller, but the hips and thighs don’t seem to change.”

“Oh, so you’re an hourglass.”

“Sorta.”

“You must look like Oprah.”

“Oprah?”

“You know! Curvy hips, defined waist, impressive bosom … like Oprah!”

“I do not look like Oprah!”

“What’s wrong with looking like Oprah? She does a lot of good for this world!”

Despite the recent bout of curries, I’m still shrinking. The scale isn’t doing much, yet the inches are inching away. Life has settled into a rather mundane routine now that we’re working six-or seven-day weeks with our two jobs. The travel fund is fattening up nicely but I’m so exhausted that I’ve been taking naps after work and not waking in time for my gym classes.

I must refocus! Sometimes I forget that I’m still 44 pounds from a healthy weight. I’m so absorbed in my new life in Scotland that I don’t notice those belly rolls or how my thighs still smack together as I amble along to the bus stop. And my arms! I’m so impressed by my growing biceps that I block out the turkey gobble beneath. I’m sure if I flapped my arms long enough I could fly back to Australia for free.

The fact is, I never thought I’d get this far. I never thought my brain and body were capable of such dramatic change. So squeezing into a size 16 feels like a miracle. It almost feels like enough.

But I’ve still got a long way to go. I may feel positively slinky, but when I stand beside 90 percent of the population I’m still quite a hefty lass. Next time I take a progress photo, I’ll have to pose beside a skinny person to give a more accurate perspective. Or I’ll put a milk carton or television or other inanimate object in the frame. Then you could say, “Oh yeah, now I see! Her arse is still huge when you look at it in relation to a telephone box.”

Last week Jane and Rory got back from two weeks in Australia and they brought us back a packet of Mint Slices!

It’s not that Mint Slices were particularly precious to me back home, but now that I’m on the other side of the world, it was like receiving a shipment of illicit substances. Rhiannon and I gleefully divided the goods then devoured them throughout the week, because surely the calories don’t count when it’s contraband.

But I saved the last one. For Gareth. What madness is coming over me when I would willingly sacrifice a chocolate cookie?

At Curry Night tonight, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water and he followed me.

“Hiya Shauna!”

“Hello!” I squeaked.

“How are you?”

“Good!”

Oh, the unbearable agony of eye contact. I fiddled with cups and cutlery and foil take-away dishes.

“I have a wee something for you,” he said, handing me a small paper bag.

“Ooh, cheers!”

It was postcards from Amsterdam.

“I forgot to take your address with me, I’m a bit disorganized.”

“No worries,” I smiled. One postcard was a canal boat scene, the second dazzling tulips at the Bloemenmarkt. The third was a shop window in the Red Light District, featuring a display of vibrators and dildos in all the colors and girths of the rainbow. He looked nervous as I stared at it.

I burst out laughing. “Bloody brilliant. That’s going on the wall in my bedroom.”

He grinned, relieved. “Glad you like it.”

“Ooh, I have something for you too, I just remembered.”

I dug the Mint Slice out of my handbag. I’d carefully wrapped it in cling-film.

“Jane and Rory brought this back from Australia. I saved it for you.”

“It’s not … is it really?”

“Yes. It really is.”

“A genuine Mint Slice! I don’t believe it.” He cradled it in both hands and petted it like a baby bird. “I’ll save this for my first cuppa tomorrow.”

“You have to let me know what you think. If you fall to your knees at the superior taste of Australia.”

There were more awkward smiles and my cheeks blushed a Tandoori red. Then someone yelled out that the movie was starting so we were excused.

Rhiannon and I went out for dinner tonight, to the Thai restaurant where we’ll all be going for my birthday on Saturday next week.

“Consider this meal a warm-up,” she said. “We’re just casing the joint, making sure it’s suitable for everyone else.”

“But of course!” I grinned. Hey, I’d been to BodyPump earlier; I felt virtuous enough to indulge.

We got all dressed up, as much as our tatty garments allowed, then headed to the restaurant. Back in Australia we’d eat out at least twice a week, such spendthrift carefree middle-class socialites we were! We never imagined that we’d wind up working two jobs and feeling deliciously guilty about one Thai meal.

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed our sisterly nights out. Ever since Iceland, it seems we’ve done nothing but work. But now as we attacked our pad thai and fish cakes, we forgot about the monotony of call centers and photocopying and talked more openly than we had in months.

“So,” Rhiannon said suddenly. “Have you met anyone interesting in sunny Scotland?”

“What do you mean?” I stared at the little bowl of chili dipping sauce, wondering if it would be rude to pick it up and lick the last few drops.

“You know. Like men.”

“Me? I don’t meet men. I’m Too Fat for men.”

We both laughed.

“No, seriously,” Rhiannon pressed. “What about Gareth?”

“Gareth!” I coughed. “What about him?”

“Oh come on. It’s obvious to everyone. You’re all over each other like a rash.”

“Really? Do you think so?”

She rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help grinning.

“So you like him?”

“I dunno,” I mumbled. “I think so. Maybe?”

“Honestly,” she said, “you’re both hopeless. You’d be perfect together.”

“What should I do? I don’t remember how this works.”

“Well…” Rhiannon leaned forward conspiratorially. “Your birthday’s the thing. He’s coming, right? That’d be the perfect time for a move.”

“A move? I’ve never made a move before!”

“You’ll be fine.”

I picked up the bowl of coconut rice and emptied the last of it onto my plate. If I was going to be courageous I’d better do some carbo-loading.

BIG AUSSIE LASS MAKES BOLD MOVE ON SCOTSMAN

EDINBURGH, AP
–Amateur Antipodean seductress Miss Dietgirl was embroiled in attempts to woo Dunfermline resident Gareth Reid this week.

“I decided a direct move was not my style so I used a cowardly, lazy girl’s way to let him know I’m kind of interested,” she said.

Dietgirl sent Mr. Reid a copy of the Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant classic
Charade
from Amazon. “They only had it on VHS, but I’d told him about the film in an e-mail. We both love Audrey movies and he hadn’t seen this one. I thought it was a good way of showing him I’d been paying attention.”

Dietgirl spent the past seven days in a heightened state of agony, wondering if her move was too bold or not bold enough. But today Mr. Reid notified her by e-mail that the goods had been received. Dietgirl read his message out to the assembled press:

“‘At first I was confused, as although I’m a notorious impulse buyer (damn that One Click Purchase thingy) I couldn’t remember buying anything. I was dead chuffed when I opened the box and realized what it was. I sat on the couch

with a big happy smile on my face for about an hour!

“‘ Oh the power of human kindness. You’re a real star, Shauna (and a bit of a honey if you don’t mind me saying so!). Thanks very much. You made an old man very happy!’”

Dietgirl says she was delighted with the outcome of her crafty plan. “He called me a star! And a honey,” she said. “Honey’s good, isn’t it? It’s got to mean something, right?”

Dietgirl’s only concern was whether Reid actually owned a VCR in this day and age. “But I must say I like this idea of conducting a romance entirely via e-mail and Amazon parcels,” she concluded. “I can choose my words carefully and no one need ever know about my stretch marks.”

The Mothership sent me birthday money, so I splashed out on some new workout gear from TK Maxx. Designer gym trousers for only £10! Size XL. I’ve never been so proud to fit into an overpriced, overhyped garment made by child slaves. I thought I’d be banished to Target Plus Size workout gear for the rest of my life. Now I can finally see that my body has changed. I’ve got a waist! Tonight at BodyPump, I couldn’t stop admiring my significantly smaller arse and thighs in the mirrors. Now I’m desperate to be near the mirrors instead of wishing I could smash them. I quite like what I see these days.

Twenty-six today and my first birthday in the dark, damp northern hemisphere. My first ever birthday that required a coat!

Gareth was late as usual, but Rhiannon had strategically seated Jane and Rory so the chair next to mine was vacant. He gave me a Godspeed You! Black Emperor album and a
Far Side
card with my favorite ever
Far Side
cartoon on it. There’s a tumble dryer with the word
CAT FUD
written on the open door and an arrow pointing inside. There’s a cat peering inside it while a dog watches from around the corner murmuring, “Oh please, oh please!”

Of all the dozens of
Far Side
greeting cards in the world, Gareth somehow picked my favorite. Is that some sort of sign? We seem to have so much in common, both trivial and profound.