The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (28 page)

“Oh.”

“Besides, even if we wanted the Fiancée visa, it takes months to come through. And months are something we don’t have a lot of.”

“Oh,” said Gareth. I watched his face move from confusion to shock, the color draining from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Rhiannon was trying not to smile.

“Can you believe it?” I squeaked. “That’s all he could say. ‘Oh.’”

“Oh,” said Rhiannon.

“He was completely stunned. He just hadn’t realized the urgency of the situation. I thought I’d said enough by showing him the website and explaining the options but clearly I was too subtle!”

Rhiannon started laughing.

“What’s so bloody funny?”

“Because! It’s classic Doctor G. It’s just the sort of innocent yet catastrophic mistake he’d make.”

“I know!”

“You know what he’s like, Shauna. Sometimes he’s a little vague on details. He’s the guy who carted a plastic bag around France for two weeks. His brain must have been ready to explode with a thesis, a job, and a visa crisis all at the same time.”

“Yeah. That’s what makes it so bloody frustrating!” I sighed. “And three days later he hasn’t mentioned it again. He’s barely been in touch.”

“He’s probably still in shock. Remember how long it took him to ask you out in the first place? He’s not a fast mover.”

“I guess. Did you know at work today five different people came up to me, picked up my left hand then sighed when they saw it was empty? And my boss gave me a bottle of champagne! He said, I thought you’d be needing this by now!”

“Don’t worry,” Rhiannon said, and handed me another Cherry Ripe. “He just needs more time. He loves you and he’ll come through. I know he will.”

I ripped into the chocolate and munched away mournfully. If I truly believed her, surely I’d be starting my wedding dress diet instead of stuffing my face?

“What the hell happened to you?”

Gareth stood on my doorstep after work with a wild scraggly beard and bloodshot eyes.

“Umm, just having a little trouble sleeping,” he mumbled. “There was a really good documentary on at four o’clock this morning. The history of combine harvesters.”

“Well come in and I’ll make you a coffee.”

By the time the brews were ready he was fast asleep. Nothing could rouse him—not coffee nor shortbread nor the batter and clang of Ready Steady Cook. Finally at eleven o’clock I gave up and drifted off myself.

I woke up suddenly at 2:02
A.M.
with the moonlight sneaking through the blinds. Gareth was propped up on his elbow, looking at me thoughtfully in the half-dark.

I reached out and patted his furry face. ‘Hey there, Doc. Still can’t sleep?’

He smiled, brushed my hair out of my eyes and said quietly, “Will you marry me, Shauna?”

“Are you SERIOUS!?”

Now that really annoyed me because if/when the moment ever happened, I’d planned to respond with something witty and memorable like, “Depends… will you wear a kilt?” But instead I said, “Are you SERIOUS!?” in a painfully broad Aussie accent, like I was Steve Irwin and I’d just spotted a rare saber-toothed kookaburra or something.

Gareth said that he was serious.

“Am I awake?”

He said that I was indeed awake.

“Well then …
yes!
Of course!”

Proposing to someone in bed at 2:02
A.M.
was a little different, but it was perfect. I’ll never forget the tenderness of his voice and his smile when I said yes. I was so stunned and shocked that it was actually happening that I kept saying, “I’m so stunned and shocked!”

“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “This is what you get for being so good to someone. For being loving and encouraging and making them feel they can just be who they really are.”

“Whoa.” I blushed and grinned. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Hee-hee! I’m so excited I could spew!”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so rubbish,” he said. “I needed to think about things. I’ve never doubted us, you know. I just had to get my head around the whole marriage thing.”

“It’s OK. It took me a while to get used to the idea too.”

“But you’re cool with it now?”

“Yeah. You had one more week before I planned to go totally batshit crazy on you.”

“Speaking of batshit crazy, what time is it in Australia? Should we start spreading the news?”

The next two hours were a blur of phone calls, e-mails, and text messaging until my thumbs went numb. We laughed and cried and everyone was happy for us. Finally we went back to bed and Gareth curled up behind me with his arm draped over my waist like he always does. I slept peacefully, knowing he’ll be doing that for good.

I got back on the scales today: 211 pounds. I’ve gained NINE POUNDS in five weeks!

It all fell apart the week before Christmas with that box of Celebrations. Some kind soul put them out on the Cake Table at work and I vowed to ignore them. But they kept calling to me with their shiny, miniature voices. “We won’t hurt you! We’re so tiny and cute! What harm could there be in a Milky Way the size of your fingernail?”

But with that first sickly sweet bite, the beast was unleashed. I abandoned all forethought and didn’t stop eating for the entire festive season.

Here’s a sample of my feeble excuses:

• Rhiannon is leaving! We’ll never go out to [insert name of yet another favorite restaurant] together again, so what the hell!

• Poor me, working at Geriatric Rescue on Christmas Day, surely I deserve another handful of sweeties for my noble deeds? They’re free, after all.

• I’ll make Gareth this huge Heart Attack in a Bowl Butterscotch and Banana Trifle for our Belated Christmas dinner even though it’s designed to serve eight and contains two pints of double cream!

• It’s Christmas and it’s cold outside so I’ll have another glass of port (and so on until I’d emptied the entire bottle over a four-day period)!

• Gareth is in the next room so I’ll sneak yet another handful of Cadbury’s Roses from the giant tin his mum gave him even though I hate Cadbury’s Roses, but he hasn’t proposed and I’m stressed!

• My future is so horribly uncertain that I may as well have cheese on toast for dinner and a bar of chocolate for dessert!

• I just got engaged so I’ll bring in cakes for my colleagues and eat three pieces of Caramel Shortcake because I’m so overjoyed!

The diet books always tell you to pinpoint your triggers, to figure out the reasons for your poor choices. But I covered all the classics: loneliness, boredom, frustration, anger, extreme anxiety, and happiness. There’s been secret eating, drunken eating, bathtub eating. I’m very versatile!

By New Year’s Eve, I could barely zip up my jeans, my skin was gray and spotty, my head was throbbing, and I couldn’t bear for Gareth to snuggle behind me as we slept because his arm felt like a log draped over my tortured, bloated stomach. Yet I kept shoveling in the food, mindlessly and endlessly, perhaps convinced the indigestion would distract me from all the doubts and fears.

It was a classic battle of the Old and New Shaunas. The Old Shauna didn’t quite believe that Gareth would propose, because who’d want to commit to her lardy arse for all eternity? So why not bury her face in a trifle? But the New Shauna knew deep down that love would conquer all. Old Shauna may have triumphed over Christmas, but now the New Shauna wants to slap the Old around the chops and scream, “We’ve got six weeks to look hot in a wedding frock. Look at the mess you’ve put us in!”

Saturday marked the fourth anniversary of my epic lard-busting adventure. Four years is an Olympiad, or a whole term in the Oval Office. But please don’t vote me out just yet. I am determined to deliver!

Nothing quite brings your weight loss efforts into focus more than the thought of walking down the aisle. And my anniversary was a timely reminder that I could do this. It just takes planning and focus, rather than sitting on the couch with a bottle of port wondering why I feel so bad. So I’ve put the festive feast behind me and I’ve channeled the Dietgirl of 2001—determined, methodical, and single-minded.

But without the obsession. The Old Shauna would be frantically calculating how many pounds she could shed before the Big Day, but I’m so happy that there’s even going to be a Big Day that I’m not going to do anything radical. I’m just determined to look and feel as healthy as possible so I’ll be glowing with endorphins.

So it’s back to sensible eating and my trusty online food diary. I also drew up a gym schedule full of my favorite classes and have been moving my butt every day. In a month’s time I’ll be moving into Chez Gareth in the remote wilds of Dunfermline, so I may as well enjoy the Fancy Gym while I still can.

After just one week I feel focused and sane and I’ve already lost six pounds! I thought I’d be lonely doing the shopping, cooking, and gyming without Rhiannon but I’m enjoying all this time alone with my thoughts, processing everything that’s happened. It feels wonderful but it still doesn’t feel quite real.

Today I spent three hours looking through all my bridal magazines. It was like a glossy, thousand-page reminder that I have no money, time, or style.

Wedding Day
magazine had a story on how to plan a wedding on four different budgets: £1,000, £10,000, £100,000, or ONE MILLION POUNDS! For £1 million they suggested buying your own Mediterranean island and icing your wedding cake with solid gold. I was more interested in the £1,000 job. They told me to save money by purchasing a vintage dress. Who actually finds vintage clothing unless they’re a titless size 2? Vintage for me would involve going to a charity shop and asking, “Have you had any donations in white polyester? Puffed sleeves? Pit stains not too prominent?”

“You and Your Wedding” sounded like a friendly enough title, making the event sound comfy and manageable. They probably also do “You and Your Cocker Spaniel” and “You and Your Tracksuit.” I pondered the article “Are You a Summer Bride or Winter Bride?” Pollen-choked daisies or whiskey shots by a roaring fire? I don’t bloody know. Where is the option for Overweight Threat of Deportation Bride? Surely that’s a niche market, I can’t be the only Scot-loving Antipodean who likes to leave things to the last minute.

There’s no scope in these magazines for people in a hurry. Apparently twelve months ago we should have met with our priest or rabbi and finalized the guest list. We should have picked the rings at Christmas and the Going Away Outfit should have been hanging in my wardrobe since October. What the hell is a Going Away Outfit?

Most damning of all, I was supposed to have started a fitness and weight loss regime over a year ago. Whoops. And my skin, hair, and nail regime should have been established at the same time. My current regime consists of me idly thinking at midnight, I should get up and wash this mascara off. And moisturize. And perhaps take off my stinky gym clothes. Furthermore, the bags under my eyes are so dark and fat that it looks like I’ve glued on a pair of slugs. My sleep has been rubbish since Engagement Day because I keep waking up laughing in the middle of the night, still giddy with the news that Gareth wants to marry me. Sucker! And as for my talons, I’ve never had a manicure in my life, unless you count pushing my cuticles back with the front door key.

I suppose we should really be focusing on the basics, like picking a date and a venue. And a continent.

I’ve had three weight losses in a row! How long has it been? It’s incredible what a dangling carrot in the shape of a wedding dress can do. Although I still have no idea what shape that dress will be, as I’m still in Wedding Planning Denial.

Instead I’m throwing my energy into my lard busting. In the first few days after my festive feast I thought I’d lost my mojo for good, so I borrowed half a dozen diet books from the library. They were all sensible tomes about nutrition and exercise, not sensational crap like The Glass of Air Diet or Fart Yourself Thin, but it still smacked of desperation. I thought I no longer knew what was best for me so surely someone else would. I pored over these books and waited for the moment of enlightenment. I took all the quizzes, scoured the menu plans, then it finally hit me—I already know all this crap.

There was nothing they were telling me—no diet tip or exercise or food combination or Jedi mind trick—that I hadn’t already learned for myself over the past four years. I need to remember that the weight loss industry exists to make money, whether it’s a diet book or Weight Watchers or
Slimming
magazine or Crazy Bob’s Blubber Bustin’ Pills. They could all help me lose weight, but none of them is a substitute for thinking for myself.

And that has been a liberating revelation. Standing at the bus stop this morning I wondered why I wasn’t in Bridezilla mode, worrying how I will fit into a wedding dress I haven’t bought for a wedding I haven’t planned. But I knew I had things under control. I was looking forward to eating my yogurt and muesli breakfast at my desk. I’d go to my BodyPump class after work then eat my veggie chili for dinner. After the madness of the past few months, now is not the time to panic. I can finally admit that I’m the one who knows what works best for me. I don’t need my hand held anymore.

Have you ever tried to organize a wedding in six weeks? It’s a nightmare, especially with half the guests stuck on the wrong side of the globe and the Home Office breathing down your neck. After days of scouting venues and contemplating a registry office quickie, Gareth and I were nearing meltdown. Wasn’t this meant to be exciting? Wasn’t this meant to be a celebration of our wacky little relationship? No matter what ideas we came up with, it was going to be rushed and shoddy, with one side of the family going bankrupt from airfares.

“This is madness!” said Gareth. He was taking on that bearded, bloodshot caveman look again.