The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (36 page)

“And here we have the biscuit aisle,” I indicated with a sweeping gesture.

Gareth nodded with suitable reverence.

“Wow, look at all these different kinds of Tim Tams!” I spluttered. “They didn’t have all those before I left. Look at them, Gareth. Look at them!”

“I’m looking!”

I fought the urge to gather them all up in my tender arms. People always seem amazed that I’ve managed to lose weight in Scotland, land of tablet, Irn-Bru, and deep-fried everything. But it’s much worse in Australia, where everything is delicious.

Today I pawed through boxes of childhood stuff, showing Gareth my photos and prizes and mementoes. It was strange seeing him sitting in my mother’s house, leafing through a pile of CDs and laughing at my questionable teenage taste. Until now my Australian years and Scottish years felt like two different lifetimes, but having Gareth on my home turf seemed to bring it all together.

And then I found what I’d been looking for, nestled alongside a dozen Sweet Valley High books. My size 24 jeans. I’d given them to Mum because she’d had a wacky idea of making a patchwork quilt out of my old fat clothes.

I shook them out and held them up against my body.

“Whoa!” said Gareth. “Were they yours?”

“Yep. My biggest pair.”

“You’ve got to put them on!”

I stepped inside. I could lift the waistband up to my chin. As soon as I let go they fell to the floor in a blue puddle.

“Whoa!” Gareth said again.

I pulled them back up, stretched out the waistband and peered down into the empty space. It was shocking to get a true sense of the Before and After.

The Mothership peeked in. “Oh my God! I’m getting the camera.”

“Aww, Ma!”

“Come outside in the sunshine. This is going to be gold!”

So I stood in the backyard striking poses. I held the waistband out in the traditional Where Did My Belly Go? position then climbed into one leg for the requisite Half the Woman I Used to Be shot.

“Right, Gareth,” Mum directed. “You hop into the other leg.”

It was an awkward squeeze but we managed to do it: my husband and I both inside the jeans that I once couldn’t fit into on my own.

Afterward we gathered round the camera to review the shots.

“Here’s Gareth getting into your pants,” said Mum. “And right in front of his mother-in-law!”

“Jeez, my arse looks kinda big in those jeans.”

“Shauna,” Gareth laughed, “you’re standing in one leg of them!”

“Oh yeah! You’ve got a point there.”

Mum was shaking her head. “Can you believe you used to wear these?”

“Not really.”

The memory is distant and fuzzy. It just seems impossible that I’d ever filled all that space.

I’ve just spent two weeks eating my way around Australia. It started in Cowra, where Nanny wooed her new grandson-in-law with vast amounts of home baking. I had intended to show restraint to maximize my svelteness for Wedding Part III, but I was seduced by Nanny’s sweet treats and flattering words.

“Shauna,” she said. “You are looking very slim.”

“Do you think so? Really?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why, thank you!”

“Do you fancy some of my passion fruit cheesecake?”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

Really, it would have been rude not to, especially as she’d been baking all night despite her painful arthritis. That’s why I also had a lamington and two pieces of caramel slice to show that I truly appreciated her efforts.

I’d made a pact with myself only to eat the things I really wanted on this trip—all the things I’d truly missed while living in the UK. The only problem was, it turned out I truly missed a lot of things. When the tour rolled on to Canberra, I dived into al fresco café breakfasts, luscious nongreasy pizzas, giant smoothies, and a good old Aussie hamburger with the works, including fried egg, bacon, and beetroot.

In Melbourne, I rediscovered decadent hot chocolates, Turkish banquets, sweet potato fries, chocolate thick shakes in old-fashioned metal cups, papaya salad, and elaborate pastries from the bakeries in St. Kilda. In Queensland, on the Sunshine Coast, we feasted on fresh pineapple and strawberries from a roadside stall.

What can I say? I love good food, and Australia is a well-stocked nation. I’d forgotten the joys of eating outdoors with the sun gently toasting your skin. I’d missed lazy hours in cafés and restaurants that don’t cripple your bank balance. Which brings us to Sydney and those twenty dollar sushi platters.

Despite all that eating, I feel calm. For the first time, I’m not neurotic about calorie contents or fighting the urge to overeat or wondering if people think I’m fatter than last time they saw me. I just feel like a normal person, savoring the company of old friends, both human and edible. The sensible salads and soup will be right there waiting for me back in Scotland.

And of course it was my duty as an Australian to introduce my Scottish husband to as many local delights as possible. He’s now seen the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Great Ocean Road, but somehow it meant more to me to watch him scoff his first fresh oyster, his first steaming bowl of Vietnamese pho, and his first juicy kangaroo steak. It’s nice to feel stuffed with happy memories, instead of stuffed with remorse.

I stood at the top of the makeshift aisle, clutching a bouquet of irises from Nanny’s garden. I’d only needed about ten minutes to get ready for Wedding Part III, as I finally had the routine down pat. Hair, makeup, squishy undies. And magically, the frock fit perfectly. I could even zip it up all by myself!

We’d decided to conduct a mock wedding ceremony to give things a sense of occasion, kind of like those dramatic reconstructions on
Crimewatch.
Mum had found a lovely café for the party with a great courtyard and garden, perfect for a pretend wedding.

I was overcome by mushiness as I surveyed the scene. The Mothership was about to pretend to give me away, looking dazzling in her new size 16 suit. Gareth looked handsome and golden after three weeks under the Australian sun. Beside him was my friend Belinda, looking stunning in her role as Gareth’s Best Girl. The finishing touch was my friend Matt playing the part of minister.

Jenny took her role as imaginary bridesmaid very seriously. She spontaneously bellowed the Wedding March as she led the way down the aisle, “
Dun dun dun-duuuun!
”

I followed her as daintily as I could manage in my flimsy gold flip-flops. I surveyed the guests—my aunties with their golf-ball perms, my gorgeous friends with their assortment of partners and babies. I’d vowed to look dignified and classy because we’d hired a photographer, but I couldn’t stop grinning.

The Mothership took my hand and squeezed it tight. Matt cleared his throat and pulled a priest’s collar out of his pocket and plopped it over his head.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Shauna and Gareth. Marriage is a sacred institution, one that is not to be entered into lightly. Therefore, as today is Shauna and Gareth’s fourth wedding this year, we can all be safe in the knowledge that they are pretty serious about it by now.

“So, who takes this woman away from this man, and then gives her back again?”

“I do! I do!” said Mum.

“Excellent.” He turned to Gareth. “Gareth David Reid, do you promise to keep on loving Shauna, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer; even though she always leaves bits of food on the plates when she does the dishes?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. Now Shauna Lee Reid, do you promise to keep on loving Gareth, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer; even though you still can’t always understand his Scottish accent?”

“I do!”

“Do we have the wedding rings?”

Jenny and Belinda dutifully coughed up the bling.

“Gareth,” said Reverend Matt, “please take your wife’s hand and repeat after me. With this ring, I re-wed.”

“With this ring, I re-wed.”

Matt smiled. “Shauna, take that Scotsman by the hand and repeat after me. With this ring, I re-wed.”

“With this ring, I re-wed.”

“I now pronounce you, once again, husband and wife,” Matt said triumphantly. “You may kiss the bride!”

I’d forgotten that some of the guests hadn’t seen me for years. The reactions ranged from, “Oh my God, look at
you>
! You’re so
skinny!
” to simple demands to know my weight loss secrets.

“You’re looking great, you know,” said one aunt. “Really, really, really great!” Which perhaps was a polite way of saying: holy CRAP, you were fat before. I didn’t want to say anything at the time but I was worried you might explode! So what a relief to see you somewhat deflated!

The afternoon passed in a glorious blur, fueled by champagne and mild sunburn. I recall explaining to my aunties numerous times that, no, Matthew wasn’t a real priest, he was just pretending. Sometimes I just stood back for a while and watched, trying to soak up every detail. My old friends immersed in conversation, my aunty’s startled expression as she took her first ever bite of sushi, the curious sight of Gareth in sunglasses, and the Mothership’s slightly sozzled laughter. I never was one of those chicks who fantasized about their wedding day, but somehow this tricontinental spectacle turned out to be more incredible than anything I could have ever dreamed up.

Later on all the Cowra High School clan gathered at the bowling club for Steak Diane and chicken schnitzels. Gareth ordered fish and chips for the fifteenth time on our trip, vowing to resume his vegetarian lifestyle as soon as we got home.

It’s been 10 years since we left school. It was incredible to see the different paths my friends had taken while still retaining all the wit and charm that carried me through my high school days.

“So what have you been up to since I last saw you, Shauna?” asked Sharon. “Aside from all your weddings?”

Damn. I’d been dreading that question. “I’m still a secretary,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Putting that journalism degree to great use!”

“Hang on,” Jenny piped up. “What about your writing? Shauna was in a book!”

“Oh yeah,” I mumbled. “That.”

“You were in a book? Wow!”

“Yeah.”

“So what was it about?”

And that was when I realized most of my friends still had no idea about my Incredible Transformation. I quietly slipped off the radar after the glut of twenty-first birthday parties, determined not to let them see me at my worst.

Gareth leaned over and whispered, “Be proud, Diet Lady!”

I took a deep breath. “Well … it’s a bit complicated, really. Basically after we left school I got grossly overweight and severely depressed. And then I lost a load of lard. I wrote about it on the Internet and then I wrote about it for a book!”

So there it was, ten years in my life wrapped up in a sentence. “Umm, that’s about it, really.”

“Shauna, are you crazy?” said Jenny. “That’s bloody fantastic!”

“Yeah!” chimed in Sharon. “I always loved your writing.”

“Ahh, thanks.”

“You should be proud. We’re all proud!”

I stared down at my plate and counted the ridges in the crinkle-cut chips. Gareth gave my knee a squeeze under the table.

Is that what the past decade really boils down to? my fat? I spent the first five years accumulating ridiculous amounts of it, then the next five obsessed with making it go away. That’s not something to really crow about. It only reminds me that as a pampered Westerner, I had the luxury of being able to “achieve” obesity in the first place.

But as I listened to the burble of chatter around the dinner table, I realized that while it might feel like the last ten years were all about my fat, other people don’t see it that way. My friends asked about my writing and my travels and my love life. And when they told Gareth stories about our high school antics, not once did my size rate a mention.

I wanted to cry right there at the table, thinking of how I’d actively avoided these people for so many years, thinking I was unworthy of their friendship. I viewed my world through the fat goggles and assumed that’s how they saw me too. I told so many lies and hid so many secrets. Who knows how different things could have been if I’d just reached out?

I’m longing for the day when I can look back at these long years of lard busting and it will simply be a throwaway sentence. Like, “I went to university” or “I got married.” It will just be, “I was fat but then I wasn’t.” It’s still too raw right now, but I know one day it will become part of the landscape. Just another story to tell.

After dinner we took a nostalgic stroll down Cowra’s steep main street. I pointed out my old haunts to Gareth—the KFC, the Chinese take-away, the cinema where I ate all that free popcorn. But there were nonfat landmarks too—the Motor Registry where I’d spectacularly failed my driving test, our mailbox at the post office, the Clint’s Crazy Bargains shop where the prices are just crazy.

We ended up at the Town House, usually a happening nightspot but dead on a Sunday night. We got turfed out before we had a chance to down our first drinks. So we called our parents to pick us up. Just like old times, except now we all had mobiles and didn’t have to queue at the phone box.

We all stood there in the deserted street, watching the traffic lights flip lazily between red, yellow, and green. It was surreal to be here again, just as we were ten years ago except with a collection of partners and husbands and experiences.

And for the first time I felt I belonged. I wasn’t hiding anything. I’d always tried to compartmentalize the pieces of my life—keeping friends and family far away from my darker thoughts, separating first with emotional distance, then with physical distance. But as I stood there with my re-newly-wedded husband and my oldest friends, I finally felt it all come together. Big Shauna, Smaller Shauna, Old Shauna, New Shauna. It’s all me. From now on there’s just going to be one Shauna for every occasion.