The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (5 page)

It was 105 degrees today! I’m sure the weight I lost this week was pure perspiration. I feel like a great sweaty hog, slowly rotating over the coals.

The Australian summer seems designed to torture the morbidly obese. While the majority of the population is rejoicing with their tiny shorts, bikinis, and barbecues, us fatties must sweat and suffer on the sidelines … or just lie in dark, air-conditioned rooms and wait for the end.

I’m never more aware of the complete wrongness of my body than during a heat wave. The Fat Girl Logistics Department has to work overtime, figuring out how to maneuver my bulk through the day with minimal sweat and embarrassment.

The key is to keep your moves small and precise. I drove to work at 7:30
A.M.
and nabbed a space right outside the building, thus minimizing (a) the distance I’d have to shuffle across the car park and (b) potential for witnesses to said shuffle.

The foyer was mercifully deserted too, so I could take the lift to the first floor instead of feeling obliged to huff my way up the stairs like normal people. The early start also gave me a good hour to catch my breath and blot my shiny face before the office got busy.

By ten o’clock the office was a furnace. My colleagues looked cool in their short sleeves and floaty frocks, but already my standard issue Fat Girl black trousers were glued to my thighs. Luckily, I had no meetings today, so I could stay at my desk and not have to thunder along the corridors, getting even sweatier.

My job is dull and predictable, but that’s why I love it. I’m still working for the same Internet start-up company as a content editor, but not long after they hired me, I was subcontracted to a government department to look after a bunch of websites. I could do the job in my sleep, but I like the slow, predictable pace of the public service. I keep a low profile, tinkering away on pages and editing copy. I’ve been toiling away like a good worker bee for eighteen months and they keep extending my contract, so I must be doing all right. The Australian government is happy, my employers are happy, and so am I.

At one o’clock my cubicle neighbor and good friend Emily asked did I fancy going out for lunch. But I’d cleverly prepared my excuse the night before.

“No thanks, mate,” I said cheerfully. “I brought a big salad from home and I’ve got loads of work to do, so I’ll have to give it a miss today.”

I just couldn’t face the walk to the shopping center in the middle of the day, trying to keep up with Emily’s swift and slender strides. I feared she would actually hear my thighs smashing together like a pair of flabby cymbals.

So I sat by the window with my salad and glared down at all the lunchtime joggers. They were making themselves sweaty on purpose, rather than it being an unfortunate consequence of simple, everyday movement. Do you think I’ll ever be able to do that? I have my doubts, considering the things that currently leave me red-faced and panting:

• Walking up the stairs in our flat

• Making the bed

• Tying my shoelaces

• Bending down to fetch vegetables from the fridge

• Dislodging myself from behind the steering wheel to get out of the car

The one good thing about this weather? I’m sticking to my stinking points. I’ve barely got the energy to sip a glass of water, let alone waddle to the fridge.

Another week of obedient Weight Watching and another gold star on my card. I’ve now lost thirty-five pounds!

“That still sounds like an awful lot of lard,” I said to Donna.

“Shauna, you’re doing great,” she smiled. “Stop worrying and just keep going!”

But I have to worry! If I don’t worry, I might allow myself to feel smug and successful, and then I might think it’s OK to scoff a couple of Mars Bars, and we all know what happens then. I’ll finally burst out of my trousers and have to order a mumu from a mail order catalogue. So you see, fear is my friend.

Another thing I keep hearing is: just take it one day at a time. That’s impossible! My mind is always racing ahead in a panic. I may have strung together a few healthy weeks and lost a few pounds, but what if it’s all too good to be true? I worry that my old bad habits are lurking behind a tree, waiting to pounce and take over again.

It also makes me nervous that I’m enjoying my food. We’ve been cooking fresh, veggie-laden meals and so far I’m not missing the burgers and shakes at all. My inner masochist believes I’m not entitled to lose any weight unless there’s suffering and deprivation involved. If my stomach was rumbling and my taste buds were shriveled up from lack of stimulation, maybe then I’d deserve to drop a few pounds. But to eat a huge plate of food and actually enjoy it … surely that’s not going to work?

Yet there’s a tiny, happy part of me knows that it is working. If I admitted that out loud, I’d get run over by a bus for being so self-congratulatory, so I’ll just whisper it here instead.

Another pound gone! I know it’s early days, but I can’t help fantasizing about my less flabby future. So today I bring you a list:

1. Go swimming

2. Walk up to a guy that catches my eye and say hello

3. Wear dainty, strappy little shoes (with my chunky legs they currently make me look like a drag queen).

4. Run!

5. Buy some sexy leather trousers. Mrowr!

6. Have a full body massage (like I’d let anyone look at me naked right now!).

Sometimes, just for a tiny moment, I forget that I’m fat. I’ll run a hand through my hair and notice how soft it feels. Or I’ll admire the curve of my eyebrow as I slap on some mascara. I’ll smile to myself and think, You’re not half bad!

Then other days I’ll be out shopping and catch a glimpse of a fat woman in a mirror. I can’t help staring at the stomach rolls clinging to her shirt and the thick sausages of her forearms. I marvel at how her eyes have almost disappeared into the chubbiness of her cheeks.

And then I finally realize, Shit, that’s me!

It happened again this morning when I went for a walk. Deliberately! I decided it was high time I did some proper exercise.

I was rather proud to be lumbering down the street. “Look at us go!” I cheered. “We’re out and about. We’re doing it, baby!”

I didn’t even get to the end of the block before I had to stop. As I clutched my knees and wheezed, I caught my reflection in a car window. My face was a violent shade of Call the Ambulance red. My chest heaved like a monstrous jelly.

I felt sick. Who was I kidding? It was impossible. I’m never going to change this body.

For the most part, every pound I lose feels like a little triumph. It’s another bit of fuel on this fire of hope building inside me—a cautious, fledgling hope that I could actually do this, that I could really be slim and healthy. I count the stars on my Weight Watchers booklet and it feels as if all the effort is adding up to something.

Yet as soon as I look in the mirror, it seems pointless, because the pounds I’ve lost are just a drop in a very fat ocean. My confidence comes undone and I’m back to feeling hopeless and disgusted again. Everyone keeps saying, “Be kind to yourself” and “Focus on the positives!” But surely there needs to be a balance between optimism and reality.

Oh dear. As you may have gathered, this lard-busting caper is turning out be an emotional roller coaster. But I’m happy to report that the dark clouds of PMS have now departed. And losing another pound tonight certainly helped my mood!

It intrigues me that the weight continues to come off. How is it possible? Why haven’t I given up and returned to my cake-chomping ways? Why is it different this time? And most scary of all—why am I so convinced that it’s going to be for good?

Here are my preliminary theories:

1. I want it bad.

My last attempt at getting skinny was back in Bathurst, just after I finished university. Mum was troubled by my rapid expansion and subtly suggested I join Weight Watchers by posting me a “No Joining Fee!” coupon and a check for ten meetings with her latest batch of job advertisements.

So I went along and discovered I weighed 294 pounds. Instead of being shocked into action, I hit the drive-through and cried into my fries.

For the next ten weeks I dutifully showed up to the scale, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was also extremely depressed by then and could barely cope with getting out of bed, let alone tracking my food, planning meals, or filling the house with healthy foods. Nor did I have any goals. All I had was a vague desire for my fat to go away.

But this time my mind is in a better place. I want to succeed with every flabby cell of my body. Unlike my previous attempts, this time I’ve figured out exactly what success looks like, so I know what I’m aiming for. I want to reach my ideal goal weight of 165 pounds. I want to get there by my twenty-fifth birthday next November. I want to be healthy. I want to wear foxy clothes. I don’t want to feel like I’ll die after climbing a short flight of stairs.

2. I am Weight Watchers’ bitch.

When my car breaks, I go to a mechanic. When my teeth hurt, I call the dentist. When I want to lose weight, I slink off to Weight Watchers. It’s not that I am a mindless slave to the global conglomerate; I just know it’s a safe and reliable option.

I’ve never been one for crash diets. With half my body weight to lose, it could be tempting to go crazy with cabbage soup or grapefruit, but I know too much about vitamins and good fats and whole grains to ever fall for that. Perhaps that’s why I neglected my weight for so long, because deep down I knew there were no miracle cures … just hard work and sensible eating. Boring!

So now I’m back in the fold and remembering all the things I chose to forget about portion sizes and good nutrition. I love the reassurance and ritual of the Monday night weigh-ins—putting on my official weigh-in outfit, slipping into my lightest shoes, going to the toilet a dozen times in case I can pee out another ounce. I love the metallic clang of the old-fashioned scale as it registers a loss.

And I must admit I’m a fool for the gold stars and Donna’s praise. She makes me feel it’s OK to be fragile and afraid. Ever since my Week One meltdown, the Weight Watchers girls always give me a grin and a thumbs-up when they see I’ve made it through another week. I’m like an oversized schoolgirl, eager to please the teacher and glowing at the slightest compliment.

3. I’ve made peace with the past.

My bitterness and resentment have faded since last year’s confrontation with Mum. When you get a little older, you can look back at the past with a certain maturity and understanding. I’ve finally taken responsibility for my role in this lardy mess—five years of appalling eating habits—and realized that I’m an adult and it’s entirely up to me what happens to my body from now on. I’m the captain of the tubby ship!

4. I have witnesses.

I’ve always been a secret dieter. I’d do anything to avoid the dreaded phrase, “Are you allowed to eat that?” Best of all, if I failed spectacularly, nobody would ever have to know.

Funnily enough, these covert operations never worked. It meant I was relying entirely on myself for motivation and support, and all too easily I’d convince myself to give up and head for the fridge. This time I’ve let people in on my secret—Rhiannon, Mum, and obviously the Weight Watchers gang. I always thought sharing my problems would mean judgment and disapproval, but instead it’s brought wonderful support and much-needed accountability.

5. I am not alone.

I am by far the fattest person I know. I outfat my family, friends, and every lardy lady at Weight Watchers. While I have a lot of support, I don’t know anyone who has actually experienced such a ridiculously large weight problem. But thanks to this journal, I’ve found some lovely and equally lumpy souls online! Now I don’t feel quite so freaky and alone. Instead of suppressing my fat-related angst, I’m writing my way through it. I’ve always felt more comfortable expressing my thoughts in text, so blogging has all the confessional allure of an old-fashioned diary, with the added benefit of a sympathetic audience. It’s like anonymous group therapy!

6. I’m changing my wicked ways.

Rhiannon and I have rearranged our eating habits, so it’s just easier to take the healthier option than not. We’ve wholeheartedly embraced our weekly routine of meal planning and grocery shopping. Gone are the days of arriving home from work, flinging open the pantry doors and wondering why the contents don’t quite add up to a meal. Now we know exactly what’s for dinner, so there’s no excuse for take-away pizza. We also cook extra for leftovers, so I don’t succumb to greasy food court lunches. Yes, we have truly become lean, mean dieting machines.

7. I don’t have a life.

As my body grew bigger, my world became smaller. Over the years, I systematically removed anything remotely fun and exciting from my life, until I’d created a reclusive existence limited to home, work, the supermarket, and that’s about it. I haven’t had any hobbies aside from … eating a lot of crap.

But the positive side of being so antisocial is I’ve got very little to distract me from the task. I can conduct my everyday life on autopilot, leaving my mind free to obsess about points and menu plans. I don’t want a life right now, to be honest. I don’t want to have to think about anything else but blasting away my pile of blubber. A weight problem this huge demands nothing less than 100 percent focus and commitment.

I used to fantasize about being abducted to a Secret Fat Camp. I longed to vanish from society for a solid year and be bullied into shape by a crack team of shrinks, chefs, and military men; then, once slim and reformed, I’d be released back onto the streets. But back here in reality, living like a recluse is my next best option.