My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding (23 page)

She’s a lovely blonde, like me, and she probably weighs the same as I do. While everyone else attending this class isn’t exactly stick thin, I think me and the other remaining standing woman are the heaviest two in the class. When she sits onto her ball, her facial expression reveals that she must have the same trepidations that I’m experiencing. Her ball doesn’t burst though, and I witness first hand the sigh of relief that escapes her lips.

Figuring it’s okay now, I point my own arse at my exercise ball and lean back. I go down too quickly though.

“Whooooo!” I shout, losing my balance. The ball beneath my butt doesn’t pop, it shoots out from under me and I land splat on my tail bone. “Ouch.” I mumble as tears of pain spring into my eyes.

“My love!”

Rolling over onto my tummy reveals a horror of horrors to my un-false-lash-clad eyes. Thomas is booking it towards me.

“What the hell?” I screech as everyone in the class turns to look at me.

Brenda jumps up off her ball, shuts off the music that’s echoing throughout the room and meets Thomas halfway. “Leave her be, boy.” She turns and crouches down next to me. “Are you alright love? We really need to be getting on with the rest of the lesson.”

“Of course she’s not all right!” Thomas kneels down and before I can roll away (I’m not about to stand up yet as my backside is throbbing) the blonde kid reaches out and plants his hand directly onto my left butt-cheek.

In the words of American Kirsten on an anger-front, I slap the moron’s hand away. “Oh no you didn’t!” I screech and get to my feet. The pain in my tail bone is bearable compared to the harassment I’d have to endure if I’d chosen to remain in a vulnerable prostrate position. “Come with me, you sexually harassing little…”

I stop before swearing my head off. Everyone is looking at me. I do halfway care about further embarrassing myself, but only just. I refrain from further curse words.

“You little so-and-so.” Is the only name calling I give to Thomas as I practically kick him out of the gym. “I’m telling your manager on you!”

Well, that was about as mature as the boy himself and his arse-groping hand.

Chapter 15

I told on Thomas to his boss yesterday, completely forgetting that the lad had previously been sacked. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because I’m not sure the Meli Spa manager believed me at the time. Thomas had done a runner and Brenda went on with her exercise ball class without me.

Nevertheless, the manager had offered me a free spa treatment (as way of apology for Thomas and his bum feeling tactics that may or may not have happened in the managers’ eyes) that I plan on making use of soon. I’m sure I’ll definitely need some down time after mine and Callum’s wedding and honeymoon. The lead up to our big day is certainly proving stressful. I need something to calm me halfway down. I don’t want to relax too much as I need to keep my energy levels up to burn calories.

After work at the cafe I scoop my Kindle eBook reader off the coffee table. I type “diet” into the search field and wait while the eInk screen loads up the Amazon eBookStore. There are so many fucking books on dieting, I have to narrow down my search keywords to “exercise wedding diet” and hope that will do the trick.

It does.

The title of the suggested eBook that pops up on my Kindle screen catches my attention promptly. It called…

‘Fat Bitch = Fat Bride’ by Judith Shield

The eBook is only .99 pence, so I purchase it straight away from download. The forward of the diet book reads like this…

‘If you’re a fat bitch then you WILL be a fat bride. Read my book now to improve your chances of walking down that aisle at a decent size. You don’t want everyone staring at you thinking you’re nothing but a fat bitch, now do you?’

I shake my head at my Kindle screen in agreement contemplating, no Miss Shield Author Woman, I do not want people thinking I’m a fat bitch. And then I read on…

‘If you’ve purchased my book then you’ve taken the first steps to getting rid of your fat bitch status. However, you’re still currently a very fat bitch, so you need to come to terms with this fact.’

After reading the entire forward that goes on in this manner, I’m not sure I feel motivated to start working out double-time, or if I’m feeling much too depressed about my weight to even go on with life.

No, that’s just silly. How could a two-page piece about a book make me feel worse than before I’d read it? That’s not what professional authors do. If this book has made it to publication as a sound way of getting fat bitches —such as myself— to take charge of their pre-wedding lives, then that’s good enough for me!

At least, it should be, right?

Why do I have feelings of doubt about this dieter’s eBook? I’m not quite sure, so I start reading the first chapter. The fact that the book starts out with the words “bully” and “exercise-nazi” as a way of describing the author’s teaching tactics, doesn’t deter me from reading on in the slightest. After all, I’m guessing if a woman is a fat bitch —like me— sometimes they need harsher training advice.

Something tingles at the back of my eyes as I read more of the weight-loss eBook. I discover they are tears of sadness. The more I read about how fat the author thinks I am, the more depressed I become about my weight. In the back of my mind I’m hoping the creator of this self-help book is wrong, but a part of me can’t help wondering if I think that only because the truth hurts. I mean, I am a fat bitch, I know I must be, and I don’t want to be a fat bride. So, I read on and on some more…

By the time I’ve read the first half of the book I’m more confused and stressed out than ever. At least, I think I am. If Judith Shield were here with me right now, would she tell me I’m stressing? No. On the contrary, she’d probably call me a lazy bitch and tell me to get up off my fat arse and start exercising.

Throwing down my Kindle onto the couch cushion I jump up and start pacing the room. Momentarily, I stop and grab my iPhone off the coffee table. I do a search on Facebook and I’m shown results for the Fat Bitch group page thingy.

“Hurry up!” I yell at my phone when the page takes ages to load. My nerves are on edge. I’m anxious and I don’t even know why.

Finally, the Fat Bitch = Fat Bride page loads. I scroll down through adds for the authors next book: Fat Bride = Jiggly Honeymoon which gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. I vow to never read the author’s follow up book. I won’t have to because I’m not going to be a Fat Bitch Bride! I’m determined not to end up on honeymoon having my fat jiggling everywhere as I try to make love to my new husband!

At last I’ve reached comments from readers of Shield’s book. I’m surprised to find that many of the entries seem as confused as I am. There are a few motivational comments by women who claim they lost weight after reading the Fat Bitch book, but other than those, most of the replies aren’t helpful at all.

“Argh.” I harrumph loudly and throw down my phone in great disgust, just like I’d done with my Kindle. They are digital devices though. Even though it’s a soft cushion I’ve thrown them onto, I really should be more careful with these bits of technology. My Kindle screen has gone dodgy by blanking out a few times already.

“Oh fuck it.” I mumble and pick up the pacing once again. I don’t care about any sort of gadget right now. What I care about is my fat and how it is absolutely plaguing me now that I’ve read that eBook. I know the truth about myself that I should have realised ages ago.

I’m a fat bitch who’s determined not to be a fat bride.

***

I did think it was a bit dodgy that the actual advice on how to lose weight was at the halfway mark of the ‘Fat Bitch = Fat Bride’ book, but I’m guessing the author wrote it that way as she had so much to say in the beginning. And what the book did say, in the front matter, was a lot about how disgusting fat is. They were well-made points by the author. I think. I mean, don’t people who are struggling with weight-loss problems need this type of motivation in their lives? Well, I’m not sure about calling what’s written on the ePages as motivating, but it’s certainly got me feeling. Feeling like a blimp at this point.

As for the actual exercise advice, there’s one tip from the book I can start with right now. Miss Judith Shield suggests doing house work as exercise, so I get right to it.

Instead of turning on the dishwasher, I pull out the dishes one by one and start washing them each by hand. When I’m finished I load them back into the dishwasher and then I turn it on.

There’s a miniscule pile of washing in the laundry room. “Oh well that’s definitely not enough clothes for an entire wash,” I say, making up excuses not to use the washing machine.

I’m slightly aware that talking out loud to myself is a feature of going crazy, but I don’t care. I’m crazy motivated to implement the Fat Bride advice. For added measure, I kick the laundry basket. “Stupid fat.” I shout, again out loud. “I’m going to burn you off my body if it kills me.”

Bending, I pick up the plastic basket that’s not even half full of clothes. I don’t load the washing into the machine though, instead I make my way upstairs. Once I’m on the first floor I head straight into the loo and dump the apparel items into the bath. After dropping the basket onto the floor I remember something from the diet book. It said to wear wrist and ankle weights while working-out for extra fat burning potential.

Running quickly into the bedroom, I don both ankle and wrist weight.

“Ah shit,” I complain, before turning on the bath taps. “These are going to get wet.” Looking down at my wrist weights, I contemplate momentarily before quickly coming to the conclusion that this is a good thing. After all, water will add weight to my wrist weights and then I’ll be able to burn even more fat off my arms!

I am going to wash laundry by hand, oh yes I am. I whip on the tap and fill the tub with warm water. Luckily all the clothes are dark in colour, so nothing needs separating. I get down onto my knees and lean over the bath after turning off the taps.

“Oh bugger.”

I’ve forgotten the washing powder and fabric conditioner.

“Oh joy!” I yell. I don’t know if this outburst is me faking joviality at the thought that running down —and then back up— the stairs is honest happiness. I’m just trying to instil a sense of ambition within myself like the Fat Bride book told me to do. Well, it didn’t really say very motivating things, but I just don’t know how comfortable I am with calling myself a fat bitch. Especially as I’m just starting out with this new regime by Doctor Shield.

I do run down and then back up the steps with washing powder and fabric conditioner in hand. I’m getting very sweaty now as everything I’m doing is with ankle and wrist weights attached to their relative body parts.

“Oh shit.” I swear again upon entering the bathroom. I’m wondering if I’ve put too much water into the tub. Ah well, I suppose I’ll just have to use double the amount of washing powder. I pour in four scoops, bend down again, lean over the rounded edge of the tub and get to work.

“Scrub a dub dub, I’m an old fashioned blub.”

I start crooning to myself. I’m making up a lunatic song about my current exercise efforts.

“Back in the day, they’d wash shit this way.”

Suddenly, my lyrics become a rap.

“By hand, yo! That’s where it’s at. Ratta tat tat, scrub that crap. Rub those kickers, and they’ll scrub up quickers!”

I’m really getting into the groove of things now. I don’t know why I didn’t think of doing laundry by hand sooner. No wonder women were thinner two hundred years ago, anyone who did laundry without a washing machine really got loads of exercise. I’m sweating more now than I did running up and down the stairs!

Once I’ve finished washing everything, I lean down and stretch my back, which hurts. I guess being on my knees in such a bad position for so long wasn’t such a great idea. Not as far as cramping goes, anyway. My legs are stiff when I stand up.

“Ooohhhh,” I moan in agony. Placing my hands on my lower back, I bend to the side and popping sounds exude from my lower spine. “Aaahhh,” I hiss. “That’s better.”

Looking down into the bath I notice all the bubbles have gone from the surface and the water is a brownish grey colour.

“Yuck.” I state, matter-of-factly. It’s a disgusting job, doing the wash by hand, but someone (namely fat me) has to do it if she wants to get in a good workout!

Hang on a minute. I think I’m getting a grip on the name-calling thing now. The author of the diet book did have things right. There’s a bit of advice that she mentions in the beginning of the book that I understand now. It’s not exercise that’s suggested, but I’m ready to try out the mentioned tips. Right after I ring out all this soaked laundry though.