The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (23 page)

I think my bedroom anxiety runs parallel to my general relationship anxiety. I’ve always liked to keep people at a distance, so being in love makes me feel vulnerable. Sometimes I look at Gareth and see our future unfolding, all the way until we’re crotchety pensioners shouting at the television, but I can’t decide if that thrills or scares me. I feel exposed when I’m naked, all pale and streaked with stretch marks, trying to trust the tenderness of his touch. I worry that it’s all too good to be true, that it’s more happiness than I deserve.

But most of the time my heart and body are not afraid. This wasn’t what I expected to happen but why not let go? Someday soon he’ll be able to run his hand over my body without me hurriedly sucking in my stomach.

Gareth has just left for a two-week Canadian holiday. He’s trying to juggle his thesis with starting a full-time job, so the poor lad has earned his break.

The first thing I did after waving him off at the airport was bawl for two solid hours. It’s not that I’m a jealous loser who doesn’t want her fella having fun without her; I just hate saying goodbye. It felt like reality biting me in the arse. I’m Australian, he’s Scottish, and my visa expires in twelve months’ time.

I’ve stopped short of drawing up an actual Excel spreadsheet, but I’ve tallied up all the time we’ll be apart this year, with my travel plans and his holidays and business trips. So far it’s six weeks for me and five for him, which adds up to sweet bugger all time left together!

I shouldn’t even speculate about the future after just four months together. But it still gnaws at my gut, knowing sooner or later I’ll have to face up to it.

I’m such a lovesick twit. And still paranoid. I’m convinced he’s going to wake up one sunny Vancouver morning and realize he really could do better.

You know what’s funny about losing a stack of weight? Nothing really changes. All that happens is that you lose the thing upon which you used to hang all your neuroses. Fat has shape and substance; you can poke it with a stick. It’s a scapegoat and a handy excuse. Once you start to lose it, you realize you’re stuck with the same moronic core.

Overblown weight loss analogy of the week: the fat-busting process is like having a delicate dish simmering on the stove. If you don’t constantly watch the pot, it will boil over or stick to the bottom. You’ve been whisking so hard and so long that your wrist is sorer than that of a fifteen-year-old boy with a stack of
Playboy
. You’re frowning at the recipe, Shouldn’t something be happening by now? But you have to stay there at that stove, baby! Stay there until the dish is done!

Today, at least, the kitchen feels somewhat under control. I’ve lost weight again. I’ve stopped moping about Gareth and I’m savoring my solo time. I even had a day off work yesterday and did all these little Edinburgh things I’ve wanted to do for months. I wandered through Dean Village and over to the Modern Art Gallery. I lingered over scones and tea in the café, then sat outside on the grass writing postcards until, in fine Scottish tradition, it started to rain.

I saw one of my Geriatric Rescue colleagues at the café, and it made me smile to think I’ve lived here long enough to “bump into” people.

“You’re looking well, Shauna!” she said. “Have you lost more weight?”

I was secretly pleased that she could see a difference, but quickly mumbled, “Maybe a little bit. But I’m not done yet!”

Just to flog that kitchen analogy some more—this lard-busting business makes me feel like an overzealous cook, slaving over Christmas lunch. People keep coming into the kitchen to lift saucepan lids and peek in the fridge, demanding to know when it will be ready. The cook starts screaming, “
Get out of my kitchen!
” Nobody’s allowed to look until it’s perfectly done!

It happened last Saturday at the hairdresser’s. My stylist looked me up and down as she helped me into the cape. “Are you shrinking?” she asked. “Your trousers are huge on you!”

“I don’t know,” I blushed. “Perhaps. Maybe. Either way, I’m still working on it!”

Don’t look! Work in progress! Not finished yet!

There was a moment today when I had a glimpse of what it’s like to just have a body, as opposed to the Body; that capitalized Thing that I spend so much time and energy worrying about.

I spent Easter Monday with Gareth and his lovely family. Not only did our love survive his Canadian jaunt—we’ve progressed to Meet the Parents level! I wish it were physically possible to kick my own arse for all that unnecessary angst.

After our pub lunch we went to a park to roll hard-boiled eggs down a hill. I was watching his little cousins playing on the swings when Gareth slipped his arms around my waist. “I see you’re busting for a go on those,” he said.

“Me?” I snorted. “I don’t think that seat is designed to contain an arse like mine.”

“Of course it is. Let’s go!”

To my surprise, I fit with room to spare.

The two of us swung back and forth and made lame jokes about always wanting to be swingers. We yelled at his parents like five-year-olds, “Look at me! Look at meeeeeee!”

It was thrilling to feel so light and carefree and … normal.

Until she was toddling toward us at the airport, I never quite believed the Mothership would make it to Edinburgh. But there she was with her huge grin and ridiculous sunglasses perched on her head.

“Hello darlings! I only just realized, I’ve had these on my head all the way from Canberra!”

Suddenly she dropped her handbag and did a dramatic double take. “Wow!” she crowed. “Lookin’ good, girl!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Ma.”

“Seriously! You’re so skinny!”

Rhiannon and I had expected tears aplenty after a year apart, but she launched right into her usual blathering.

“Would you look at this shirt? I’m a bloody disgrace!” She pointed to various crusty blobs. “That’s lunch at Sydney. And here’s my ravioli on the way to Singapore. And here’s a bit of breakfast before we got to Heathrow. Did you know I’ve had two breakfasts today? They gave me another one on the way to Edinburgh. I got two bits of bacon, scrambled eggs, half a tomato, and a bread roll. A stale bread roll.”

The strongest bond between my mother and me will always be our ability to collect meals on our clothing.

The three of us sat on the top deck of the airport bus and headed into the city. She frowned at the gray houses and concrete gardens and asked casually, “So… do you enjoy living here?”

She came bearing gifts of affordable Australian clothing. Twenty-dollar trousers, cheap T-shirts, and multipacks of socks and undies. Jackpot!

But all of the clothes were too big. I don’t know whether to celebrate finally outgrowing the Aussie Fat Shops or be crushed that I won’t be expanding my skeletal wardrobe.

Mum eyed me critically as I made my way through the pile. “Look at you!” she crowed. “You’ve got a waist now!”

“I’m getting there. Sort of.”

Scotland is small. If you tore it off from England and dumped it in outback Australia, it would take the Federal Police, Interpol, and a herd of Alsatians ten years to track it down again. But this tiny country is beautiful, and we only had one week to force-feed the Mothership as much of it as possible.

It’s ridiculous after just a year how protective you feel about a place. Mum would make an innocent comment like, “It’s raining!” or “How much for a cup of tea?” and we would splutter defensively, like she was a playground bully picking on our baby brother. Even though we’d whined about the same things last year.

We just wanted her to love Scotland like we do. So the grand tour kicked off at South Queensferry beneath the Forth Bridges.

“The red one is the rail bridge,” I explained. “Built in 1890. Look at it. Look at it!”

“I’m looking!”

“Take a picture!” said Rhiannon. “It was the greatest feat of Victorian engineering!”

We trundled through the gentle greenness of Perthshire. Look at the cows! Look at the castle! Are you looking? And again as we wound our way through the Highlands. Look at that loch! Get a load of that glen!

Finally we arrived on the Isle of Skye.

“Those mountains are the Cuillins, Ma,” I announced, with such ridiculous pride you’d think I’d given birth to them myself. “Don’t you think they’re beautiful? Eh? Eh?”

And so it went, all the way to Mull and Iona.

“Mothership,” I said as we drove along Mull’s nerve-racking single-track roads, “you’re doing that staring thing again.”

“I’m allowed to look at you! I haven’t seen you in over a year!”

I got the feeling she was slightly overwhelmed by our whirlwind tour. Not so much the packed itinerary but the poise with which we shuttled her around the countryside. We were assertive and organized, which was no surprise with Rhiannon; but I’d always been a passive creature. Now I was confident and opinionated, and when Mum kept applying the phantom brakes and muttering about my driving skills, I pulled the car over and said, “If you don’t shut up I’ll make you sit in the backseat!”

All week long she kept looking at me with bewilderment, perhaps even envy. I know she is struggling with her own weight problem, and that struggle was something we’ve always had in common. It feels as if the balance has subtly shifted in our relationship. I just hope she’s proud of me; I want her to see that I’m not so helpless and hopeless anymore.

On her last night in Scotland she finally met Gareth. It was hard to tell who was the most nervous. After half a glass of wine I calmed down and enjoyed the treat of seeing my three favorite people in the same place at once.

I could tell Gareth was charmed by the Mothership’s playground anecdotes, but it was hard to tell if the feeling was mutual. The strained smile and frequent nodding indicated she was struggling to comprehend his Scottish accent.

“So! What did you think?” I demanded, once Gareth had left to catch the train.

She smiled. “He’s wonderful! So down-to-earth. And he certainly thinks the world of you.”

“How could you tell? You didn’t understand a word he said!”

“Love transcends language, Shauna,” she said sagely.

“I see.”

“You’re quite serious about each other, aren’t you?”

“I think so.”

“Have you talked about the Future?”

“The future?”

“Yes, the Future. With a capital letter!” she said. “What will you do when your visa runs out next year? Should I start saving for another airfare in case of a certain special event?”

“A wedding?” I laughed. “We’ve only been together for five months!”

“I’m serious! Mothers have a nose for these things. I heard it in your voice the first day you mentioned him, and now I’ve seen it for myself.”

“Well, Nostradamus, I’ll keep you posted.”

Mum was sobbing when we left her at the departure gates. She looked so forlorn with her red eyes and perennial sunglasses on her head. I felt guilty for not summoning up the tears, but the sheer force of her personality means I never feel all the miles between us. Each time her chirpy voice blasts down the phone line, crapping on about her students or the latest motivational book, we grow closer than ever before. Besides, I’ll be home again soon. I guess.

Happy days! I just found out that I’m contributing to a book called
Tales from the Scale
that my fellow weight loss blogger Erin Shea is editing. I’ll be paid for something other than making coffee! I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but since I’m going to be in a Real Live Book, I couldn’t resist blurting the news to Gareth.

“Shauna in print!” he grinned. “That’s great news. So what’s the book about?”

“Umm…” How could I explain without betraying my secret? “It’s just about chicks,” I said vaguely, “and their weight loss experiences.”

“Cool! How did you get involved with that?”

“Well, I know Erin… from the Internet. It was a message board or something. Where chicks gather to talk about their fat.”

Yeah, that’ll do.

This morning Gareth was still snoozing in my bed when I left. That’s one of the perks of working for a small consultancy: he sets his own hours and works from home, while I must trudge to the office. When he went to leave a few hours later, one of my flatmates had locked the mortice on the front door, which he didn’t have a key for.

He phoned me at work. “I’m trapped inside your house! I’m the only one here!”

“Oh crap!” I said. “I’ll come home right now.”

“No, don’t worry. If you don’t mind me borrowing your laptop, I can crack on with some work. I’ll be fine!”

He’d be fine, but what about me, sitting at work all nauseous while he roamed about my room unsupervised? And the Folder! Oh Lord, the Folder. I’d printed out my entire Dietgirl diary ready to plunder for my book submission. The same Dietgirl diary I still haven’t told him about. It was sitting right there on my desk in a shiny silver folder that would be impossible to ignore. Shit shit shit!

I pictured him reading away, curled up on my bed with a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, discovering that his neurotic girlfriend actually has another fifteen levels of neurotic with her compulsion to tell the world about her belly rolls and binges.

At 3:00
P.M.
, I could stand it no longer. I feigned a headache and made my escape. I did my very best approximation of a sprint all the way home from the bus stop. I was gasping when I burst through the door to find Gareth engrossed in an engineering textbook. The Folder had not moved.

“Hiya.” He kissed me on the cheek. “You’re home early!”

“Oh yeah. Quiet day!”

I felt foolish but more so relieved. I know he knows I used to be bigger, but I still can’t bring myself to tell him the whole story. Deep down I know it wouldn’t matter to him, so why does it matter to me?

Later on I tested the waters and showed him a photo taken the day we left Australia. “Check this out,” I said. “You can tell I’ve lost a bit of weight this past year.”