The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (30 page)

It amazes me I’ve lived overseas long enough to have accumulated nostalgia.

And what a crying shame to be parting company with my treasured flatmates, with their moldy yogurts in the fridge and penchant for playing
The Best of Elton John
at midnight. I woke up this morning and thought, This is the last day on my own. Tomorrow I’m off to what will soon be the marital home. Soon I’m going to be MARRIED!

What would you do if you had just twenty-four hours left as a single person? Take yourself out for lunch? Go clubbing? Bungee jump? Furiously masturbate, all day long?

I chose to go to the gym, scramble some eggs, then arrange my boarding pass collection in chronological order. I was a thrill-seeking singleton right to the end.

I finally made my confession in Amsterdam airport while we waited for our connection to San Francisco. We’d been up since 3:00
A.M.,
so we were disheveled and barely coherent. The timing was perfect!

“Hey Gareth,” I said nervously, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

He turned paler than his already pale Scottish complexion. “Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s about how I met Jillian. There’s this website.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a diary, really. My diary. It’s about losing weight and stuff. I’ve been losing weight and writing about it for years. And lots of people read it.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“That’s actually how I met Erin and got involved with the book stuff.”

“Oh!”

I babbled on apologetically for ten minutes but he just sighed and said, “Jeez, you had me worried! I thought you were going to call off the wedding. I mean, how many times does someone say there’s something they have to tell you and it’s not awful news?”

“So it’s not awful?”

“Of course it’s not awful!” He smiled. “I think it’s rather cool. I don’t know why you’d think otherwise.”

Bloody hell. I’ve been such a goose.

Twelve hours later we sat in Jillian’s big American kitchen. I gazed in an adoring, jet-lagged stupor at her big American fridge with the big American gallon bottles of milk and her big American pantry with the big American cereal boxes in it.

“So before Gareth comes downstairs,” Jillian whispered as she ladled out homemade vegetable soup. “Does he know the score?”

“Yes.” I grinned. “I’m out of the closet!”

I loved Jillian the moment I saw her jumping up and down and waving at the airport. Not only was she kind, funny, and totally not a serial killer or stamp collector, she’d made soup and salad to help keep me sweet inside my wedding dress.

Over dinner with her husband Greg she told Gareth how she’d started reading my site after a woman mentioned it at her Weight Watchers meeting. I almost choked on the tiny alphabet pasta to hear that somebody had been talking about my silly website, halfway around the world.

“I’m so proud of Shauna,” she went on. “It’s been amazing to see her transform!”

Gareth smiled as Jillian talked about how she’d “watched” me go from large and depressed to significantly smaller and happier. I always forget that I’m not just talking to myself when I send my tortured text into the ether. There are real people like Jillian, reading away over a morning coffee. And now I was in her house eating her soup! Could life get any more wonderful and bizarre?

Later, as I was drifting off to sleep at the jet-lagged time of 7:30
P.M.,
Gareth snuggled up and said, “I’m proud of you. It was dead cool to hear Jillian talk about how you’ve inspired people.”

I squirmed and blushed, too mortified to speak. Dietgirl had only lived in my head for four years, so it felt strange to have her come to life.

“Steady there, tiger,” I finally said, “I’m not like Mother Teresa or anything.”

I told him that there are hundreds of other people around the world writing about their fat and they make me feel I’m not alone. Every day, without fail, I’ll read something that inspires me to think or cry or giggle. Blogging has been my favorite lard-busting tool. We share our ups and downs and we’re fallible, unlike those magazine success stories where they say, “I walked the dog and ate fun-size Mars Bars and lost a steady two pounds a week!”

I don’t think it was until I heard Jillian talking about it to my almost-husband, out loud and so far from home, that I truly appreciated that it’s a living, breathing, incredible thing.

On Wedding Day, I woke up cucumber cool and keen to get down the aisle. Gareth, on the other hand, stared out the window of our Luxor hotel room, looking handsome but bewildered in his kilt.

“Don’t jump, sexy legs,” I said, “I promise you it won’t be that bad!”

I was too busy being vain and obnoxious to be nervous. Ladies, if you’ve ever thought of eloping, consider a few things. Are you capable of dressing yourself? Will you remember to break in your shoes before the day of the wedding? Can you do up your own frock, or do you need to coat your body in margarine to have any hope of closing the zipper?

If not, you should go the traditional route, i.e., with bridesmaids and mothers and makeup artists and hairdressers—also known as personal slaves. These people will remind you to unpick that wedgie or powder your shiny nose before the photos. They will give you Something Blue so you don’t have to settle for writing the word
BLUE
on your foot with a pen. They provide the brains on the big day, so you don’t have to climb onto a hotel room sink and batter your head against the mirror like a moth, shrieking as you try to apply eye shadow under a fluorescent strip, “My eyes! My eyes! I can’t see my damn eyes in this damn light!”

After spending the past two weeks hiding my dress from Gareth, the surprise was ruined because I couldn’t zip it up myself. His strongest memory of the frock will be me slumped over the bathroom sink wheezing, “Just pull … a little … harder!”

I’m also sure that if the Mothership or Rhiannon had been present I wouldn’t have gotten married with only one earring. I lost one somewhere on the journey from our room to the Inclinator (the Luxor Hotel is shaped like a pyramid, with lifts that run on a diagonal down the side of it). It was only four pounds worth of earring, but they were long and dangly and foxy, dammit! Gareth and I crawled around on the pharaoh-patterned carpet for ten minutes to no avail.

Cue Fat Bride Freak-Out.

“Great!” I moaned. “The one day of my life I need to be classy. Why not just one day?”

“Just wear the one earring,” said Gareth calmly. “You’ll be totally punk, like Cyndi Lauper or something.”

“Bah. By the way, why didn’t you tell me to wear shorter heels? I feel like Lurch standing next to you.” With my fancy new shoes I thought I’d finally crossed off item number three on my To Do When I’m Skinny list, but losing 150 pounds hadn’t made my feet any more delicate.

I finally ceased grumbling when we got into a taxi and headed down the Strip. We zoomed past our fake Pyramid, the fake Statue of Liberty, the fake Eiffel Tower, and the fake Venice. With every tacky landmark my grin grew bigger. I was about to marry the love of my life in the most bizarre town on earth. Woohoo!

The wedding chapel was in downtown Vegas, conveniently located between a seedy motel and an establishment that promised
HOT NAKED CHICKS!

The foyer was decorated with photos of the veritable galaxy of previously wed stars. Jon Bon Jovi, Jay Leno, Billy Ray Cyrus, and some guy that used to be on
The Young and the Restless.
I gazed up at them as the receptionist handed me a bouquet of white flowers. “You’re here for the 11:30?”

“We’re the eleven.”

“Oh right! Groom’s name is… Garth? Garrett?”

“Gareth!”

“Oh, how unusual! Okey-dokey, then. You guys ready to get married?”

The photographer herded us into the chapel and arranged us into a dozen different poses in three minutes. Bride stand here, groom stand there. His arm here, her feet there. Hand up, chin down. Kiss here, grope there.

“Now, will you be exchanging rings? We need to get the bling shot.”

Gareth and I grimaced. “Umm, sorta.”

I pulled two rings off my hand. “We didn’t get ’round to buying them so we’re just going to use these ones and turn them upside down so they look like wedding bands.”

The photographer pointed at one of them. “What is that?”

“It’s jade! Well… pretend jade. Got it from a market in Moscow for twenty rubles.”

He raised his eyebrow at Gareth. “Big spender, aren’t ya, buddy?”

Next we were introduced to the reverend who’d be doing the officials. She was cute and round like Dawn French in
The Vicar of Dibley.

“So it’s Shauna and… Gar-eth?” She pronounced his name like it rhymed with “caress,” with an added lisp.

“Gareth!”

“Shauna and Gary, OK. Now, Gary, you come with me down the aisle and we’ll shut those French doors so the bride can make her dramatic entrance. I’ll say a few poignant words, then we do the vows, and then you’ll be married!”

Even as the Bridal March cranked up, I still couldn’t grasp that this was our wedding. I just smiled at the cheesy photos on the wall and adjusted my dress for the hundredth time. Despite abstaining from carbs for the past week, it still choked my flesh like a sausage casing.

Suddenly the doors opened and I strolled down the aisle in a daze, vaguely thinking, Oh, there’s Gareth in his kilt, but mostly, Woohoo! I can walk in these heels! I half listened as the reverend said a prayer and some words about love and two lives coming together.

But as soon as she started the vows—pow! I was finally in the moment.

We didn’t know beforehand how the vows would be phrased, but they turned out to be simple and eloquent. Gareth held my hands, absently brushing his thumbs back and forth over my wrists like he always does. That gesture usually makes me feel calm and reassured, but this time it was electric. Until that moment this whole Vegas caper had just felt like a really elaborate vacation. But now we looked at each other with a mixture of nerves and tenderness and Holy Fucking Shit Batman, We’re Getting Married!

“Now repeat after me,” said the reverend. “‘Jared, I love you.’”

“
Gareth!
” I corrected. “I love you!”

And I’d never meant it so much as right then. My eyes prickled with tears and my heart pounded like a Bon Jovi power ballad.

We promised to love and cherish, but there were no lines about obeying, darnit. Then we exchanged our shoddy pretend wedding rings.

The reverend smiled. “Now you may seal your marriage with a big kiss!”

And then we were hitched.

We headed to the counter to collect our certificate and pay the bill. A lady in a red sequined minidress and her tight-denim fella were next in the queue for the aisle.

“So you guys are all done,” smiled the receptionist, handing me a receipt.

“Cool!” I gawked at the wedding certificate in disbelief. “Oh! I almost forgot. Do we get the DVD now or will you post it to us later?”

“You ordered the DVD? I don’t think there’s a DVD included with your package.”

“True, but I called back a few weeks ago to add it.”

She flipped through the book. “Oh yes. Here it is. So you did.
Oh.
Right.” She looked pale. “Umm. Let me go check with the photographer.”

A few minutes later the photographer rushed in, clutching his forehead, “Oh … shoot!”

“You didn’t film their wedding?”

“
Oh… shoot!
”

They were aghast and apologetic; perhaps they thought I’d go all Litigation Bride on them!

“We are so sorry,” said the lady. “Our photographer didn’t see that we’d added a note about the DVD. I can refund you right away.”

“It’s OK, really,” I said. “But the only problem is that my mother was very insistent we get the DVD, so I don’t dare go home without it.”

“OK,” she said. “We’ll just have to reshoot.”

“Reshoot? Do the wedding again?”

“If you guys don’t mind. It’s the least we can do!”

Gareth and I were in stitches. Two weddings in ten minutes? Classy! If we stuck around another hour we could beat Elizabeth Taylor’s record.

“I’ll tell you what, how about we throw in Elvis too? Since you’re being so good about this. He’s right here and ready to go!”

“Well…” I’d seen the Elvis impersonators on the chapel website. One was a strapping specimen; lean, leather-suited, and in his prime. The other represented the King’s declining years, when he’d discovered the fried peanut butter sandwiches. Was it wrong of me not to want the Fat Elvis? Was I betraying my own kind? I felt a guilty rush of relief when Elvis the Slender swaggered in. The photographer briefed him on the situation and he grinned and gave the thumbs-up.

Gareth took his place by the altar and they closed the French doors again. I caught my reflection in the window. My dress, so snug around my hips, had twisted around so the zipper was at the side instead of over my butt. I prayed I’d get through my fake wedding without splitting the seams.

The doors opened again.

It was then I recalled the Mothership’s reaction when I told her we were running away to Vegas. There’d been a long pause on the line before she asked, “Are you sure you’re taking this marriage thing seriously?”

“We’re taking the marriage seriously, Mother,” I explained. “Just not the wedding!”

And there was Elvis waiting for me, strumming his guitar and crooning “Love Me Tender.” I hooked my arm through his and willed myself not to laugh for the next five minutes. I could hear the tripod screech every time the video camera changed position. This was going to be a highly sophisticated production.

“Who gives away this woman today?” the reverend asked as we reached the end of the runway.

“On behalf of her friends and family,” drawled Elvis, “I do! Elvis, the King of Rock and Roll!” He winked at Gareth. “She’s all yours, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Gareth drawled. “Thank you very much!”

The reverend plowed through the vows again. For the benefit of the camera, we tried to recreate the sincerity and sentiment of our first marriage. I tried to get my voice to waver on the vows, so people wouldn’t know this was my second time. I managed to kiss the groom with the same enthusiasm I had all those minutes before.