The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (32 page)

The first session this afternoon was hell. I thought I’d built up a reasonable level of fitness with all my gym classes, but running is a different beast. There’s no instructor to tell me what to do. There’s no machine to slump on when I get tired. It’s just me, my body, and the open road.

When you’ve avoided running your whole life, it feels bizarre to arrange your body in a running-type configuration. Julia’s instructions were customized for the absolute beginner, so I alternated walking with one-minute bursts of running. Or rather, one-minute bursts of slightly swifter shuffling. My lungs! My poor lungs! Where had all the air gone? Why was my face on fire?

I’d never felt so inept in my life. I looked at the ground the whole time, hoping it would render me invisible to all the real runners in the park. I should have resurrected the old Vampire Method!

Gareth, on the other hand, loped along effortlessly, throwing punches and singing the theme from
Rocky,
“Shauna’s training! Getting strong now! Won’t be long now!”

When we finally finished, my face was so red it melded seamlessly with my hair and eyebrows. Gareth hadn’t even broken sweat. The bastard.

How will I ever last five kilometers?

There was a girl beside me on the train platform this afternoon who appeared to be about the same size I was at my largest. She looked nervous as the train pulled in, shuffling from foot to foot. I wondered what was wrong. Sometimes I look nervous when the train arrives too, because I’m always trying to guess where the doors will be when it stops. I’ve been very lucky lately; the doors have landed right in front of my nose, so I can get right on board with a good chance of getting a seat. It’s a beautiful thing!

The Door Gods smiled on me again today, and I was about to jump on when I noticed the girl looked even more flustered. Suddenly I recognized that agitated expression. I stepped back and let her get on first.

She didn’t venture into the carriage proper, where most of the seats are, but instead hung around in the open space at the end where the bike rack and toilets are. There’s just one seat that folds down from the wall, and she swooped on it immediately. That space is always hot and noisy, but since everyone else was busy fighting over the seats in the air-conditioned bit, she had it all to herself.

I didn’t feel pity; it was simply a moment of recognition and empathy. I’ve almost forgotten how my days used to be an endless series of logistical operations. Trying to maneuver my body down narrow shop aisles without knocking over merchandise. Praying that I’d fit in the cape at the hairdresser’s. Making plans with friends then wondering if I should put antichafing powder on my thighs in case they wanted to walk anywhere. Rushing onto trains to find a seat so I wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. Always trying to anticipate danger.

The Fat Girl Logistics Department has been retired for quite some time. I don’t have to worry about nonretracting seat belts or breaking chairs in restaurants anymore. But today I remembered how exhausting it was, physically and mentally, just getting around. All the dread and fatigue flooded back, and I kept patting the empty space around my seat to make sure I really did fit.

Gareth still hasn’t read a word of this journal. I didn’t ask him to stay away; he just said he didn’t want to intrude on my private space. If the situation were reversed, I’m not sure I’d be so polite. If he told me he used to be really fat and depressed and I could read all the filthy details, there’s no way I could resist!

Part of me wants him to visit and slog his way through the archives. I want him to see the hard evidence of how different I used to be. Not to show off my lard-busting prowess, but to give him the full background. I’ve only made vague references to my pudgy past, so if he read about it, maybe he’d understand why I can still be such a nutter about my body.

On Sunday we commenced Week Four of our running regime. Well, Gareth was running, I was still gasping and turning redder than my hair. I had that blind, white-hot, premenstrual rage coursing through my veins. It was just too bloody hard, and there was still another t wenty-five minutes to go.

I glared sideways at Gareth. I hated him for barely breaking sweat while my own heart clobbered against my ribs. Didn’t he realize how traumatic this was for me? Didn’t he realize that I used to be so unfit that I might as well have been comatose?

“Hey,” I wheezed, “do you want to know why I hate this so much? [Puff puff puff] Do you want to know why I’m so bloody cranky and find this so bloody difficult? Well! I used to weigh twice as much as you do now. [Pant] Yeah that’s right,
twice
as much! I couldn’t walk around the block, let alone run! So just try and imagine that, buddy. Two of
you
stapled together!”

That told him, I thought. At last he knows the awful truth!

“It doesn’t matter what you used to weigh,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “What matters is that you found the guts to change your life. Learning to run is just your next adventure.”

What? He was supposed to say,
Wow, you were huge! How remarkable, then, that you jogged for thirty seconds today when before you couldn’t tie your own shoelaces. Let’s go home and I’ll make you a cup of tea to celebrate!

I just don’t know what to make of myself or my body these days. Am I still a helpless blob that deserves patronizing applause for making the effort to waddle to the fridge? Or am I just as Gareth sees me, a normal, healthy chick taking up a new fitness challenge?

Last week I was hanging out with Maghie and Vicki, two friends of Gareth’s who are fast becoming friends of mine. We’re all madly into healthy living, so we got together to drink herbal tea and talk about tofu and yoga. Part of me was in seventh heaven to find such like-minded souls, but part of me wondered if they were thinking, Who’s this big lump, thinking she knows all about health and fitness? I felt like a fraud.

Eventually curiosity got the better of Gareth. He asked me as we were drifting off to sleep, “Did you really weigh 350 pounds?”

“Yes.”

“Life must have been a lot different back then.”

He was warm and understanding, just like he would have been if I’d been honest right from the start. But instead of being relieved I got defensive and refused to talk. I started crying there in the dark, feeling ashamed, as if all those extra pounds had suddenly reattached to my body. I imagined floating above the bed, looking down at the two of us—a huge blubbery pile of me with slender Gareth curled up behind.

I don’t quite know who I want to be lately. I feel so desperate to escape from the Old Shauna, but part of me doesn’t want to let her go. Maybe I’m just too scared to find out if the new one is for real.

I’m happy to have lost four pounds over the past seven weeks, but all this running makes me ravenous. I can’t stop thinking about food! I was walking home from the train station today when I caught sight of a sign above a shop on the high street. Half of it was obscured as I went around the corner, so I could only see:

N T A L
E R Y

Oh yes! My stomach purred with excitement. Continental Bakery! Bring on the pies and pastries!

Imagine my heartbreak when I got closer and saw the full picture:

D E N T A L
S U R G E R Y

Today I came out of the fat-blogging closet!

Well, partially.
Tales from the Scale
was finally released in America this month, so in a bold move I sent copies to Rhiannon and the Mothership.

Mum sent me a text message last night:
Nice book, thank u!

I wrote back, mimicking her nagging tones:
DID YOU LOOK at the contributor biographies in the back of the book?

OMG!
came the reply.

It’s so exciting to be in print! At first I played it cool, thinking I shouldn’t get too smug about having a few pages in someone else’s book. But then the glee won out and I had to jump up and down and scream. This is something I’ve dreamed of my whole life. When I was a kid, all my friends wanted to be teachers or models, but I’d always say, “I want to be an author.” I don’t know where I heard the word but I liked the way it sounded. Try and imagine my tiny Aussie accent: OR-THA!

Now all my nearest and dearest not only know I’m an Ortha, but they know I’ve spent the past four years babbling about my blubber on the Internet. It’s been such a relief to come clean. Rhiannon was excited and seemed to understand why I needed my little sanctuary, which helped ease my guilt. The Mothership was over the moon too. “I’m very proud of you, Miss Dietgirl!” she said on the phone tonight. “Would you mind if I took a peek at your Internet hideout?”

“Umm, if you like.”

“I might pick up a few more tips from you. Not that I need them, I’m melting away!”

“Are you?”

“Oh yes! I started with the walking just like you said, and six months later, well! I don’t think you’ll recognize me by the time you come over.”

“That’s great, Ma. I’ll look forward to it.”

“You know I showed your chapters to my neighbor,” she went on. “She’s a big lady too. She just cried because she couldn’t believe how much she related to your story. It’s amazing, don’t you think? How we’re all fat and going through the same thing?”

“It’s true, dear Mothership. We’re all well-padded people in a universal padded cell.”

There’s only one week until race day! I’m trying to remember to breathe. I know I’ve improved, but I’m still going to be overtaken by leathery grandmas, so much fitter than me despite living on tins of cat food.

What we need here is a Rockyesque montage of my progress over the past ten weeks. We wouldn’t even need to make it in slow motion, because my motion is slow enough already. Cue soft focus and stirring orchestration!

Imagine if you will:

• Pathetic prerun arguments:

SHAUNA: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THIS AGAIN!

GARETH: I’M MAKING YOU DO IT?

SHAUNA: YES, YOU!

GARETH: YOU’LL BE FINE.

SHAUNA: BUT WE ONLY DID THIS TWO DAYS AGO! SHOULDN’T THAT BE ENOUGH? UNTIL THE END OF TIME?

• A dramatic collapse on the grass at the end of Week Three, Session Two, followed by a dramatic declaration: “I will never walk again!”

• The ongoing saga of the Reddest Face in the World:

CONCERNED FATHER-IN-LAW: DID YOU GET A WEE BIT SUNBURNED TODAY?

SHAUNA: NO, I AM STILL RECOVERING FROM MY RUN THREE HOURS AGO.

• The Hill Sprints of Week Six: Gareth racing up stairs and pumping a triumphant fist in air à la Rocky; Shauna arriving some two minutes later.

• Great moments of fatigue and delirium, when Shauna is so slow that Gareth must literally run on the spot to match her pace:

SHAUNA: MY BODY WON’T WORK! I CAN’T RUN ANYMORE!

GARETH: IT’S NOT RUNNING IF YOU DON’T LIFT LIFT YOUR FEET OFF THE GROUND!

• Revenge of the Vegetable Chili: in which Shauna farts uncontrollably when running up hills.

• Tears and ice packs in Week Eight as our athlete spends a week sidelined by a knee injury. Experts recommend increasing your mileage by no more than 10 percent per week, but some bright spark wrote down Julia’s instructions incorrectly and accidentally increased it by 25 percent!

• The touching finale. After Sunday’s grueling run, once again collapsed on the grass, our athlete experiences her first endorphin rush:

GARETH: YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU ENJOYED THAT.

SHAUNA: NO I DIDN’T.

GARETH: YOU DID SO
.

SHAUNA: PERHAPS, BRIEFLY. ON SOME LEVEL
.

After ten weeks I still hate running. I commence bitching and moaning two hours before each session and do not let up until we’re finished. Then I feel all smug and virtuous for about 24 hours before I start fretting about the next run. Every step has been a constant battle between my increasingly adventurous body and my lazy, sabotaging brain.

But running has been such a positive experience. In terms of the lard busting, there hasn’t been much change on the scale, but my clothes are fitting better and my legs look much slimmer.

Most dazzling is what’s going on in my head. Running has given me a newfound respect for my body. I’m focusing on what it can do instead of what it looks like. I’m in awe of its incredible ability to adapt to every challenge I throw at it. Five kilometers is hardly a marathon, but I can honestly say learning to run is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I’m so proud that I completed every training session and didn’t give up. Most of the time it’s sweat and torture and yappy dogs getting under my feet, but it’s worth it for those brief, thrilling moments when my limbs move like liquid and my mind floats happily above.

Signs your running event may be in Scotland:

1. It’s raining so hard that worms have been washed up from underground.

2. There’s a burger van.

3. The chick beside you at the starting line is eating a burger from said van AND smoking a fag at the same time.

The atmosphere at the Race for Life was electric, with 7,000 women of all ages, shapes, and sizes limbering up in the rain. Some had little pink signs on their backs with the names of loved ones they’d lost. Some folk were in fancy costume. Some were just content to gulp down their prerace cigarette and let the irony of smoking at a cancer charity event waft over their head.

I’d had to staple my race number to my T-shirt since there were no safety pins in our house. Who the hell has safety pins? The Mothership, Nanny, my supremely organized sister—they would have had safety pins. It took Gareth and me around half an hour to attach the stupid number without getting it crooked and/or piercing my boobs, but I was happy with the end result. They say safety pins are punk rock, but I say staples are even more so.