The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (6 page)

Can you believe it’s been almost two months since I started on this adventure? I lost another two pounds on Monday night, so now I’ve lost forty-two pounds overall.

They tell you at Weight Watchers to use everyday objects to visualize your weight loss, so today at the supermarket I stared at the margarine display and did the sums: forty-two pounds is about nineteen kilograms. A tub of margarine is half a kilo, therefore I’ve lost thirty-eight tubs of margarine.

The numbers sound impressive but I still don’t look any different. Certainly not like someone’s hacked thirty-eight tubs of margarine from my body. How bloody long will it take to get some visible results?

Rhiannon is out on the town tonight so I’ve been left unsupervised for the first time since this adventure began.

I don’t quite know what to do with myself. Being alone used to be my cue to engage in serious feasting. A clandestine run to the supermarket or drive-through, or if that was too strenuous, I’d just dig out a chocolate bar from my secret store. But now that I’ve declared my bingeing days are over, what am I going to do instead? It’s not much fun, just me and my brain and a boring bottle of water. Without the distraction of food, the reality of my pathetic hermit life is biting me in the arse.

Over the past five years I’ve elevated avoiding social situations into an art form. I’ve weaseled my way out of parties, weddings, and funerals. I even ran away from my university graduation ball. Just like Cinderella, except in an ugly size 24 polyester shirt and sensible black trousers.

I’ll never forget that shirt—shiny gold with a hideous floral print, the nearest thing to formal wear in the plus-size section at Myer. I did my slow, glittery shuffle on the dance floor, feeling like a loser beside my tiny girlfriends in their gorgeous frocks but doing my best impression of Having a Great Time. When they decided to move on to a club, I knew I had to escape. Fat chick in a nightclub? No way.

So I lied.

“I’m just going home to change into my dancing shoes,” I said. “Meet you all there!”

I waddled off into the night. Luckily, I lived just down the street so it was a plausible excuse. As soon as I got home, I locked the doors and drew the blinds. For a whole hour I stared in the mirror, quietly trembling with rage and disgust. I looked at my carefully applied eyeliner, the dangly earrings, and the remnants of lipstick. Such a noble attempt to pretty myself up, but fat dressed up in sparkly fabric is still just fat.

My hair crackled with static electricity as I whipped off that horrible shirt. I put on my pajamas, fetched my trusty jar of Nutella, and ate it by the spoonful while watching a rerun of
21 Jump Street
.

Tonight I feel just as pathetic and lonely as I did back then. I hate to admit it, but everything I do in life—more specifically, what I don’t do—is dictated by how I feel about my weight. I’m afraid of the world beyond my house. I can’t go to a meeting at work or fill the car with petrol or walk past a bunch of schoolkids without panicking that they’re all staring at me and writing me off as incapable and/or stupid because of my size.

And if I’m terrified of these tiny everyday interactions, how am I ever going to have any meaningful relationships? Dare I mention romance? It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed. Or even had my hand held. Sometimes I hunger for someone to simply look my way and smile. But with all this fat surrounding me, I’m completely sexless and invisible. It’s funny how the more space you take up, the more you blend into the wallpaper.

Now that I’ve started this weight loss caper, I feel better about myself every day. But for the most part I can’t imagine a life for myself beyond this couch. And even if the blubber does come off, will anyone like what’s underneath? I’m still going to be plain old me, just slightly smaller. Will losing weight make me more confident or will I still be socially inept? Right now if no one wants me, I can chalk it up to morbid obesity. But what if I get smaller and no one wants me even then?

I don’t know why I even think about these things. It’s not something I’ll need to consider for a long while yet. I’m still a whale.

After my disastrous walking session last month, I had to come up with a new exercise strategy. I call it the Vampire Method (patent pending). You simply slink out of the house once the sun goes down or just before it rises. Instead of avoiding garlic and crucifixes, you’re avoiding warm temperatures and people!

The world is cool and peaceful at 5:30
A.M.
It’s completely silent but for the steady wheeze of my unfit lungs. Under the cover of semidarkness, I don’t fret about my belly rolls or my cottage cheese thighs. I just amble along and think about my weight loss goals, what to cook for dinner, or who is the most handsome doctor on
ER
.

At first I could only walk to the end of the street before giving up, but a week later I made it around the whole block. Then I added another, and another. After four weeks I’m up to four whole blocks. Move over, Michael Johnson!

Today I cleaned out my desk at work. I’ve had my job for eighteen months now, and my inability to close the drawers without kicking them indicated it was time for a tidy up. Inside I found a friendly reminder of my former fatty life. The bottom of each drawer was covered with millions of tiny brown crumbs. Chocolate crumbs!

It’s funny how ten weeks ago I was so baffled to discover I weighed over 350 pounds when all this time I had a Cadbury’s factory sitting in my desk.

I was very dedicated to my stash. I bought a plastic tub just for the purpose, and each day I’d arrive early to work with a new batch of goodies. I’d break the chocolate into squares so I could gorge without the telltale rustling of foil wrappers.

If I felt particularly energetic, I’d go to the supermarket at lunchtime and hit the Pick-and-Mix sweeties. We were never allowed near the Pick-and-Mix as kids; “Overpriced rubbish!” Mum declared. So I got an extra thrill from buying forbidden candy—caramel kisses, coconut drops, chocolate frogs, chocolate almonds, chocolate cherries, mini Easter eggs—the sickly sweet taste of rebellion. Back at work I’d quietly empty the bag into the tub, and dig in throughout the afternoon.

Chocolate became a habit, like answering the phone or blowing my nose—a regular part of my workplace routine. I barely even tasted it after a while. It was just an unconscious habit; something to occupy my jaws.

I always thought I was discreet too, but it turns out I was as subtle as my enormous arse. I recently confessed to Emily that I was doing Weight Watchers, and she said with a grin, “Does this mean you’ll have to give up your choccie stash?”

Do you know it’s been ten weeks since I’ve had any chocolate? I went cold turkey because I don’t trust myself to be left alone with the stuff right now. When the cocoa calls my name, I’ll have a diet chocolate mousse or a sachet of diet hot chocolate instead.

Lately it feels like I am waking up from a five-year bender, discovering all the crazy things I did while under the influence. Except instead of being surrounded by a pool of my own vomit, it’s old chocolate wrappers and one extremely large body.

It scares me how my life revolved around food. As I ate my breakfast I’d be pondering what to have for lunch. What fatty concoction should I choose from the food court today? And even as I scoffed my lunch, my thoughts would wander to my afternoon snack. Chocolate bar or chips? Or why not both? And what’s for dinner? And let’s not forget dessert, and perhaps a late supper in front of the box.

I know that was only ten weeks ago but already I couldn’t imagine going back to that life. Every time I lose another pound it feels as if I’m another pound closer to escaping that miserable 350-pound girl crying on the scale in her giant knickers. I have to keep moving away from her. I have to convince myself that the brief thrill of a chocolate bar doesn’t compare to the thrill of taking control of my life.

“Hello?”

“Shauna! It’s the Mothership calling!”

Oh dear. She’s using the third person now?

The whole Mothership thing began last year when Rhiannon and I were doing our usual frantic cleaning spree in anticipation of her latest friendly visit/inspection.

“Quick!” I screamed as I scrubbed the bathtub. “There’s only ten minutes until the landing of the Mothership!” She got wind of the nickname and decided she quite liked the sound of it.

“So how are you, dearest? How’s the Weight Watching going? Of course I’m more concerned with how you are personally than I am about your weight. No pressure, you understand?”

Ever since our explosive argument, she’s been determined to be the new and improved Mothership. She’s completely supportive of my lard-busting efforts even though she still battles with her own weight. Our relationship has changed dramatically. It feels as if we’re equals now and we can talk and listen without judgment. We’re more open and honest, as if trying to make up for all those years of emotional distance. I feel I’m getting to know her at last. She’s warm, funny, and ever so slightly annoying with her self-help books and new age jargon, and I relish our newfound closeness.

“Ma, I’m fine. And I don’t mind you asking about the Weight Watching.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I lost another four pounds this week, which means … drumroll please!—I don’t need that extra weight on the scale anymore!”

“Wow!”

“So I’m no longer super fat. Next week I can stroll in and jump on the scale like a ‘normal’ fat person!”

“Shauna,” she clucked, “you shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”

“I’m not! It’s just a big milestone for me.”

“Well I’m very proud of you.” She cleared her throat. “Listen, I have to tell you something very important. I just finished this book that Oprah recommended.”

“Oh … great.”

“Shush, you! It was all about controlling parents and how they have such high expectations of their children. And how this is so very traumatic for the child! So I had to call you and say I’m sorry for all the pressure I put on you over the years.”

“Pressure?” I laughed. “You?”

“I just want you to know I don’t have those harmful expectations anymore. All I want is for you to be happy and to do what you want to do, whatever you’re passionate about.”

“OK.”

“So don’t go thinking I’m disappointed about the aborted journalism career. And if you don’t do the computers for the rest of your life, I don’t mind about that either! You’ll have no crazy expectations from me anymore.”

“Oh cool. So now I can fully focus on all the expectations I have of myself!”

“I’m trying to be serious!”

“I know.”

“Good. Well, I’m glad we had this conversation.”

After the dazzling success of the Vampire Method walking regime, this week I went back to the gym.

Rhiannon and I joined up six months ago in a fit of good intentions, but my efforts were short-lived. I had an induction with a friendly girl called Angela, but I don’t think she quite knew what to do with me. She weighed me (310 pounds, the scale maximum) and tried to do my measurements, but her tape measure couldn’t reach around my hefty hips. Then she tried to take my blood pressure, but my arm was too big for the cuff.

So we moved on to the fitness assessment. Rhiannon had told me about the rigorous moves they’d put her through, but I was spared by virtue of the fact that I was already pink and puffed just from stepping on and off the scale. Instead Angela got me to walk on the treadmill. I barely managed five minutes at a mighty 2.5 miles per hour.

There was space on my program chart for two dozen different weights and cardio moves but she could only write one pathetic instruction:
Treadmill, 2.5 mph, twenty minutes
.

“Wow, what an athlete!” I said with a pained smile.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Angela said kindly. “We all have to start somewhere. We’ll be filling this chart with all sorts of exercises before you know it! Give this six weeks then come and see me again.”

“OK,” I lied.

Rhiannon cleverly suggested we make our comeback an hour before closing, so the gym would be quiet and less intimidating. She knows me too well.

Surprisingly, my chart was still in the filing cabinet. I thought they’d have removed it by now, maybe shoving it into a box labeled
LARDY LOSERS WHO COULDN’T HACK THE PACE
. But there it was, with the same smiley face that Angela had drawn all those months ago.

The cardio theater was deserted but for a lone brunette on a treadmill. I froze in the doorway, mesmerized and terrified by her pert buttocks and swishing ponytail. What if she saw me? An arse like mine is hard to miss. What if she screamed at me to be gone from her sacred temple of fitness?

“She’s not looking at you!” said Rhiannon. “She’s engrossed in her run.”

“I can’t go in there. Look at her boobs, they don’t even move!”

“They’re either fake or she’s got a fantastic sports bra.”

“What do you think she’s thinking as she runs along like that? God, I’m so fucking sexy, I can barely stand it! That’s what I’d be thinking if I looked like her. I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off myself!”

But for the foreseeable future I’ll be keeping well away from the mirrors. It was demoralizing enough just listening to the ragged beat of my flabby heart without actually looking at myself. Rhiannon jogged while I did my 2.5 mile per hour plod. The treadmill groaned every time I put my foot down. I could feel my flesh ripple and rattle all the way from my chin down to my toes. After spending so many years trying to keep my body as still as possible to avoid attracting unnecessary attention, it felt so unnatural to make it move deliberately!

But I persisted until the end of the twenty minutes. The highlight was filling in my chart. I wrote the date and put a neat tick beside Angela’s instruction, then drew another smiley face. I can’t say I’ll keep doing this for the love of exercise, but I reckon I could do it for the love of a good chart.