The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (8 page)

Rhiannon and I still reminisce about that one glorious time when Mum and my stepdad went out of town, so we got to stay with Nanny and Poppy for ten whole days. It was just another school week, but with Poppy driving us to the bus stop and Nanny filling our lunchboxes with white bread and homemade cake it was like being transported to a magical parallel universe. On the second day Rhiannon said in awed tones, “Isn’t it weird to look forward to going home after school?”

As we seem programmed to do, Rhiannon and I quickly established a routine. We loved eating breakfast with Nanny and Poppy, chatting about the day ahead over cups of cocoa. In the evenings, we did our homework at the kitchen table, soothed by the sound of Nanny bustling around the house and Poppy cracking jokes at the television. There were no arguments, no mind games, no unease, no need to hide away in our bedrooms. Everything was safe and predictable; so perfectly mundane.

I felt guilty for enjoying myself so much, but I didn’t want it to end. On the last night, I buried my nose in the soft scent of the flannel sheets, trying to memorize the feeling.

Rhiannon whispered across the room as we fell asleep, “This has been the most perfect week of my life.”

“Mine too.”

“Maybe there’ll be a flash flood or something,” she said, half joking, half hopeful, “and we’ll be stuck here forever.”

When they finally picked us up, we looked at each other and shrugged as if to say,
Oh well, it was fun while it lasted
.

I hadn’t told Nanny about Operation Lard Bust and had sworn the Mothership to secrecy. I wanted to see how long it would take for someone to notice I was a loser without me having to tell them I was a loser. Somehow it’s more valid that way, you see.

So it was rather satisfying to see Nanny do a double take when I waltzed into the house today. “Well look here!” she crowed. “Somebody’s lost some weight!”

“Woohoo!” I hugged her tight. She is barely five feet tall, so I tried not to crush her.

“You’re looking well,” she said.

“Thank you! So you won’t be offended if I steer clear of your caramel shortbread for a while?”

As usual, Poppy was sitting in his armchair in the living room. Mum, Rhiannon, and I chatted with him while Nanny went to make tea.

Circumstances have changed since those days on the farm. Five years ago they sold it and retired to Cowra. Just before they moved, Poppy was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Everytime we see him, he has faded a little more. He can barely walk, his vision is weak, and he can’t really speak anymore. He was always tall, tanned, and rugged from years of working in the sun, but now he’s so pale and fragile.

Poppy has always been my hero. I admired his hard work and fierce intelligence, but most of all I loved his sharp wit. He was always firing a pithy one-liner or cooking up a practical joke. That’s what makes Parkinson’s so cruel: the disease is slowly destroying his body, but his mind is still intact. He’s perfectly aware of what’s going on around him but doesn’t have the means to communicate. He was always so strong and capable, but now sometimes people patronize him or shout because they think he’s deaf or demented. He’s painfully aware that Nanny has to feed, clothe, and bathe him like a child. He can no longer arrange his face into a frown, but you can tell how frustrated he is at being trapped in his body. It’s incredibly heartbreaking for Nanny and Mum too.

Everytime I see Poppy, I can’t help feeling guilty. For years I was trapped in my body too, but it was entirely my own doing. Poppy hasn’t got a choice. I feel ashamed for abusing a perfectly healthy young body with food. So many things can go wrong that are completely out of your control, so it seems painfully indulgent to have harmed myself deliberately.

I can’t change the past, but I’m even more determined now not to screw up my future.

Dare I admit that I’m feeling rather happy lately? I blame all the gold stars at Weight Watchers, the smiley faces on my gym chart, and the sudden roominess of my size 22 trousers.

After this week’s 2.5-pound loss, I’ve got less than 120 pounds to go. I know that’s still a couple of supermodels glued together, but it sounds far less daunting than six months ago when I had 180 pounds to lose.

I’m determined to blast that blubber in time for my twenty-fifth birthday. That’s fifteen and a half months away. Do you think I can do it? My trusty spreadsheet reckons it’s possible. I desperately want to be skinny for the second half of my twenties. I’ll have a big party and invite all my lovely Dietgirl readers. I’ll wear a slinky size 12 dress and we’ll all get sloshed on champagne!

I can’t wait for the day when I’m finished with this lard busting so I can get on with my life. I’m sure it must sound like I have no hobbies aside from crunching carrot sticks and worrying about my thighs. And I can admit that sometimes, particularly when I’m staring at my weight loss spreadsheet at 3:00
A.M.
, that I’m a tad obsessive.

It’s easy to see myself as nothing more than a lobotomized lump of lard—especially when colleagues avoid my gaze in the corridors or salesladies blank me in shops. It used to be a relief to be invisible. But the more weight I lose and the more my confidence inches higher, the more I think, Hey, don’t look right through me! I’m a person too. I’ve got hopes and dreams and hobbies and urges just like you!

I need to remember there’s more to me than my fat. So what can I tell you? My favorite movie is
Roman Holiday
. I have red hair. I love Radiohead. My car is twenty years old and needs a wash. I love mangoes and men’s tennis. I’m quite happy being single but wouldn’t mind a bloke some skinny day. I hate Coca-Cola. I wish I could sing. I have brown eyes. I want to go to Russia and see Lenin in his tomb. I don’t hold my pencil properly. I’ve just failed to finish
In Cold Blood
by Truman Capote for the fifth time. I’m rubbish at housework. I hate shopping.

Hmmm. I doubt that makes me sound particularly exciting, but will you come to my party next year anyway?

Fitness Chick Angela has left me! She’s gone overseas. Fair enough if she fancies some adventure, but who’s going to marvel at my wondrous feats of weight loss now?

I’ve been assigned Fitness Chick Kristy, who seems lovely, but she’s not as gushing and exuberant as Angela. Plus she wasn’t there at the beginning when I was completely hopeless and lardy. She’s come in all these months down the track, when I’m … you know, slightly less hopeless and lardy. So she’ll never fully appreciate how far I’ve come. After all, I’m only in this weight loss caper to dazzle people with my superhero transformation from couch potato to svelte sexpot!

I weighed in fourteen pounds lighter than my last assessment, which helped me forget I’d gained a pound at Weight Watchers on Monday.

“Well done,” Kristy said in her mild-mannered way.

I’m sure Angela would have wept, or at least given me a high-five. Oh well. If I can’t impress other people, I’ll just have to work harder on impressing myself.

Last night I spent an hour writhing around on a giant rubber ball.

I told Fitness Chick Kristy that I was bored with the cardio machines, so she suggested I take her Fit Ball class, a low impact workout on a stability ball.

“Suitable for all shapes and sizes?”

“Yes.”

“Even my shape and size?”

“Yes!”

“I had a bad experience,” I muttered darkly, “so I just had to check.”

Last year, Fitness Chick Angela had recommended I try BodyBalance, allegedly a “gentle and relaxing” hybrid of yoga, Pilates, and tai chi. So I squeezed into my size 24 tracksuit and brought Rhiannon along for moral support.

When they say “suitable for all fitness levels,” I guess they don’t classify “welded to the couch” as a level of fitness. I was far too big to do the moves; my body refused to bend or stretch. At one point we did a Pilates roll-down maneuver, in which you sit on the floor with your hands hugged around your knees. You gradually unfurl your spine to the floor, vertebra by vertebra, then gently peel back up.

I managed to roll down, but I got stuck. I rocked and grunted and flapped my arms and legs but I just couldn’t roll back up! I made the mistake of looking in the mirror and got the shock of my life. I looked like a dying cockroach twitching on a kitchen floor. A giant, red-faced, dying cockroach.

When did I get so hideous? Where did all those chins and tummy rolls come from? And whatever happened to my neck?

Somehow I made it to the end of the class, but afterward I fled to the car and sobbed. Rhiannon tried to comfort me but I was speechless with rage and disgust. I wanted to scratch off my skin and rip my hair out. I couldn’t shake that horrid image of me sprawled out on the floor, completely devoid of dignity. How could that be me? How did I let it happen?

You’d think an experience like that would have spurred me into action. But instead I vowed never to return to the gym and got busy gathering up a few more pounds.

But that was almost a year ago and I’m a lot bolder these days. Thankfully, the Fit Ball demographic looked much less intimidating—there were plenty of baggy T-shirts and even a few dimpled thighs.

Kristy gave me a little wave and a smile as we all sat down on our balls.

“OK, ladies,” she said. “Let’s get ready to bounce!”

Bounce? Now that’s a verb you don’t want to hear at my size. My body bounces just walking across the street, so why would I want to make it bounce on purpose?

Turns out there are a million different things you can do on a rubber ball. We bounced up and down; we rolled from side to side. We kicked our legs in all directions, waved our hands around in the air, tossed the ball above our heads, lunged, squatted, then bounced around some more.

Kristy told us to use our abdominal muscles for balance, but no amount of gut-clenching stopped me falling off a dozen times. By the time I managed to get a rhythm going, the rest of the class had moved on to something else. Or I’d see Rhiannon’s arms flailing like a deranged puppet and fall off again in a fit of giggles.

The class was the perfect example of my Jekyll and Hyde extremes. One minute I was snorting with laughter and amazed that exercise could actually be fun, the next I was gloomily counting my fat rolls and comparing myself to my classmates. Despite all the pounds I’ve lost, I was still twice the size of the biggest woman. And only half as coordinated!

As the hour wore on, my spirit slumped along with my posture. Why did you come here? my brain churned bitterly. This is just as crap as that BodyBalance class. You’re even rounder than that ball!

This whole love-hate relationship with my body is exhausting. How do you tame that negative voice? How do you learn to like yourself? I’d settle for mere tolerance, just enough to make me believe I’m worth all this effort.

But I can’t run away this time. I’ll go back to the class next week. I’ll keep on going and I’ll get better at it. These days, I’m not the kind of girl who gives up.

STOP PRESS!

LOCAL WOMAN DISCOVERS BOOBS ARE BIGGER THAN GUT

A young Australian woman was astounded to find today that her breasts actually stick out further than her stomach.

The woman, who would only be identified as “Dietgirl,” discovered this phenomenon when checking out her own reflection in a shop window.

“It was in the post office,” said Miss Dietgirl. “I got the shock of my life when I caught a glimpse in the glass and there they were! Just sitting up like that, as if they were their own entity.”

Miss Dietgirl says previously there was no distinction between her breasts and the “colossal spare tires” of her hips and waist.

“It’s been at least five years since there was some discernible shape about me,” she said. “The stomach was always protruding further than the boobs. I am finally starting to feel like less of a shapeless blob and more like a normal, albeit chunky, woman. I can’t tell you how happy I am.”

Cynical sources inside her head have refuted her claims, saying that Miss Dietgirl was wearing a new bra that hoisted up her bosoms, thus creating the illusion that they were “unnaturally perky and upright.”

“She also was probably sucking her tummy in,” they added.

In other breaking news, Rhiannon reached her Weight Watchers goal weight tonight! I was so proud. Not to mention flamingly jealous. Imagine how cool that would feel—to actually be finished.

I’ve always been one of those people-pleasing, passive fat chicks. You could say, “Shauna, why don’t you go swim in that vat of sharks?” and even though my brain would tell me it was a bad idea, I would nevertheless take up your suggestion. Since you’re smaller than me, you’re automatically smarter too. But lately I’m wondering if the skinny people really do know best.

Take the Fitness Chicks at the gym. While I’m grateful for their support, they seem more concerned with weight loss than fitness. You can hardly blame them when I am twice the size of their other clients. But although I’m obese, there’s an increasingly energetic girl lurking beneath the blubber who wants more of a challenge!

A few months ago I’d asked Fitness Chick Angela to add weight training to my program. I’d seen women in the gym lifting weights and admired their muscles. But she insisted it was a bad idea, because weights would make me ever bulkier. With so much weight to lose, I could end up disillusioned. “Muscle weighs more than fat,” she explained.

“No worries,” I shrugged. I was happy to play the Clueless Fat Chick, because she was skinny, therefore far better qualified than me. So I carried on with my endless cardio.

I’ve been more courageous with Fitness Chick Kristy. First she made cardio fun with her Fit Ball class, and then last week I convinced her to give me a weights program! It seemed a bit of a token effort, though, just a few upper body exercises. She gave me a quick demonstration but didn’t say anything about form, or what muscles I should be working, or what should be hurting. She just gave me a gloomy warning: “Muscle might push out the fat more.”