by Shauna Reid
My job is dull and predictable, but that’s why I love it. I’m still working for the same Internet start-up company as a content editor, but not long after they hired me, I was subcontracted to a government department to look after a bunch of websites. I could do the job in my sleep, but I like the slow, predictable pace of the public service. I keep a low profile, tinkering away on pages and editing copy. I’ve been toiling away like a good worker bee for eighteen months and they keep extending my contract, so I must be doing all right. The Australian government is happy, my employers are happy, and so am I.
At one o’clock my cubicle neighbor and good friend Emily asked did I fancy going out for lunch. But I’d cleverly prepared my excuse the night before.
“No thanks, mate,” I said cheerfully. “I brought a big salad from home and I’ve got loads of work to do, so I’ll have to give it a miss today.”
I just couldn’t face the walk to the shopping center in the middle of the day, trying to keep up with Emily’s swift and slender strides. I feared she would actually hear my thighs smashing together like a pair of flabby cymbals.
So I sat by the window with my salad and glared down at all the lunchtime joggers. They were making themselves sweaty on purpose, rather than it being an unfortunate consequence of simple, everyday movement. Do you think I’ll ever be able to do that? I have my doubts, considering the things that currently leave me red-faced and panting:
• Walking up the stairs in our flat
• Making the bed
• Tying my shoelaces
• Bending down to fetch vegetables from the fridge
• Dislodging myself from behind the steering wheel to get out of the car
The one good thing about this weather? I’m sticking to my stinking points. I’ve barely got the energy to sip a glass of water, let alone waddle to the fridge.
WEEK 5
February 13
315.5 pounds
35.5 pounds lost—150.5 to go
Another week of obedient Weight Watching and another gold star on my card. I’ve now lost thirty-five pounds!
“That still sounds like an awful lot of lard,” I said to Donna.
“Shauna, you’re doing great,” she smiled. “Stop worrying and just keep going!”
But I have to worry! If I don’t worry, I might allow myself to feel smug and successful, and then I might think it’s OK to scoff a couple of Mars Bars, and we all know what happens then. I’ll finally burst out of my trousers and have to order a mumu from a mail order catalogue. So you see, fear is my friend.
Another thing I keep hearing is: just take it one day at a time. That’s impossible! My mind is always racing ahead in a panic. I may have strung together a few healthy weeks and lost a few pounds, but what if it’s all too good to be true? I worry that my old bad habits are lurking behind a tree, waiting to pounce and take over again.
It also makes me nervous that I’m enjoying my food. We’ve been cooking fresh, veggie-laden meals and so far I’m not missing the burgers and shakes at all. My inner masochist believes I’m not entitled to lose any weight unless there’s suffering and deprivation involved. If my stomach was rumbling and my taste buds were shriveled up from lack of stimulation, maybe then I’d deserve to drop a few pounds. But to eat a huge plate of food and actually enjoy it … surely that’s not going to work?
Yet there’s a tiny, happy part of me knows that it is working. If I admitted that out loud, I’d get run over by a bus for being so self-congratulatory, so I’ll just whisper it here instead.
WEEK 6
February 19
314 pounds
37 pounds lost—149 to go
Another pound gone! I know it’s early days, but I can’t help fantasizing about my less flabby future. So today I bring you a list:
Things to Do When I’m Skinny!
1. Go swimming
2. Walk up to a guy that catches my eye and say hello
3. Wear dainty, strappy little shoes (with my chunky legs they currently make me look like a drag queen).
4. Run!
5. Buy some sexy leather trousers. Mrowr!
6. Have a full body massage (like I’d let anyone look at me naked right now!).
WEEK 7
February 26
312 pounds
39 pounds lost—147 to go
Sometimes, just for a tiny moment, I forget that I’m fat. I’ll run a hand through my hair and notice how soft it feels. Or I’ll admire the curve of my eyebrow as I slap on some mascara. I’ll smile to myself and think, You’re not half bad!
Then other days I’ll be out shopping and catch a glimpse of a fat woman in a mirror. I can’t help staring at the stomach rolls clinging to her shirt and the thick sausages of her forearms. I marvel at how her eyes have almost disappeared into the chubbiness of her cheeks.
And then I finally realize, Shit, that’s me!
It happened again this morning when I went for a walk. Deliberately! I decided it was high time I did some proper exercise.
I was rather proud to be lumbering down the street. “Look at us go!” I cheered. “We’re out and about. We’re doing it, baby!”
I didn’t even get to the end of the block before I had to stop. As I clutched my knees and wheezed, I caught my reflection in a car window. My face was a violent shade of Call the Ambulance red. My chest heaved like a monstrous jelly.
I felt sick. Who was I kidding? It was impossible. I’m never going to change this body.
For the most part, every pound I lose feels like a little triumph. It’s another bit of fuel on this fire of hope building inside me—a cautious, fledgling hope that I could actually do this, that I could really be slim and healthy. I count the stars on my Weight Watchers booklet and it feels as if all the effort is adding up to something.
Yet as soon as I look in the mirror, it seems pointless, because the pounds I’ve lost are just a drop in a very fat ocean. My confidence comes undone and I’m back to feeling hopeless and disgusted again. Everyone keeps saying, “Be kind to yourself” and “Focus on the positives!” But surely there needs to be a balance between optimism and reality.
WEEK 8
March 3
310.5 pounds
40.5 pounds lost—145.5 to go
Oh dear. As you may have gathered, this lard-busting caper is turning out be an emotional roller coaster. But I’m happy to report that the dark clouds of PMS have now departed. And losing another pound tonight certainly helped my mood!
It intrigues me that the weight continues to come off. How is it possible? Why haven’t I given up and returned to my cake-chomping ways? Why is it different this time? And most scary of all—why am I so convinced that it’s going to be for good?
Here are my preliminary theories:
1. I want it bad.
My last attempt at getting skinny was back in Bathurst, just after I finished university. Mum was troubled by my rapid expansion and subtly suggested I join Weight Watchers by posting me a “No Joining Fee!” coupon and a check for ten meetings with her latest batch of job advertisements.
So I went along and discovered I weighed 294 pounds. Instead of being shocked into action, I hit the drive-through and cried into my fries.
For the next ten weeks I dutifully showed up to the scale, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was also extremely depressed by then and could barely cope with getting out of bed, let alone tracking my food, planning meals, or filling the house with healthy foods. Nor did I have any goals. All I had was a vague desire for my fat to go away.
But this time my mind is in a better place. I want to succeed with every flabby cell of my body. Unlike my previous attempts, this time I’ve figured out exactly what success looks like, so I know what I’m aiming for. I want to reach my ideal goal weight of 165 pounds. I want to get there by my twenty-fifth birthday next November. I want to be healthy. I want to wear foxy clothes. I don’t want to feel like I’ll die after climbing a short flight of stairs.
2. I
am Weight Watchers’ bitch.
When my car breaks, I go to a mechanic. When my teeth hurt, I call the dentist. When I want to lose weight, I slink off to Weight Watchers. It’s not that I am a mindless slave to the global conglomerate; I just know it’s a safe and reliable option.
I’ve never been one for crash diets. With half my body weight to lose, it could be tempting to go crazy with cabbage soup or grapefruit, but I know too much about vitamins and good fats and whole grains to ever fall for that. Perhaps that’s why I neglected my weight for so long, because deep down I knew there were no miracle cures … just hard work and sensible eating. Boring!
So now I’m back in the fold and remembering all the things I chose to forget about portion sizes and good nutrition. I love the reassurance and ritual of the Monday night weigh-ins—putting on my official weigh-in outfit, slipping into my lightest shoes, going to the toilet a dozen times in case I can pee out another ounce. I love the metallic clang of the old-fashioned scale as it registers a loss.
And I must admit I’m a fool for the gold stars and Donna’s praise. She makes me feel it’s OK to be fragile and afraid. Ever since my Week One meltdown, the Weight Watchers girls always give me a grin and a thumbs-up when they see I’ve made it through another week. I’m like an oversized schoolgirl, eager to please the teacher and glowing at the slightest compliment.
3. I’ve made peace with the past.
My bitterness and resentment have faded since last year’s confrontation with Mum. When you get a little older, you can look back at the past with a certain maturity and understanding. I’ve finally taken responsibility for my role in this lardy mess—five years of appalling eating habits—and realized that I’m an adult and it’s entirely up to me what happens to my body from now on. I’m the captain of the tubby ship!
4. I have witnesses.
I’ve always been a secret dieter. I’d do anything to avoid the dreaded phrase, “Are you allowed to eat that?” Best of all, if I failed spectacularly, nobody would ever have to know.
Funnily enough, these covert operations never worked. It meant I was relying entirely on myself for motivation and support, and all too easily I’d convince myself to give up and head for the fridge. This time I’ve let people in on my secret—Rhiannon, Mum, and obviously the Weight Watchers gang. I always thought sharing my problems would mean judgment and disapproval, but instead it’s brought wonderful support and much-needed accountability.
5. I am not alone.
I am by far the fattest person I know. I outfat my family, friends, and every lardy lady at Weight Watchers. While I have a lot of support, I don’t know anyone who has actually experienced such a ridiculously large weight problem. But thanks to this journal, I’ve found some lovely and equally lumpy souls online! Now I don’t feel quite so freaky and alone. Instead of suppressing my fat-related angst, I’m writing my way through it. I’ve always felt more comfortable expressing my thoughts in text, so blogging has all the confessional allure of an old-fashioned diary, with the added benefit of a sympathetic audience. It’s like anonymous group therapy!
6. I’m changing my wicked ways.
Rhiannon and I have rearranged our eating habits, so it’s just easier to take the healthier option than not. We’ve wholeheartedly embraced our weekly routine of meal planning and grocery shopping. Gone are the days of arriving home from work, flinging open the pantry doors and wondering why the contents don’t quite add up to a meal. Now we know exactly what’s for dinner, so there’s no excuse for take-away pizza. We also cook extra for leftovers, so I don’t succumb to greasy food court lunches. Yes, we have truly become lean, mean dieting machines.
7. I don’t have a life.
As my body grew bigger, my world became smaller. Over the years, I systematically removed anything remotely fun and exciting from my life, until I’d created a reclusive existence limited to home, work, the supermarket, and that’s about it. I haven’t had any hobbies aside from … eating a lot of crap.
But the positive side of being so antisocial is I’ve got very little to distract me from the task. I can conduct my everyday life on autopilot, leaving my mind free to obsess about points and menu plans. I don’t want a life right now, to be honest. I don’t want to have to think about anything else but blasting away my pile of blubber. A weight problem this huge demands nothing less than 100 percent focus and commitment.
I used to fantasize about being abducted to a Secret Fat Camp. I longed to vanish from society for a solid year and be bullied into shape by a crack team of shrinks, chefs, and military men; then, once slim and reformed, I’d be released back onto the streets. But back here in reality, living like a recluse is my next best option.
WEEK 9
March 16
309 pounds
42 pounds lost—144 to go
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.
WEEK 10
March 19
308 pounds
43 pounds lost—143 to go
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!
