by Shauna Reid
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.
WEEK 11
March 27
304 pounds
47 pounds lost—139 to go
“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.”
WEEK 12
April 6
302 pounds
49 pounds lost—137 to go
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 sacr
ed 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.
WEEK 13
April 9
302 pounds
49 pounds lost—137 to go
“You know, if you’d peed before you got here,” said Donna, “you would have had a loss.”
“But I did pee before I got here!” I sulked. “Five times!”
The scales didn’t move this week, and I’m not happy at all. It’s far too early in the game to be stalling!
It’s been a shitty week all around. I started a new job, sort of. My government contract ended so now I’m back at my company’s head office. I hate being the new kid, more specifically the new fat kid. I almost felt svelte on Monday morning when I put on my new size 22 shirt, but then I arrived at the office and found I outweighed my new colleagues by at least 140 pounds.
I miss the public service already. Sure, I was the fattest lady there too, but everyone has their quirks in the public service. Perhaps it’s thanks to Equal Opportunities legislation. There were fat people, thin people, annoying people, old people, incompetent people, bossy people, and people with no fashion sense. There were people who were all those things at once. So I slotted in nicely to that mix. It was a wonderfully predictable and nonthreatening environment.
In contrast, my first impression of the private sector is that everyone is poised, perfectly groomed, and incredibly busy. I guess you have to look professional when every hour is billable. There’ll be no time for morning teas, Big Brother gossip, and bunking off early on a Friday.
I’ve spent my first week hiding at my desk feeling fat and inferior, my automatic reaction to being placed in any new situation. I hate meeting new people. I fear that no matter what I say or do, the only first impression I can leave is … fat!
My computer died yesterday, and it took me two hours to work up the nerve to call the help desk. Somehow I’d hoped I could heal it with my penetrating stare. I hated the thought of the I.T. guy coming up from his dungeon and seeing me: “Aha! Stupid fat chick’s broken her computer.” And I would feel compelled to say, “It was like that when I got here! I didn’t sit on it or anything!”
In the end I phoned right before I left for the day, and mercifully the I.T. pixies fixed it overnight.
I know I’m being pathetic; I just hate change. Change is scary and it gets in the way of my weight loss mission. And after eighteen months I was settled in the public service. I’d managed to endear myself to my colleagues with hard work and sparkling wit, showing them that there was more to me than my blubber. But now I’ve got to start all over again!
I’m also petrified of my new job and worry I’m incapable of doing it. My boss seems to think I’ll be fine because she’s already given me about 127 tasks and made me leader of the Content team. Me, a leader? I’ve only ever led myself. To the fridge.
Even so, Rhiannon and I went out for lunch on Saturday to celebrate this grand promotion. It was the first time I’d taken my fat out in public since the Weight Watching began, so I fretted over the menu. I ordered a healthy sounding grilled teriyaki chicken burger, but it arrived with an unexpected side order of fries.
How can anyone resist fries? So fresh, salty, and sizzling! They were delicious, but with every mouthful I was terrified that those lost pounds would instantly return. Which is rather sad. Am I going to be afraid of a handful of fried potatoes all of my life?
Scared of new jobs, new people, new challenges, and … fries. Could I be any more pathetic?
WEEK 17
May 7
294 pounds
57 pounds lost—129 to go
I’m alive! I’m coping! Work got in the way of writing for the past four weeks but not in the way of lard busting. I’ve lost another seven pounds, and suddenly everything is changing!
1. I can breathe.
I used to wake myself up during the night because my breathing was so loud and fractured. But now there’s less flesh around my neck and chest, so the wheezing has stopped!
2. I’m officially a size 22.
My size 24 jeans have been looking a bit dumpy lately, so I dug out an old size 22 pair from my wardrobe museum. Can you believe they fit perfectly? I hadn’t worn them since 1999, so you could say I’ve lost two years of blubber.
3. I found my vagina.
It’s been hiding for years, concealed by the sprawling tsunami of flesh that is my stomach. But this morning I stepped out of the shower and was startled by a bright red thing in the mirror. My pubic hair! So I am female after all, not just a lumpy mountain of flesh!
4. My heart will go on.
On Monday I had a fitness assessment with Fitness Chick Angela. She took my resting heart rate and it was down to 78 beats per minute. When she tested it last year it was 100 bpm. How was I not dead? No wonder I got puffed just washing the dishes. But now, thanks to the treadmill and the Vampire Method, I’ve scraped into the healthy heartbeat range.
“You’re doing brilliantly,” said Angela, drawing another smiley face on my chart. “Despite hiding from me for seven months!”
“I know,” I said sheepishly.
“Ooh, and you’ve lost fourteen pounds too!” she squealed as I hopped on the scale.
“Wow!” I tried to look surprised. “A whole fourteen pounds!”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I’d technically lost fifty-six, since I’d gained forty-two since our last meeting. Why ruin a beautiful moment? She was showering me with hugs and kind words and I was glowing with Good Little Fat Girl pride. I’m paying a handsome monthly fee for that kind of external validation! The more people who tell me I’m doing well, the more I might start to believe it myself.
WEEK 21
June 4
286 pounds
65 pounds lost—121 to go
I’ve discovered the joys of Microsoft Excel. My brand spanking new weight loss spreadsheet has a dazzling array of columns streaking across the screen—Date, Week, Weight, Pounds Lost, Pounds to Go, Percentage of Goal Achieved, Percentage of Start Weight Lost. I just plug in my weight each week and it spits out all the data! Not only in pounds, but stones and kilograms too! Did you know that as of Week 21, I’ve lost 29.5 kilograms, 18.5 percent of my starting weight, and now have eight stone nine pounds to go? These statistics give me the same cheap thrills I used to get from a jumbo bag of marshmallows!
I’m obsessive in analog too. There’s a year planner in the back of my work diary in which I record my results each week. I love staring at the figures after a hard day’s Web editing. I calculate my average monthly loss, then draw little graphs of how long it’s taking me to lose a ten-pound block. Then I calculate weekly averages, and based on those averages, I can forecast how many weeks of good behavior it will take to reach my goal weight.
WEEK 23
June 18
284.5 pounds
66.5 pounds lost—119.5 to go
There are many different instruments of torture at the gym and I passionately loathe them all—the exercise bike, stepper, and elliptical trainer, pedaling and plodding my way to nowhere. They say you’re supposed to do cardio three times a week: Does this mean I’m to be completely bloody bored three times a week for the rest of my life?
The rowing machine, however, is quite a charmer. Our gym has two at opposite ends of the cardio suite, so Rhiannon and I take one each and pretend we’re college lads out on an English river.
“Hallo, old chum!” she yells over the techno music.
“I say, lovely day for a row!” I shout back.
The rowing motion is strangely hypnotic and makes my shoulders burn. Sometimes I feel almost sporty. Last night I got carried away completely, trying to beat my best time for 500 meters.
“Eat my dust, old chap!”
“Not fair!” said Rhiannon. “I’ve got a slow boat!”
After tonight’s grueling workout we soaked our aching muscles in the spa. I finally summoned the nerve to get into the damn thing. I’d been using my lack of swimsuit as an excuse, but Rhiannon said, “Just stick on a T-shirt and knickers and live a little!”
The spa is set on a platform in the middle of the changing rooms, flanked by plastic plants and wood paneling for that porno set ambience. From this secluded position, I watched the patrons come and go. I was awed by how they casually peeled off their sweaty workout clothes and strolled to the showers without a trace of self-consciousness. I always turn up dressed and ready to go, and then either go home stinky or change my clothes in the shower room. I don’t expose so much as a lily-white toe!
