by Shauna Reid
WEEK 43
November 5
256 pounds
95 pounds lost—91 to go
Last week I turned twenty-four. My gift to myself was a restaurant meal with friends, finished with half a slice of orange and poppy-seed cake. My gift from the scale was a two-pound gain.
“Two pounds?” I squeaked indignantly to Donna. “I didn’t even have the garlic bread!”
Hopefully this time next year I’ll be at my goal weight and too drunk at my party to care about the stupid scale numbers.
I’ve finally struck gold on the exercise front. Operation Swimming Pool may have been a stinking failure but I’ve fallen in love with two new classes!
First up was BodyCombat on Saturday morning, a martial-arts-inspired workout. Oh my Lord. Fit Ball is a casual bounce in the park compared to this. I was dripping with sweat just from the warm-up. But safely hidden in the back row, I was determined to carry on and not have a Fat Girl Freak-Out.
I muddled along at my own less than stellar pace, doing my best approximation of kicking and punching. I felt ridiculous at first, but when the instructor told us all to yell and scream and pretend to be wounding mortal enemies, I really got into it. Pretend violence and thumping techno music, what a winning combination! Finally, after fifty minutes, we flopped to the floor for the abdominal workout and cool-down. My face was so red that the instructor asked if I was OK. I grinned and gave a feeble thumbs-up.
The next day I woke up in delicious agony, my back and shoulders screaming from all the hooks and uppercuts. But there was no time to moan because on Monday night we were off to BodyPump.
This was a whole new world of pain! Using a barbell, we worked one body part per song—squats for legs, then chest, back and hamstrings, triceps, biceps, lunges (legs again) and shoulders, finishing with abs and stretching. Although I only had a tiny one-kilo weight on each end of the bar, it was far more intense than the weight machines we’d been using for the past month. My limbs were jelly and the next day I could barely sit down on the loo.
The class instructors are so inspiring. Out on the gym floor my concentration always wanders—I read magazines, scratch my butt, or get absorbed in an episode of Neighbours. But there’s no hiding in the class, and the instructors keep you working for a whole hour. By the time I collapsed into the cool-down stretches, I knew I’d found my Holy Grail of fitness. I’ve already been back twice. No more Vampire Method for me!
I’m excited about exercise for the first time in my life. The classes marry my fanatical love of music with my profound laziness. All I have to do is show up and a nubile wench will cheer and scream and tell me exactly what to do. It’s fun and efficient. Best of all, I can lurk at the back of the class unnoticed and let the skinny girls hog the mirrors.
It’s taken many months of trial and error, but I think I’ve finally figured out what exercise is going to work best for me. I always told myself those classes were reserved for hardcore gym bunnies, so I couldn’t join in until I got skinny. I’m so glad I got the nerve to step inside and prove my Fat Girl beliefs wrong. I may be big, slow, and uncoordinated, but I have every right to be there.
WEEK 46
November 26
253 pounds
98 pounds lost—88 to go
Hooray! Another pound off, and only eighty-eight to go. Eighty-eight! Two fat ladies!
So when the powers that be start telling everyone to prepare for “redeployment,” what the hell does that mean in this dot-bomb crazy world? It sounds like I’ll be stuffed into a cannon with a laptop tucked under my arm and blasted off into the ether, then wherever I land, I’m to dust myself off and get straight back to work.
Whatever it means, the winds of change are a-blowing at work. The department workload has dwindled over the past few months, so it hasn’t come as much of a surprise. But I worry because I have no idea what they’ll do with me, or where I’d go if I left the company. I’ve been so caught up in my fat-blasting efforts this year that I’ve just worked like a zombie and not thought too critically about it. I’ve been a professional cut and paster for the past two years, so I’m not exactly brimming over with marketable skills. I do have that journalism degree, but no experience (or interest) to accompany it. Oh shit. Who the bloody hell would employ me?
WEEK 47
December 3
253 pounds again!
98 pounds lost—88 to go
It’s December and I feel good. Normally I dread this time of year, the start of the Sweaty Skin and Chafing Thigh season. But this year, two sizes and 98 pounds smaller, I’m slightly better equipped to handle the heat.
I’m officially hooked on BodyPump and BodyCombat. I did three classes this week! I can feel the benefits already—my quads feel firmer and my biceps are growing. They’re all disguised by a giant layer of blubber, but it’s a start, right?
Exercise gives me a genuine sense of purpose and achievement. I’m euphoric every time I put a heavier weight on my barbell, or do a lunge without falling over, or make it through a whole BodyCombat track without needing to stick my head out the window and gulp for air. Each tiny change spurs me on. And it’s such a healthy approach too—I’m focusing on getting fitter and stronger, rather than obsessing about points and numbers.
Witness the sad case I have become: our Monday night BodyPump class is at 6:30, which means we have to Weigh and Run at our six o’clock Weight Watchers meeting then zoom across town to the gym. We arrived last night to find there were no barbells left, despite the fact that we’d reserved a place for the class a week ago! They’d either overbooked or a pair of evil bitches had sneaked into the class.
Rhiannon and I were outraged. We stomped off to the car and ranted all the way home. But I had to laugh. Who’d have thought that I—breathless from a walk to the fridge ten months ago—would wind up hysterical because I couldn’t exercise?
I was already in a rotten mood, having maintained my weight at Weight Watchers. I was positive I was due a big loss because I’d been feeling so smug and slinky! Damn those misleading exercise endorphins. Sometimes I feel like running away from Weight Watchers. The scale is not my friend. At least the exercise makes me feel I’m getting somewhere. Maybe I should just swap my scale obsession for an exercise obsession.
WEEK 48
December 10
252 pounds
99 pounds lost—87 to go
Tonight our house was full of girls. There was the gorgeous Rhiannon, the gorgeous Jenny and Emily, two of Emily’s equally gorgeous friends, and lardy old me. The purpose of the gathering was to consume a lot of alcohol, dress up foxily, then take on the Canberra night life.
I had a handy excuse not to drink, because I’m doped up on antihistamines, thanks to my hay fever. I had to blow my dripping red nose after every song in BodyCombat this morning.
It’s strange watching people get drunk. The gradual loosening of tongues; the unraveling of inhibitions. The more they talked, the more I wished the couch would swallow me up. I had nothing to contribute to their anecdotes of blokes at the bar and ill-advised flings. Instead I laughed too loud and nodded a lot, trying to hide my stomach behind a cushion and hoping no one would notice I wasn’t contributing to the conversation.
After a few hours they clambered into high heels and put on their lipstick.
“Shauna dear,” Emily said, “why haven’t you changed yet?”
“I think I’m going to stay in,” I said casually. “My hay fever is rotten today.”
“You have to come out!” Rhiannon was tipsy but she could still detect a Fat Girl Freak-Out. “You can’t stay here!”
“But my Rudolph nose! I just don’t feel up to it.”
There was a slurred chorus of “Aww!”
Luckily, the taxi arrived and I took the role of Mother Hen. “Chop chop, girls! Meter’s running!”
“Next time, Shaun!” said Jenny.
“Of course!” I smiled and shoved them out the door.
I just cou
ldn’t do the Fat Girl on the Town routine tonight. For starters, I have nothing to wear. I may have dropped a few sizes but I still look enormous, especially when standing next to my slender comrades. And I’ve tried drinking to numb my insecurities, but no amount of alcohol can make me feel good. This large body sobers up far too quickly. I’d wind up sitting on the sidelines with my fake smile pasted on, fake laughing and waving to my friends with their slinky tops and entourage of male admirers. Then there’d be that inevitable moment when Jenny or Emily beckoned me on to the dance floor, and after ten minutes of protest I’d waddle my way into their circle and do a graceless boogie in my Big Is Beautiful trousers.
As soon as the girls left I burst into tears, and I’ve barely paused for two hours. If my face weren’t so red, I’d go to McDonald’s for a couple of soothing sundaes. I feel so fucking ugly and hopeless. And undesirable. It’s been years since I felt that someone was attracted to me. I forget what it feels like.
I’m angry because part of me so badly wants to be out there enjoying myself. I want to act like my twenty-four years, instead of holing up in the house like a sociopath. I want to dress up and dance and go wild. But even if I could find something to wear, my vodka-induced confidence would only last thirty minutes before the awareness returned and I’d be looking for the nearest exit.
I hate feeling like this. I thought I liked being me these days. But that only seems to be true under cover of darkness, or in the safety of the back row of BodyPump class. Am I ever going to like myself all the time, in every place?
WEEK 49
December 17
252 pounds AGAIN!
99 pounds lost—87 to go
“So,” said the Mothership, “what’s new?”
“I already told you … nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
We were sitting in the foyer of Parliament House, waiting for Rhiannon’s graduation ceremony to start. She actually graduated last year, but was coming back to receive the Dean’s Award.
“It’s so hot today,” Mum went on. “I hope she’s wearing a good deodorant, especially under that heavy gown. Do you think she’s got a good deodorant on?”
“Let’s pray that she does.”
“Can you imagine how many of our tax dollars it took to pay for all this marble?” She pointed to the foyer floor. “Aren’t you glad you’re not the one who has to polish it?”
“Mmm.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, just premenstrual grumpiness. I feel like a blob today.”
“Well, you’re quite an attractive blob.”
“Um. Thanks.”
“See, don’t you just love me? This is why you bring me places.”
Then five minutes of blissful silence.
“So what’s new?”
“Nothing!”
“Well, there has to be something!”
“There isn’t!”
“Well. All right. Hey, I see you are wearing a skirt today.”
“Excellent observation.”
“It’s nice to see you wearing a skirt.”
“It’s nice to be wearing one!”
Today is the first time I’ve displayed my calves since my high school uniform. For six years I’ve hidden my pale, trunklike pins in long trousers, even in the height of summer. But on a surprisingly successful shopping trip last week, Rhiannon persuaded me to try on a skirt, just below the knee, in a loud purple. I grumbled and bitched, saying my ankles were “too thick” for such a thing, but she made me try it on. It looked great. And it was a size 18!
It’s been five years since I could get into a size 18. I’ve lost five years of fat! And my legs don’t look too bad either. They’re still chunky, but they’re starting to develop a hint of shape, thanks to all those squats and lunges. I almost cried in the changing rooms. Me in a skirt!
So here I was at the graduation, feeling feminine and trendy for the first time in years, if slightly self-conscious about wearing something other than a shapeless sack. Could people see my cellulite? Were they counting the flab rolls on my back?
“The important question is,” said Mum, interrupting my thoughts, “are you wearing a petticoat?”
“What?”
She brought out her purse-lipped, overenunciated schoolteacher voice: “Are … you … wearing … a … petticoat?”
“Do you take me for some sort of a crusty old spinster?”
“You should wear a petticoat if you’re going to wear a skirt,” she sniffed. “You may as well be naked without one.”
Mercifully, the ceremony began, and when Rhiannon received her award, we were misty-eyed with pride. While she handed back her robes and cap, I sneaked off to Weight Watchers for a quick weigh-in before we all went out for dinner.
“Look at you!” cried Donna as I sashayed to the scale.
“Ahh!” I waved off her compliment.
“Will you stay for the meeting and talk to everyone about your achievements?”
“Why? I’m nowhere near my goal!”
“How many times must I tell you, it’s all about the journey! You’re an inspiration.”
I squirmed. “I have to run. I’m meeting my mum and Rhiannon for dinner.”
“Two minutes, please?”
After all she’d done for me this year, holding my hand and wiping away my snotty tears, how could I possibly say no?
“Ladies, I want to introduce you to Shauna. She’s been with us since January and she is amazing.”
My face burned. Amazing?
“How much have you lost now, Shauna?”
“Ninety-eight pounds!”
There were gasps and stares. Some ladies frowned at me critically, perhaps trying to picture me with those extra pounds.
“I just want you all to see what you can achieve with hard work and determination. What do you say, Shauna?”
“Oh yes!” I was such a fraud. “Hard work. Determination. Just keep counting those points!”
I gave Donna a hug and rushed out the door. How long had it been since I stayed for a meeting? How long had it been since I’d filled in a points tracker or eaten a Weight Watchers chocolate mousse? I can’t help feeling I’m outgrowing Weight Watchers. I feel like a rebellious, ungrateful teenager in my lipstick and new frock, sneaking out the bedroom window in search of new adventures.
WEEK 51
December 31
252 pounds (back here again!)
99 pounds lost—87 to go
I survived my first Christmas as a dedicated fat-fighter! Temptation abounded in the form of pavlova and ham, but I stuck to salads and fruit. My only concession was Nanny’s caramel pie. Shortbread crust, oozy caramel innards, and an artery-clogging layer of whipped cream—it’s an annual treat that I refuse to give up!
I weighed in tonight and there was a belated Christmas Miracle—a minuscule half-pound gain over the festive period! Which was the same half pound I’d lost on Christmas Eve. The Lord giveth and he taketh away.
In other news, I’ve chopped off my hair. After my pity party earlier in the month, I decided it was time to start taking some pride in my appearance. My new graduation outfit reminded me that looking good helps me feel good.
My hairdresser Michelle smiled at me in the mirror. “So Shauna, what shall we do today? Just the usual trim?”
“No! I feel old and frumpy. I want to look young and hot. Do you think that’s possible?”
An hour later there was a puddle of ginger on the floor. I emerged with a short, funky cut and blond highlights. I love it! I’ve never had people rave over my hairdo before, telling me it’s flattering and demanding to know who did it. It’s an excellent way to distract them from my thighs.
I’m about to clock up one year of lard-busting adventures. Somehow I’ve managed to lose 99 pounds, tame my chocolate addiction, and coax my arse off the couch. I’m still a hefty lass at 252 pounds but I’ve got a new hairdo and I’ve got hope. Onward and downward!
YEAR TWO
WEEK 52
January 7
251.5 pounds
99.5 pounds lost—86.5 to go
The instructor came up to me after BodyPump tonight and told me I had Good Form.
“I’ve been watching you hiding at the back,” she said. “You’re doing great. Your squats are superb too. Keep up the good work!”
I blushed and stammered as though I’d been touched by a rock star. I thought such a muscle-bound goddess would only speak to the nubile hipsters in the front row. But she noticed me! Me, twice the size of the average participant. Me, without rippling body or coordinated outfit. She looked beyond the red face and tummy rolls and saw the athlete within. Happy New Year, indeed!
WEEK 55
January 28
250 pounds
101 pounds lost—85 to go
I’ve flown the coop. I’ve left Weight Watchers!
I’ve been fantasizing about leaving for months but never felt ready to actually do it.
I can’t help feeling ungrateful, especially since Donna and crew looked after me like a helpless baby bird for a whole year. I squawked and flapped and demanded constant nurturing, but just like Rhiannon, they were patient and understanding. Who knows how different the past fifty-five weeks could have been without their support? I might have wound up with a heart attack, facedown in a four-liter tub of ice cream.
So I must credit Weight Watchers with reminding me how to eat healthily. They gave me the rules, structure, and accountability that I desperately craved. I wanted a system to believe in, because I didn’t believe in myself.
But now I do believe in me, and I do believe I’ve had enough of the system too. I’m tired of standing in the queue, listening to other ladies justifying their gains before they’ve even gotten on the scale. I’m tired of the weekly fee, the points, the magazine, and the crappy granola bars.
To be honest, the gym is the biggest reason I’m fleeing the nest. Not only do I get more satisfaction from getting fitter than from getting on the scale, but the Weight Watchers meeting really is a rude clash with my BodyPump class. Why stand in a queue when I could be securing my favorite spot in the back row? Why listen to some old dame asking how many points are in a Fisherman’s Friend when I could be burning blubber?
