The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

by Shauna Reid

  I weighed in tonight at 250 pounds. I grinned because my mental spreadsheet told me I’d finally cracked the magical 100 pounds lost mark. It seemed poetic somehow, so neat and tidy; the perfect milestone to wind up this chapter of my lard-busting adventure.

  So how does one break up with Weight Watchers? Do you go for a long, tearful goodbye or just walk out the door and never look back?

  Donna was surrounded by a horde of New Year’s Resolutionists, helping them fill out the membership forms. I smiled and waved, mouthing goodbye.

  “Off to your weights class?” she called out.

  “Oh yes. Gotta make some muscles!”

  “Have fun!” She smiled and turned back to her brood.

  Maybe I should have thanked her again, for her kind words and encouragement; for helping me through the shittiest moment of my life. I know I’ll always be grateful for that. But there were dozens of new recruits who needed her.

  So I’m going to do this on my own now. I want to keep learning how to think for myself. There’s a tiny gnaw of doubt that it’s too soon, that all the exercise endorphins are pumping me with false confidence. But I’ve got to try.

  I bought some new knickers the other day. Still the same horrible Bonds Cottontails, as worn by nuns and spinsters; but these are a size 18. They’re hardly dainty compared to Rhiannon’s but still look much smaller when hanging on the line next to my ancient size 24s. Weight Watchers helped me shrink my smalls, but I did a lot of the work myself. When I come to buy the next size down, I want to take all the credit.

  WEEK 56

  February 7

  248.5 pounds

  102.5 pounds lost—83.5 to go

  I rocked up for my BodyPump class tonight to find the gym was CLOSED.

  Not only was it closed, but there was yellow tape and a burly security guard blocking the entrance. According to the carefully worded note on the window, there’s been a “misunderstanding” between the building owners and the gym management.

  It costs $700 for a yearly membership, and there must be at least seven hundred bazillion members, so what’s their excuse?

  Naturally I panicked. What if they don’t pay up? What if they’re siphoning my fees to feed drug habits or buy luxury cars? What will I do without the gym? What about my growing muscles? Will they just deflate overnight? Will all the fat come back?

  My body was twitching to get inside. I needed my fix. I wanted to jump on the scale too, to make sure the two pounds I’d lost on Monday were still lost. I almost cried! Can you believe how things have changed around here? I wanted to cry because I couldn’t exercise.

  We’ve been assured the gym will be open tomorrow. It bloody better be.

  WEEK 62

  March 18

  (Avoiding the scale)

  Apologies for such a long period of silence; I’ve been too busy worrying about the future. I had a total of one billable hour on my time sheet last week. Which means I did bugger all for thirty-nine hours. This was a remarkable improvement on the previous two weeks, in which I had zero billable hours.

  My working day consists of sitting at my desk nursing a sinking feeling, wondering what attempts at redeployment will occur today. This involves a lot of rejection. My boss Jill’s phone will ring and it will be the Resource Manager.

  “Does Shauna have the skills to do X, Y, and Z?”

  “Regretfully, no!” says Jill.

  Today I accompanied her to a meeting with someone in another department.

  “Can Shauna do A, B, or C?” they asked.

  “No, Shauna is a content editor.”

  “I see.”

  Now I know how people who used to screw things together in factories felt when they invented robots to screw things together in factories. Goddamn technology. Only two years ago everyone was crying out for people to edit content for websites. Now our clients have the software to produce a Web page as easily as a cup of tea. They don’t need me to make things bold and hyperlinked anymore. They’ve finally discovered how ridiculously simple it is, so why should they pay me to do it for them? This year the content work has completely dried up, and the role of professional cut and paster is all but obsolete.

  I spend a lot of time asking Jill can I help her with anything. She laughed on Friday and said, “You’re really worried about this lack of work thing, aren’t you?”

  Well, I guess the novelty of surfing the ’net for eight hours a day has worn off. Things are getting grim. I bought the Canberra Times tonight and moped all over the Positions Vacant. What do I do now? Why didn’t I see this coming?

  My friends have suggested I retrain and become a programmer, but I’m really not interested in high-level geekery. I’m interested in the words on the screen, not the technical crap that put them there. I don’t know where to go from here. I feel so bloody unemployable.

  But I’ll keep looking, or otherwise join a convent. The job security is good—I’m not likely to be replaced by a robot—plus a nun’s habit is very slimming.

  WEEK 64

  April 2

  In the past fortnight I’ve signed up with four recruitment agencies and applied for eight different jobs from the paper. I’m trying not to panic, but I would just like to say that this whole thanks but no thanks you’re too inexperienced not confident enough too overqualified not as good as that guy over there too tall too short too brown-eyed too two-legged for this position caper is extremely demoralizing.

  Today Jill and I went down to the greasy little shop behind our building to catch some lunchtime sun. I had a greasy chicken wrap that I regretted before I’d even taken a bite; she had a salad roll.

  “So boss, heard any more news?”

  “Bloody hell, I said no onions. Now my breath will be feral all afternoon.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing concrete yet. But perhaps it’s safe to say that our jobs are unsafe.”

  “Oh. Great.” Why did I buy that stupid wrap? I kid myself it’s healthy because of the salad and whole-wheat lavash bread, but what about the cheese, barbecue sauce, and oily rotisserie chicken?

  “But don’t worry, it’ll get sorted. You’re a smart girl. Whatever happens, you’ll land on your feet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly,” she smiled. “You don’t have to look so scared.”

  But I am scared. My mind is cloudy with fear. I hate the uncertainty. I hate my lack of control over the situation. That’s why I like dieting, in a perverse way. The outcome is entirely up to me. If something turns to crap, I can put it right again. I am in control.

  Or am I? The scale hasn’t moved for weeks. Maybe my Weight Watchers withdrawal was too hasty. After all, there I was, eating a greasy chicken wrap that would make a points calculator explode.

  WEEK 67

  April 22

  I had my annual performance review today and it was a disaster.

  The official review was fine—apparently I’ve been a pretty good worker bee. The Boss said I am bright and reliable, but my lack of confidence and initiative is holding me back. That was when my stomach started to churn with dread.

  Jill put down the review papers and told me she wanted to address me on a personal level. Apparently she is very worried about me. I have this “attitude” lately and I am all “quiet and withdrawn.” I put on my headphones and stare at the screen, and if she speaks to me I give her “a look” that suggests she shouldn’t have interrupted me.

  On and on she went. I kept staring at my hands and realized I needed to do something about my nails. They were getting longer than the red polish I’d put on last week. She said I seemed to be drifting away and not wanting to engage in conversation. Blah blah blah. She said I was clearly unhappy and perhaps I needed a change.

  “What do you think of all this? Do you agree with me?”

  I just stared at the table, until the grains in the wood swirled beneath my eyes like river currents. I wondered if they’d swallow me up if I just kept staring.

  “
A change might do me good,” I said quietly.

  “Shauna, you’ve got a face that just can’t lie. Anyone can see that all is not well.”

  My body betrayed me and I started to cry like an idiot. “I just can’t get it together,” I sobbed, “I hate being me lately.”

  It all tumbled out—how it feels like I’m going nowhere; how everything has become a blur. I felt ashamed and fat and stupid but I couldn’t stop the words.

  I didn’t go to work yesterday, I just couldn’t get out of bed. I almost called in sick again today until I remembered my review at the last moment. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Ever since things started going bad at work, everything else has started to slide and I can’t seem to stop it. I’m trying to convince myself it’s just a bad patch, but it seems to be getting worse. It’s like being on the verge of drowning and not knowing if you want to struggle or just let go.

  “You don’t have to feel down, you know,” I heard Jill go on as I counted the lines on my knuckles. “You can make a conscious decision whether to feel down or not. You just have to ask yourself, ‘Am I going to feel like crap or am I going to get over it?’”

  I nodded but wanted to punch her.

  Jill is a take-charge type. I guess that’s why she’s the boss. When I said I needed a change, I meant I should get the fuck out of this company and find a new job or perhaps finally join that convent. But she was thinking of a change within the confines of the company. Perhaps my redeployment had been planned for months, or perhaps I was so miserable she didn’t want to see me sulking beneath my headphones for one more day. Either way, with a quick call to the Resource Manager, she had found me a new job within ten minutes.

  “Amanda needs a project assistant and thinks you’ll be perfect!” She smiled triumphantly. “It will be a great experience for you!”

  “I don’t know anything about being a project assistant,” I said feebly.

  “You’re smart, Shauna, you’ll do great.” Jill squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll go around and talk to Amanda in a moment.”

  “OK.”

  “You start tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  I felt as if I was watching myself from above, that everything was spinning out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I’m trying to think like a good corporate lackey and see it as a career opportunity. Surely it had to be better than surfing the ’net all day, waiting in vain for some editing work to roll in? At least it’s something to do while I keep looking for work elsewhere.

  But I have no faith in my ability to find something else. What happened to all my confidence and bravado from the end of last year? I felt I could conquer the world. But lately I want the world to fuck off.

  WEEK 71

  May 22

  Imagine my surprise when I discovered yesterday there was such a thing as a staple remover. For years I’ve painstakingly plucked them out with my fingernails. But now I know there’s this little contraption with fearsome teeth that rips the staple out for you. Amazing. I found myself stapling random pieces of paper together, just so I’d have some staples to remove.

  So despite protesting to Jill that I didn’t know anything about being a project assistant, I seem to be managing. Turns out Project Assistant just means doing all the crappy jobs no one else wants to do. Aside from the staple removing, there is the data entry, the photocopying, and the sticking of bar code stickers onto computers.

  I had nine paper jams yesterday afternoon. The photocopier sees me coming and cackles to itself, “Aha, look at this amateur.” That machine has far too many orifices for paper to hide in.

  As I dismantled and declogged, I thought of paper jams and how there’s so many types of paper jam. Like the pulpy kind you spread on your toast. It keeps you regular. Or when there’s a whole bunch of notebooks and Post-Its driving home from work and the roads get all congested. Or when the ream of A4 calls up his old high school buddy the legal pad and they get together with drums and guitars in their garage. Paper jam.

  OK, I am going insane. As pleasant as my new boss Amanda has been over the past month, I fear I’m losing the plot. I thought it was bad having nothing to do in the Content Department, but being completely swamped by repetitive and mundane tasks is far worse. I spent six solid hours typing asset numbers into Excel today, and it was nowhere near as fun as my weight loss spreadsheet.

  Most nights I get home late, eyes burning from staring at serial numbers all day, and fall asleep in front of the telly instead of going to the gym. The size 18 jeans I bought from a catalogue back in February are painfully tight and I’m too scared to get on the scale.

  It started innocently enough with that one chicken wrap two months ago, from the little shop behind our building. The first time I ordered it, I asked for no cheese and no sauce. But the next time I had cheese and sauce. Then the next time I washed it down with a bottle of chocolate milk. And the time after that I got a hamburger with the lot with my chocolate milk. Today I got the burger, the chocolate milk, and a four-finger Kit Kat.

  What is happening to me? Why can’t I stop? I don’t even like Kit Kats.

  WEEK 73

  June 3

  CANBERRA, AAP–Local woman Miss Dietgirl was coaxed down from the capital’s tallest building today after receiving the seventeenth rejection letter in her fruitless quest for a new job.

  “This one really gutted me,” said the distraught Braddon resident. “I’ve been looking since February and this time I dared to dream. Thirty-five applicants and I actually managed to get an interview. I prepared like crazy and thought I had it in the bag.”

  After receiving her rejection letter, Miss Dietgirl went to Telstra Tower, where she stood on the viewing deck and bellowed, “Goodbye cruel world!” to anyone who would listen, dangling her toes over the edge.

  The woman’s deranged cries were heard by two Japanese tourists, who alerted tower staff. After three hours of intense negotiation and use of megaphones, Miss Dietgirl was lured from her perch on Canberra’s tallest building with the promise of chocolate and an agreement that Channel 10 would reduce its screenings of Everybody Loves Raymond by 75 percent.

  Representatives from the interview panel were hesitant to comment on why Miss Dietgirl was not offered the position, a Web developer role in a government department.

  “We cannot divulge this information, as it is classified. However, Miss Dietgirl’s claims that we coldly rejected her because she is untalented, unattractive, and incapable are not wholly unfounded.”

  Meanwhile, the secretarial world rejoiced at the news that they would not be losing one of their brightest new talents.

  “She is really coming along with that Excel,” said an anonymous source. “And today she learned how to change the toner cartridge on the printer and only got a small amount of ink on her clothes. We all gathered ’round and clapped politely.”

  WEEK 78

  July 8

  When I christened this journal “The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl,” it was part sarcasm and part optimism. Yeah, like losing half my body weight is going to be so amazing, I thought. Then again … maybe it will be?

  Seventy-eight weeks later it’s not Amazing. I’m not having Adventures and I’m certainly not on a Diet. So all we have left is, “The Girl.” I’m no weight loss superhero. It was tempting to torch this whole journal and run away, rather than slink back here after five weeks’ silence and admit to you all that I’m a stinking failure.

  But I just need to tell somebody.

  It was déjà vu at the doctor’s office today. It was a different town, a different doctor, and three years later, but I was back down in that impossible black hole.

  “I’ve tried pretending everything is OK,” I explained, “but I just feel lost. I wake up every day and that suffocating panic is still there. It’s like someone threw an invisible net over me. I’m writhing and clawing but I can’t find a way out.”

  She nodded but I was paranoid and felt she didn’t believe me. Depre
ssion has become almost fashionable over the past few years; I didn’t want her thinking I was just hopping on the bandwagon.

  “OK. Have you tried talking to your family and friends?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  I haven’t told a soul. It was embarrassing enough having to confess I’d been demoted to Photocopy Girl, moving even further away from that expensive degree. I’m determined not to let them know I’m back down here again.

  “Look, I’ve been here before,” I rushed on. “I had some problems three years ago, I took antidepressants. I’ve been OK for ages but somehow it’s happening again. I’m trying to pull myself out of it but it feels completely hopeless.”

  “How’s your diet?” she asked politely. “Are you eating well?”

  “Most of the time.” I squirmed. Part of me has enjoyed bingeing again. I’d missed the secret, urgent ritual of cramming myself with food until I’m finally numb. And nauseous.

  But then yesterday I remembered the consequences. I was typing serial numbers when I suddenly felt cool air on my stomach. My jeans had spontaneously unzipped themselves. I’d felt so skinny when I bought them back in February, but now they couldn’t contain the advance of my midriff. I tugged my top down and sat with a folder in my lap for the rest of the day.

  “What about exercise?”

  “I haven’t been to the gym in months.”

  “Well,” she smiled gently, “even if you could manage a daily walk. Eating well and looking after your body can really help keep you feel balanced.”

  You know, normally I would have loved to find a doctor like this. Someone who wasn’t content to just throw me a prescription and shove me out of her office. But today I just wanted the pills.