by Shauna Reid
Finally at two o’clock this morning I crawled into his bed. I was still so wired that I kept yapping, even though he was in the spare room.
“Why don’t you just come in here?” I said after a while, all bold like an oversized Mae West.
So he slipped into the bed beside me and we lay on our backs, too timid to look at each other even in the dark. Eventually he reached over and took my hand and traced the back of it with his thumb, neither of us skipping a beat of the conversation. My heart pounded wildly, but again that could have been the caffeine. I had to keep getting up to pee and agonized over whether he could hear me through the flimsy walls.
By 6:00 A.M. he was starting to drift off, but I was still staring at the ceiling and squeaking, “I can’t sleep! I can’t sleep! Hee hee!”
At 8:00 A.M., I called in sick to work because I couldn’t bear for the conversation to end. Then we finally slept for three hours.
When we woke there was more tea and Vegemite toast but it was back to the extreme shyness. We watched DVDs and chatted all afternoon, then finally at six o’clock we walked back to the train station in awkward silence.
Standing on the platform in the chilly night air, my breath shot out in anxious, near hysterical puffs. It had been five long months since our fateful meeting at the pub quiz: now the time was ripe to finally make that move!
With the train rattling toward us there was potential for a dramatic and memorable moment, like Brief Encounter or something. But an ill-timed lunge, an awkward hug, and my kiss landing somewhere up his left nostril was hardly something to tell the grandkiddies. Neither was me blurting, “You rock!” before fleeing onto the train. All executed without any eye contact whatsoever.
Now it’s eleven o’clock and here I am cringing in my bedroom. You rock. You ROCK? Why did I say that? What kind of crap seductress am I?
WEEK 147.5
November 7
For the past three days Gareth and I seem to have returned to chaste e-mails. I’m starting to panic. Was that wonderful weekend entirely my imagination?
I went shopping to console myself and bought a new pair of jeans—size 18! And a normal size 18 from a normal shop. Finally! There’s no elastic in the waistband either. If I weren’t so anxious, I’d be feeling pretty darn foxy right now.
WEEK 148
November 10
“Shaunie Prawn. It’s the Mothership!”
“Hello!”
“How’s life treating you?”
“I’m fine. Well…” I couldn’t contain my glee. “I’m about to head out, actually!”
“Oh really?” I could hear the wheels turning. “Going anywhere special?”
“Just the pub around the corner.”
“Oh yes. With anyone special?”
“Well…”
“Spill! Spill!”
“He could be. Oh, Mum. I really think he might be.”
“Shauna, you sly dog!” she howled. “Who is he? Why wasn’t I informed earlier?”
“He’s Scottish. He’s smart … oh bugger, he’s just rung the doorbell. I’ll put Rhiannon on. Wish me luck!”
“Good luck. You’ll be hearing from me soon!”
I was just beginning to give up when Gareth called and asked me out for a drink. A few hours later I was fumbling with Walker’s chips and a gin and tonic. The MTV Awards were on the telly, live from Leith. Christina Aguilera ponced around the stage in a tiny kilt. I was so nervous that I couldn’t think of any zany anecdotes to charm him with, so I resorted to probing intellectual debate: “Speaking of Michael Hutchence—would you rather people thought you’d committed suicide or wanked yourself to death?”
He made me laugh. He made me feel like I didn’t have to be anyone else but me. Before I knew, it was last orders and he’d missed the last train back to Dunfermline. We walked back to my house in the drizzle, stopping outside a lighting shop. My heart clattered against my rib cage as we made inane conversation about lampshades. I was considering attempting another Move when I felt his hand curl warmly around mine.
Simple and effective. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
And then finally we kissed, and everything fell into place.
WEEK 150
November 24
209 pounds—still, after five weeks!
142 pounds lost—44 to go
Has anyone ever lost a stack of weight and felt like it was a dirty secret? No one in Scotland needs to know about my former size unless I tell them. But if I don’t tell them, they’ll never understand why I’m so paranoid about my body. They won’t know about the decades of misery that came before because they don’t have the historical context!
Yesterday I was having lunch with some House of Sport colleagues and we were talking about exercise. One chick said she wanted to try BodyPump classes, and I said I’d been doing it for two years and loved it.
As soon as the words were out my old friend Paranoia was back in town. Quick! Tell them about all that weight you’ve lost! Otherwise they’ll think, She’s been doing weights for two years and still looks like THAT?
Even though I’m happy in my size 18 body these days, I feel I should explain to everyone that I’m still trying to get smaller. Why can’t I just be out and proud about the way I look right now, instead of explaining away my supposed freakiness?
And if I tell someone about my loss, I always understate the number. I usually say 70 or 80 pounds, when it’s actually 140 pounds now! If people knew precisely how obese I used to be, would they look at me differently? Would they think I was some gluttonous weirdo?
I just know that nonfat people find such figures hard to fathom. A few months ago at Jane and Rory’s tea party we were looking at some old photos and there was a very large guy in one picture. Rory said he weighed about 308 pounds.
“How can anyone weigh 308 pounds?” asked David. “How is that physically possible?”
“Wow … that’s nearly two of me,” said Gareth.
They weren’t being mean or judgmental; they were genuinely awed that the human body could scale such lardy heights.
It can happen! I wanted to say. I used to be 350 pounds! But I couldn’t bring myself to speak up. What would they think of me then?
It’s funny to have such a huge (forgive the pun) part of your life a total secret. I can’t bring myself to tell Gareth about it. Our love feels so lovely and shiny and new, but inside I’m brickin’it, as they say over here. I may be a lot smaller, but I’m more neurotic than ever about my body. I look fine with my clothes on, but underneath it’s a disaster. My stomach is flabby and my gelatinous arms depress me.
I’m terrified of this romance going further. He may just well be the most incredible guy I’ve ever met, and possibly be very understanding about my issues. But if it ever comes to us getting naked, there will be soft lighting. And I will explain why my body is such a wreck and reassure him that efforts are being made to rectify the situation. Then I will probably feel the need to outline my gym schedule, nutrition plan, and highest squat weight, just so he knows I am aware of the problem!
WEEK 152
December 14
I’m sending Gareth deranged mixed signals re: Getting My Gear Off. We’ve been taking things slow and he seems to be letting me set the pace, as though he senses a neurotic, insecure freak lurking beneath the clothes.
Last night I crashed at his place after we’d been out to see some bands. My top was reeking of secondhand smoke but I’d forgotten to bring my pajamas. We were lying there in the dark when he said, “Man, that pub smell is really clinging to me tonight!”
“Oh! That would be my stinky shirt,” I said. “I left my PJs in Edinburgh.”
“Let me get you one of my T-shirts!”
“No! I mean, no thanks!”
“It’s no trouble,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to sleep in your nice clothes.”
“I’ll just take off the T-shirt.”
“Well that I don’t mind,” he laughed. “But it’s freezing
.”
“It’s OK, honest.”
I could just make out his puzzled frown in the dark. “I demand to know why you’re refusing to wear my crappy clothes!”
I gave a weak laugh and told him not to worry, then whipped my top off and slunk under the covers.
Yes, I’m so ridiculous that I’d rather go topless and freeze than risk the humiliation of not fitting into his T-shirt.
WEEK 153
December 21
Tonight it snowed. It wafted down slowly, not looking like much at first. After an hour I took a break from the Geriatric Rescue phones and stared out the window in amazement. The world wore a marzipan coat. It looked surreal, almost fake.
My Canadian colleague told me that I should try living in Calgary if I wanted a proper winter, but it was impressive enough for me. It was my First Snow! Even as she shoved a snowball down my shirt I couldn’t stop grinning.
Until tonight it was as though I believed I’d still been living in Australia, just in some remote pocket where people talked funny and ate a lot of lard. After my shift I got the bus back into town, along the same road we’d come in from the airport nine months ago. Only now, gawking at snow-covered cars, did it truly sink in that I’m in Scotland.
It took me half an hour to get home from Haymarket, shuffling through the sludge. My shoes were drenched and my thighs were frozen. I smiled at people going by as they stabbed at greasy chips in polystyrene boxes.
By then it had stopped snowing and the sky was soggy and pale. I stopped on the canal bridge and watched the shivering swans, wondering what other Firsts are in store for me next year.
YEAR FOUR
WEEK 156
January 5
After two solid months I think it’s safe to say I’ve acquired a boyfriend. Jane even has a nickname for us… SHAG. SHauna And Gareth, geddit?
I can’t believe I’m part of an acronym! I hadn’t been looking for love. Surely that sort of thing wouldn’t happen until I was a size 12, or a 14 at the earliest? I was perfectly content flying solo. But as I keep discovering, life has a habit of wandering off in crazy directions you never planned for.
So now there’s this wonderful guy who seems to want to be around me just as much as I do him. Gareth makes me laugh, he makes me tea, and the smell of his skin makes me purr. Sometimes when we’re apart my Fat Girl fears creep in, wondering how he could possibly be interested in a blob like me. Surely he’ll change his mind soon? But whenever he shows up on my doorstep or I cross the Forth Bridge, my doubts melt away. When we’re together it all makes sense, it’s as natural and easy as breathing.
I never had any great longing to be in a relationship, but now that it’s happened, it’s like someone turned up the color and the contrast on the telly. I was already enjoying the picture, but now things look even more vivid and alive.
WEEK 157
January 15
Today marks the third anniversary of my lard-busting adventures. To celebrate, I stripped off in my room and had a good look in the mirror. I admired my collarbone and glared at my belly flab. Will I ever get there? I’m stuck halfway between loving and loathing my body. I’m proud of how far I’ve come but I’m aching for the day when I can say I’m DONE. If you’d told me in 2001 that after three years I’d still be miles from my goal, I would have hurled the scales out the window and given up before I’d even tried. Shouldn’t I have things figured out by now?
Someone who does seem to have it sussed is Gareth. I’ve always liked to observe the habits of skinny people, and he’s been a fascinating case:
• He never has seconds. He dishes out his portion then puts the leftovers straight into a container.
• He’s surgically attached to his water bottle and guzzles regularly throughout the day.
• Since he’s surviving on the dregs of his Ph.D. grant, he only buys what food he needs and makes simple meals packed with fresh vegetables. He uses up everything in the fridge before it turns into moldy pulp.
• Most astoundingly, he made apple crumble and ice cream six weeks ago, and the same tub of ice cream is still in the freezer! He hasn’t touched it, because I’ve been checking the levels as part of my research. He hasn’t scoffed the rest of it straight from the tub in front of the telly, like any normal person would do. Or maybe that’s just me.
At first I thought, What a freak! He’s not eating enough! But then I realized I’d been comparing him to me, who dreams of bacon and sees snacking as a leisure activity. He’s not a saint—he loves crisps or a biscuit with his cuppa—but he has modest portions and eats slowly. He doesn’t feel the need to demolish everything in sight.
I demanded to know how a Scottish guy could be so sensible about food. That’s not natural! It turns out Gareth has lost a lot of weight himself—forty pounds, in fact! He went through a slothful period of beer and curry a few years ago, and when his belly spilled over his trousers, he decided to take action.
I grilled him for answers. What’s your secret? How did you do it? But it was infuriatingly simple. He cut out the crap and bought a bicycle. At first he could barely huff along a flat road, but after a year of steady effort he was powering up mountains and the beer gut was gone. He’s kept it off for ages now and says he just tries to be healthy the majority of the time, so he doesn’t have to worry about a few indulgences.
He makes it sound so easy; like he just jumped on a bike and pedaled away from his paunch! If he wasn’t so modest about it I’d probably punch him. I know I’m just jealous of his ability to keep things simple. He saw his weight as a practical problem, not an emotional catastrophe. Maybe if I had his sensible, engineering brain I wouldn’t be dragging my weight into a fourth year!
Oh well. It’s nice to have found weight loss inspiration right under my nose. He knows I’m trying to lose weight and has been very supportive and understanding. But I still can’t bring myself to tell him just how big I used to be.
WEEK 158
January 20
I’ve never had a vegetarian boyfriend before and my digestive system is struggling to adjust. Gareth came over last night and I cooked up a delicious spicy dahl. As soon as we’d finished, I felt the lentils preparing to wreak havoc. I’d yet to fart in front of him; and vice versa. It seemed far too early in the relationship for such familiarity.
“Quick, hand us your plate and I’ll take it down to the kitchen,” I said.
“Oh no, let me do that!” He jumped off the bed. “You did all the cooking, after all!”
“No! You’re the guest. Stay where you are!”
After a brief tug-of-war I triumphed and scurried down the stairs. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty, as I couldn’t help releasing a most unsexy trumpeting sound.
I giggled as I returned to my room. And there was Gareth, his denim-clad butt poised over the window ledge with a guilty look on his face.
“You’re back!” he said.
“Were you just farting out the window?”
“Maybe!”
“You’re such a gentleman to direct them outside!”
“It’s your cooking!” He blushed furiously as I slumped on the floor with laughter. “It’s delicious but lethal!”
“Don’t worry, I just let one rip in the kitchen.”
Somehow that’s taken us to a whole new level of intimacy. I almost did the same with my BodyPump classmates tonight. Heed my warning, people: don’t squat too deeply if you’ve just had lentils for dinner.
WEEK 162
February 16
Dear Neglected Diary,
You know that old saying, “mind over matter”? I’ve really stopped minding my matter lately. The mind keeps trying to persuade me that my expanding matter doesn’t matter. I can feel my jeans getting tighter but my mind shrugs it off: “They must have shrunk in the wash!” But they haven’t been washed for weeks.
I’m such a slob. A tired, tubby, chocolate-scoffing, scale-avoiding slob. Do you want to hear all my excuses?
First there’s
work. This is our mighty Year of Travel: so far we’ve planned a Scottish jaunt with the Mothership in April, a three-week tour of Russia and Scandinavia in June, plus a fortnight’s backpacking around the Baltic States in September. I can’t believe I’m going to Russia! I’ve been obsessed with the place since we studied the revolutions in high school. Sometimes we’ll be eating dinner or waiting for a bus and Rhiannon and I will look at each other and scream, “Russiaaaa!” But in order to pay for it all we’re doing extra weekend shifts at Geriatric Rescue. We’ve just finished an epic sixteen working days in a row, during which time our precious weekly routine fell apart and we resorted to take-aways or toast for dinner.
Secondly, there’s the lovely Gareth. We’re ships in the night at the moment, with my work schedule and his frantic dash to the thesis finish line. He’s stressed and I’m tired, so when we manage to meet we open a bottle of wine, bitch about our days, then fall asleep in front of the ten o’clock news.
Finally there’s complacency. Sometimes I forget that I need to shift a few more pounds, especially with Gareth telling me I’m foxy all the time. Who cares that my knickers are still a size 16 when there’s a lovely bloke trying to get into them?
But the fat won’t let me forget it’s still around. When I woke this morning I was suddenly hyperaware of my flesh. It felt alive, like it had doubled in size overnight and was hogging the whole bed.
Gareth opened one eye and mumbled, “Are you OK?” but I turned away from him, trying to crunch my body up into the smallest possible space.
Eventually he persuaded me to come down for breakfast. There were only two pieces of bread left and I insisted he eat them.
“Why?”
