The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

by Shauna Reid

  I pointed to my stomach and shrugged. “Well, come on!”

  He shook his head, bewildered. “Why should you say something like that?”

  I burst into tears. I didn’t know why I’d said it. I hadn’t even thought such negative things for months, let alone actually said them aloud. I guess I feel like things are getting out of control, and you know I’m not good with that. I’ve been living in a bizarre state of bliss, stress, and fatigue, and I’ve allowed bad habits to creep back—taking the lift instead of the stairs, neglecting mundane tasks like laundry, skipping my gym classes, stopping for junk food on the way home from work.

  I’ve got to get back on track and find a way to cope with all the variables in my life. I don’t like being an anxious grump, running around my room hiding chocolate wrappers every time Gareth comes over.

  WEEK 163

  February 23

  211 pounds

  140 pounds lost—46 to go

  I finally made it back to the gym tonight. It was supposed to be yesterday but I wanted to have a Last Supper (two Topic bars and a bag of sweet chili crisps) before I resumed the fight.

  Miraculously, I’ve only gained two pounds since November. But that’s probably because I’ve lost all my precious muscles. I had to lighten all my weights at BodyPump and I was soaked with sweat after just the warm-up!

  As I squatted and lunged I tried to remember how good it feels to take care of my body. I’d had muesli for breakfast and a salad sandwich for lunch and now I was back at the gym. You’ve fallen off the wagon so many times before, I told myself. You know how to get back on track!

  But that would be much easier if I could stop thinking about muffins. Banana muffins, blueberry muffins. Or chocolate chip. Or chocolate chocolate chip. Surely muesli and aching muscles were more satisfying than muffins? But I could almost taste them. I could feel the stray chocolate chips clinging to the roof of my mouth. All I needed was a cool glass of milk to hose the crumbs off my teeth.

  How did I get back to this place where I’m constantly thinking about food? What happened to the part of my brain that makes me stop and think before I eat? But I’ve made it through today, so I’ll just try and do it again tomorrow.

  WEEK 164

  March 3

  209 pounds

  142 pounds lost—44 to go

  I’ve lost those two pounds again; it feels rather accidental. But I’m setting myself small challenges, so it feels like I’m heading somewhere positive. This week’s task was simply Drink Two Liters of Water per Day. Not that I think I can flush out the flab, but it’s good exercise running to the loo 11 times a day.

  I think I’m getting a bit obsessed, though. I read that you can tell your body is properly hydrated if your urine is a “pale straw color with no discernible smell.” So I’ve been doing this mad dance of pee, wipe, jump up, spin around and peer into the bowl to examine my handiwork. I even considered finding a piece of actual straw to get a more accurate color comparison. I have not, however, gone so far as to get down on my knees and sniff at the bowl.

  WEEK 165

  March 9

  “So how’s the Body looking these days?” asked the Mothership.

  “Oh, it’s looking all right!”

  “So do you feel good about yourself?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “So do you feel … sexy?”

  “What?”

  “I said, do … you … feel … sexy?”

  “I’m not going to talk about that with you!”

  “Aww c’mon, why not?” she insisted. “I was sexy once, you know!”

  As much as I enjoy our rambling long distance phone calls, I draw the line at discussing my sex life with the Mothership.

  So do I feel sexy?

  I’ve certainly always been a hot-blooded creature. Extra pounds have been no barrier to an active sex life, although much of it took place in my imagination. It just felt safer there, under the covers in the darkness with my trusty friend Mr. Shakey. I could block out the belly rolls and dimpled thighs and let my thoughts run wild. Instead of criticism or rejection, I only heard the steady buzz of two AA batteries.

  But falling in love has made sex scary. The problem isn’t desire—just his laugh or the arch of his eyebrow makes me hot—but the way I feel about my body. Although I can look in the mirror these days and appreciate my curves, I’d hardly say I was ready for public exhibition. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet! I was going to lose all my pounds, shed my body issues, and only then would I become a sultry sexpot and consider falling in love.

  Most times I can just close my eyes and surrender to all that lust and longing, but other times it feels like there’s huge neon arrows floating in the air, pointing out my flaws. HEY GARETH, CHECK OUT THE ARM FLAB! or DANGER! THESE THIGHS COULD KILL!

  I’ve always hated moving my body. I remember nearly crying at a piano recital when I was ten years old; I was so paranoid that my arms were jiggling as my fingers roamed the keyboard. I’ve only just learned to walk past a bunch of strangers without worrying they’re laughing at my wobbly bottom. So moving my body while naked is a whole new level of terror. So many positions, so many unflattering ways to arrange my flab! Every time he closes his eyes I pray it’s because he’s overcome by passion, not because he’s avoiding the sight of my bouncing boobs.

  I think my bedroom anxiety runs parallel to my general relationship anxiety. I’ve always liked to keep people at a distance, so being in love makes me feel vulnerable. Sometimes I look at Gareth and see our future unfolding, all the way until we’re crotchety pensioners shouting at the television, but I can’t decide if that thrills or scares me. I feel exposed when I’m naked, all pale and streaked with stretch marks, trying to trust the tenderness of his touch. I worry that it’s all too good to be true, that it’s more happiness than I deserve.

  But most of the time my heart and body are not afraid. This wasn’t what I expected to happen but why not let go? Someday soon he’ll be able to run his hand over my body without me hurriedly sucking in my stomach.

  WEEK 166

  March 15

  Gareth has just left for a two-week Canadian holiday. He’s trying to juggle his thesis with starting a full-time job, so the poor lad has earned his break.

  The first thing I did after waving him off at the airport was bawl for two solid hours. It’s not that I’m a jealous loser who doesn’t want her fella having fun without her; I just hate saying goodbye. It felt like reality biting me in the arse. I’m Australian, he’s Scottish, and my visa expires in twelve months’ time.

  I’ve stopped short of drawing up an actual Excel spreadsheet, but I’ve tallied up all the time we’ll be apart this year, with my travel plans and his holidays and business trips. So far it’s six weeks for me and five for him, which adds up to sweet bugger all time left together!

  I shouldn’t even speculate about the future after just four months together. But it still gnaws at my gut, knowing sooner or later I’ll have to face up to it.

  I’m such a lovesick twit. And still paranoid. I’m convinced he’s going to wake up one sunny Vancouver morning and realize he really could do better.

  You know what’s funny about losing a stack of weight? Nothing really changes. All that happens is that you lose the thing upon which you used to hang all your neuroses. Fat has shape and substance; you can poke it with a stick. It’s a scapegoat and a handy excuse. Once you start to lose it, you realize you’re stuck with the same moronic core.

  WEEK 167

  March 24

  206.5 pounds

  144.5 pounds lost—41.5 to go

  Overblown weight loss analogy of the week: the fat-busting process is like having a delicate dish simmering on the stove. If you don’t constantly watch the pot, it will boil over or stick to the bottom. You’ve been whisking so hard and so long that your wrist is sorer than that of a fifteen-year-old boy with a stack of Playboy. You’re frowning at the recipe, Shouldn’t something be happening by now?
But you have to stay there at that stove, baby! Stay there until the dish is done!

  Today, at least, the kitchen feels somewhat under control. I’ve lost weight again. I’ve stopped moping about Gareth and I’m savoring my solo time. I even had a day off work yesterday and did all these little Edinburgh things I’ve wanted to do for months. I wandered through Dean Village and over to the Modern Art Gallery. I lingered over scones and tea in the café, then sat outside on the grass writing postcards until, in fine Scottish tradition, it started to rain.

  I saw one of my Geriatric Rescue colleagues at the café, and it made me smile to think I’ve lived here long enough to “bump into” people.

  “You’re looking well, Shauna!” she said. “Have you lost more weight?”

  I was secretly pleased that she could see a difference, but quickly mumbled, “Maybe a little bit. But I’m not done yet!”

  Just to flog that kitchen analogy some more—this lard-busting business makes me feel like an overzealous cook, slaving over Christmas lunch. People keep coming into the kitchen to lift saucepan lids and peek in the fridge, demanding to know when it will be ready. The cook starts screaming, “Get out of my kitchen!” Nobody’s allowed to look until it’s perfectly done!

  It happened last Saturday at the hairdresser’s. My stylist looked me up and down as she helped me into the cape. “Are you shrinking?” she asked. “Your trousers are huge on you!”

  “I don’t know,” I blushed. “Perhaps. Maybe. Either way, I’m still working on it!”

  Don’t look! Work in progress! Not finished yet!

  WEEK 171

  April 14

  204.5 pounds

  146.5 pounds lost—39.5 to go

  There was a moment today when I had a glimpse of what it’s like to just have a body, as opposed to the Body; that capitalized Thing that I spend so much time and energy worrying about.

  I spent Easter Monday with Gareth and his lovely family. Not only did our love survive his Canadian jaunt—we’ve progressed to Meet the Parents level! I wish it were physically possible to kick my own arse for all that unnecessary angst.

  After our pub lunch we went to a park to roll hard-boiled eggs down a hill. I was watching his little cousins playing on the swings when Gareth slipped his arms around my waist. “I see you’re busting for a go on those,” he said.

  “Me?” I snorted. “I don’t think that seat is designed to contain an arse like mine.”

  “Of course it is. Let’s go!”

  To my surprise, I fit with room to spare.

  The two of us swung back and forth and made lame jokes about always wanting to be swingers. We yelled at his parents like five-year-olds, “Look at me! Look at meeeeeee!”

  It was thrilling to feel so light and carefree and … normal.

  WEEK 172

  April 30

  Until she was toddling toward us at the airport, I never quite believed the Mothership would make it to Edinburgh. But there she was with her huge grin and ridiculous sunglasses perched on her head.

  “Hello darlings! I only just realized, I’ve had these on my head all the way from Canberra!”

  Suddenly she dropped her handbag and did a dramatic double take. “Wow!” she crowed. “Lookin’ good, girl!”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Ma.”

  “Seriously! You’re so skinny!”

  Rhiannon and I had expected tears aplenty after a year apart, but she launched right into her usual blathering.

  “Would you look at this shirt? I’m a bloody disgrace!” She pointed to various crusty blobs. “That’s lunch at Sydney. And here’s my ravioli on the way to Singapore. And here’s a bit of breakfast before we got to Heathrow. Did you know I’ve had two breakfasts today? They gave me another one on the way to Edinburgh. I got two bits of bacon, scrambled eggs, half a tomato, and a bread roll. A stale bread roll.”

  The strongest bond between my mother and me will always be our ability to collect meals on our clothing.

  The three of us sat on the top deck of the airport bus and headed into the city. She frowned at the gray houses and concrete gardens and asked casually, “So… do you enjoy living here?”

  She came bearing gifts of affordable Australian clothing. Twenty-dollar trousers, cheap T-shirts, and multipacks of socks and undies. Jackpot!

  But all of the clothes were too big. I don’t know whether to celebrate finally outgrowing the Aussie Fat Shops or be crushed that I won’t be expanding my skeletal wardrobe.

  Mum eyed me critically as I made my way through the pile. “Look at you!” she crowed. “You’ve got a waist now!”

  “I’m getting there. Sort of.”

  Scotland is small. If you tore it off from England and dumped it in outback Australia, it would take the Federal Police, Interpol, and a herd of Alsatians ten years to track it down again. But this tiny country is beautiful, and we only had one week to force-feed the Mothership as much of it as possible.

  It’s ridiculous after just a year how protective you feel about a place. Mum would make an innocent comment like, “It’s raining!” or “How much for a cup of tea?” and we would splutter defensively, like she was a playground bully picking on our baby brother. Even though we’d whined about the same things last year.

  We just wanted her to love Scotland like we do. So the grand tour kicked off at South Queensferry beneath the Forth Bridges.

  “The red one is the rail bridge,” I explained. “Built in 1890. Look at it. Look at it!”

  “I’m looking!”

  “Take a picture!” said Rhiannon. “It was the greatest feat of Victorian engineering!”

  We trundled through the gentle greenness of Perthshire. Look at the cows! Look at the castle! Are you looking? And again as we wound our way through the Highlands. Look at that loch! Get a load of that glen!

  Finally we arrived on the Isle of Skye.

  “Those mountains are the Cuillins, Ma,” I announced, with such ridiculous pride you’d think I’d given birth to them myself. “Don’t you think they’re beautiful? Eh? Eh?”

  And so it went, all the way to Mull and Iona.

  “Mothership,” I said as we drove along Mull’s nerve-racking single-track roads, “you’re doing that staring thing again.”

  “I’m allowed to look at you! I haven’t seen you in over a year!”

  I got the feeling she was slightly overwhelmed by our whirlwind tour. Not so much the packed itinerary but the poise with which we shuttled her around the countryside. We were assertive and organized, which was no surprise with Rhiannon; but I’d always been a passive creature. Now I was confident and opinionated, and when Mum kept applying the phantom brakes and muttering about my driving skills, I pulled the car over and said, “If you don’t shut up I’ll make you sit in the backseat!”

  All week long she kept looking at me with bewilderment, perhaps even envy. I know she is struggling with her own weight problem, and that struggle was something we’ve always had in common. It feels as if the balance has subtly shifted in our relationship. I just hope she’s proud of me; I want her to see that I’m not so helpless and hopeless anymore.

  On her last night in Scotland she finally met Gareth. It was hard to tell who was the most nervous. After half a glass of wine I calmed down and enjoyed the treat of seeing my three favorite people in the same place at once.

  I could tell Gareth was charmed by the Mothership’s playground anecdotes, but it was hard to tell if the feeling was mutual. The strained smile and frequent nodding indicated she was struggling to comprehend his Scottish accent.

  “So! What did you think?” I demanded, once Gareth had left to catch the train.

  She smiled. “He’s wonderful! So down-to-earth. And he certainly thinks the world of you.”

  “How could you tell? You didn’t understand a word he said!”

  “Love transcends language, Shauna,” she said sagely.

  “I see.”

  “You’re quite serious about each other, aren’t you?”r />
  “I think so.”

  “Have you talked about the Future?”

  “The future?”

  “Yes, the Future. With a capital letter!” she said. “What will you do when your visa runs out next year? Should I start saving for another airfare in case of a certain special event?”

  “A wedding?” I laughed. “We’ve only been together for five months!”

  “I’m serious! Mothers have a nose for these things. I heard it in your voice the first day you mentioned him, and now I’ve seen it for myself.”

  “Well, Nostradamus, I’ll keep you posted.”

  Mum was sobbing when we left her at the departure gates. She looked so forlorn with her red eyes and perennial sunglasses on her head. I felt guilty for not summoning up the tears, but the sheer force of her personality means I never feel all the miles between us. Each time her chirpy voice blasts down the phone line, crapping on about her students or the latest motivational book, we grow closer than ever before. Besides, I’ll be home again soon. I guess.

  WEEK 174

  May 10

  201.5 pounds

  149.5 pounds lost—36.5 to go

  Happy days! I just found out that I’m contributing to a book called Tales from the Scale that my fellow weight loss blogger Erin Shea is editing. I’ll be paid for something other than making coffee! I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but since I’m going to be in a Real Live Book, I couldn’t resist blurting the news to Gareth.

  “Shauna in print!” he grinned. “That’s great news. So what’s the book about?”

  “Umm…” How could I explain without betraying my secret? “It’s just about chicks,” I said vaguely, “and their weight loss experiences.”

  “Cool! How did you get involved with that?”

  “Well, I know Erin… from the Internet. It was a message board or something. Where chicks gather to talk about their fat.”

  Yeah, that’ll do.