The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

by Shauna Reid

  Now that Grant’s all svelte, he allows himself a cake now and then. Why do blokes make it seem so simple? During today’s session he undid his belt and paraded around, showing the lads how baggy his trousers had become. I felt a stab of jealousy as I chomped on my shortcake. I wanted my trousers to be falling off! Well, maybe not in front of my colleagues.

  I miss the golden days of being a weight loss superhero. I don’t get the double takes and shocked gasps now that my loss is practically nonexistent. Not that my UK friends would ever notice a startling difference, since they never saw me at my heftiest.

  At least my Aussie pals are good for my pathetic ego. I got an e-mail from Jenny today—I’d sent her some photos from Russia and she claimed she wouldn’t recognize me in the street now. That sounded a bit optimistic, but I gobbled up the compliment anyway.

  I’m such an attention whore lately! I suppose after all those years of hiding behind jokes and baggy clothes, I’m tired of being invisible. I wouldn’t mind getting the occasional once-over. I like to imagine Gareth and I having a night out on the town when a handsome stranger saunters by.

  “That bloke is checking you out!” Gareth would say.

  “Damn right, buddy!” I’d reply.

  There’s a multiple-choice ending:

  (a) Gareth punches the guy in the face and says, “Step off pal, she’s mine!” But since Gareth is a pacifist who catches spiders in jars instead of mashing them with shoes (maybe that’s just an Australian thing?), the more likely conclusion is:

  (b) I suggest Gareth takes me home immediately for hot lovin’ before the handsome devil steals me away.

  I have dozens of similar fantasies, but my point is, I want to feel foxier. And I want to be a fat-fighting superhero again! I must remember that the next time the Cakes come out.

  WEEK 191

  September 6

  204.5 pounds

  146.5 pounds lost—39.5 to go

  Gareth called me on Sunday night from a pay phone near a vineyard somewhere in Beaujolais.

  “I just ate coq au vin for dinner,” he confessed. “I’m the world’s most rubbish vegetarian!”

  I melted at the sound of his voice. “So are you having fun?” “Shit, yeah! We rode around the Monaco Grand Prix track the other day. I thought I was going so fast but I got overtaken by a chick on a moped!”

  “Hee-hee. Is the wine good?”

  “Oh aye. You should see this place, Shauna, it’s beautiful. I’ll have to bring you back sometime.”

  “How about next summer?” I said boldly. I might as well get the ball rolling vis-à-vis the Future.

  “Next summer?” I swear I could hear his smile. “So do you want to stay in Scotland?”

  “Of course I do!” My heart was hammering. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Of course I do.” He paused. “But I thought maybe you’d be missing the food back in Australia too much or something.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Anyway,” he chuckled, “I was calling to see if you want to go out for dinner on Friday. How about Italian?”

  A date! Due to budget constraints, we don’t do that kind of thing too often. I spent the week in a frenzy of room cleaning, brow plucking, and nail painting. I even deforested my legs.

  Gareth looked so tanned and handsome when he arrived tonight that I went all quiet and bashful. But then he confessed he’d forgotten to make a reservation. The Edinburgh Festivals were in full swing, so when we finally phoned they were booked up!

  I’m ashamed to admit that I sulked. I wanted romance! I wanted cheese and garlic! I wanted him to be more bloody organized! I hadn’t seen him for two weeks and then I was away tomorrow for two more and my visa expires in less than seven months, so we should be having romance while it’s still legal.

  “So what do you want to do instead?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” I said airily. “What do you want to do?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well neither do I!”

  This went on for half an hour.

  He produced two cookies from his backpack. “I bought you these from France; they’re a bit squished up from being in the Bag for Life.” He put them behind his back. “Pick a hand. Brown wrapper is for the dodgy pizza joint, white wrapper for the Indian up the road.”

  He looked so ridiculous I couldn’t help laughing. I picked his left hand. Indian.

  We walked up the hill to Himalaya. Well, he walked and I stomped.

  “You don’t want Indian, do you?” he said.

  “I don’t care!”

  He smiled.

  OK, I was being a brat. I was just so relieved he’d made it back on that motorcycle in one piece, and that meant more to me than a posh dinner.

  We had a terrible seat in the restaurant, right next to the coffee machine. Our conversation was punctuated by the constant ssccchhh of frothing milk. But my sag aloo was great, the room was cozy, and I loved how happy Gareth looked as he told me about his trip. It felt strange to feel so happy for someone else, to realize how much his happiness meant to me.

  I know none of this has anything to do with losing weight. It’s just about realizing what’s really important. Losing weight is quite important to me, but naan bread and a lovely Scotsman rate pretty highly too.

  WEEK 193

  September 20

  We’re back from the Baltics! Rhiannon and I spent two weeks wandering through beautiful Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. We soaked up unforgettable sights like the Hill of Crosses and Tallinn’s crumbling Old Town, but I must say it was equally magnificent to discover that all three Baltic countries stocked Finnish chocolate. Mmm, Geisha bars.

  Since our return we’ve been embroiled in various schemes to stay in Britain. That’s the problem with traveling: the more you do it, the more you want to do it again! I only used to feel this way about chocolate cake, and similarly my eyes have become bigger than my stomach.

  But as of next Sunday there’s only six months left on our visas before I can no longer live and work in the UK. And we haven’t even been to Italy! Or Portugal or Turkey or Morocco or Luxembourg.

  Rhiannon and I spent four hours poring over the Home Office website. There’s no option to extend our Working Holiday visa, our jobs are too menial to qualify for the Highly Skilled Migrant visa, and we have no British grandparents to get a British Ancestry visa.

  “Bloody hell!” screamed Rhiannon. “Why must our ancestors be convict scum?”

  I even tried worming my way into a work permit by applying for permanent jobs at both my workplaces, but both attempts were disastrous. It seems work permits are reserved for the likes of brain surgeons and engineers. To get a work permit the employer has to prove that there were no suitable British candidates. Unfortunately, there are British secretaries and phone answerers in abundance. I was naive to believe I was so spectacular that either employer would wade into an expensive pool of red tape just to keep little old me.

  Rhiannon is contemplating applying for jobs in London in her old field of Extremely Posh Hotels, as they are more receptive to work permits. But since my career had barely started when I left Oz, I’ve got to be more realistic. My options boil down to:

  1. Go back to Australia.

  2. Quickie wedding.

  Both of these options make me weep.

  Number one obviously sucks because I don’t want to go home! I’m not done by a long shot. I’ve still got to eat olives in Spain and frites in Belgium. And above all I don’t want to leave Gareth.

  Which brings us to number two. We’ve only just said the L word, how can we be ready for the M word? I know they’re alphabet neighbors, but matrimony is a crazy leap when we haven’t even clocked up a year together. I think back to our bumbling courtship, and it’s quite hilarious to think two lazy, daydreaming bums like us would progress to the next level so soon. Gareth is an easygoing type who likes to let things unfold at their own pace, and I just don’t like anything involving change!

  I
know we both want to stay together, but I also know we both like things the way they are right now. My visa situation means we could be forced to speed things up because of circumstances beyond our control. The idea of a rushed proposal and a quickie wedding seems so tacky. I just want to talk about music and holidays and what to have for dinner, not about how we’ll divide household chores or whether to put plastic people on top of a wedding cake.

  But I guess the most important thing is to have faith that we’ll find the best way to handle this. There’s still six months to decide. And I need to look after myself and get back to the gym after my Baltic break. I can’t think clearly when my jeans are so tight.

  WEEK 193.5

  September 26

  I have to tell you the sad and sorry tale of the Nutella. You may recall the brown stuff was one of my favorite binge foods, but I’ve been clean for eight long years.

  Unfortunately there was a moment of weakness in Germany. You must understand we’d been eating those vile Russian sausages for a week! Our mouths were full of ulcers and our gums hurt. So when we arrived at the Berlin Youth Hostel and found that not only were their bread rolls not stale, but they provided those darling foil packs of Nutella to spread upon them, I was powerless to resist.

  A few weeks later at Chez Gareth I spied a familiar jar in the back of his pantry.

  “Is that Nutella?”

  “Yep. Do you want some?”

  “Oh no. I have a problem with Nutella.”

  “How can anyone have a problem with Nutella?”

  “Trust me,” I muttered darkly. “It can happen.”

  A whole month passed and I was at Chez Gareth again, chatting on the couch with a cup of tea.

  “Sooo,” he began, “I went to make a Nutella piece today.”

  Piece, I’ve discovered, is a Scots word for sandwich.

  “Yeah?” I searched for an innocent tone.

  “Yeah. I took the Nutella jar from the shelf and it looked like a normal jar of Nutella; about three-quarters full. But then I opened the lid!”

  “Oh?”

  “Much to my surprise the jar was nearly empty! Except for a very thin layer of Nutella right around the edges and bottom. Like someone had very carefully excavated the contents, spoon by spoon. They took great pains to make it appear full from the outside, when in fact the lot had been scranned!”

  “How ridiculous!”

  “I know!” he laughed. “Can you believe that?”

  “Maybe you have mice. Some very precise mice!”

  “That’s one theory!”

  “Yeah! Well!” I bristled. “You shouldn’t eat that stuff anyway. It contains partially hydrogenated oil, don’t you know; and that’s very bad for you. Very very bad.”

  I assuaged my guilt by buying him a fresh jar. But another month has gone by and he hasn’t even opened it!

  We were watching a movie last night when I finally exploded.

  “How come you haven’t opened that Nutella yet?”

  “What? Oh, I totally forgot it was there.”

  “How could you forget Nutella?”

  “Well I dunno. I just did.”

  “But haven’t you been thinking about it? Hasn’t it been taunting you?”

  “Has it been taunting you?”

  “I’m just amazed that it’s still there. Don’t you just crave it?”

  “Well, I tend to crave things like chips or cheese. I’m more a savory guy; you’re the sweet tooth in this relationship.”

  “Oh, I have a sweet tooth and a savory tooth,” I said. “I’ve got many teeth.”

  I don’t know what came over me, tiptoeing into the kitchen while he was in the bath or on the phone and helping myself to a spoonful, week after week, over and over again until it was gone.

  I can feel the Old and New Shaunas at war again. The Old Shauna feels the sting of shame and disgust, and annoyance for getting caught. Back in my sneaky prime I’d have replaced the jar before he had a chance to notice!

  But the New Shauna looked into that neatly emptied jar and joined in the laughter. Gareth was completely sweet about it, by no means accusing or angry like my parents used to be. Yet I still wonder why I didn’t just eat it in front of him? What am I afraid of?

  WEEK 194

  September 27

  I had a crisis coffee with Jane and Rory tonight. I’m desperate to talk to Gareth about my doubts re: the Future. But he’s busy preparing for his viva, the torturous ritual in which a panel of academics will grill him about his Ph.D. thesis for hours. So I thought I’d bend my poor friends’ ears instead.

  “All I know is that I don’t want this to end,” I said. “We’re SHAG. We’re an acronym! You can’t break up an acronym!”

  “Why would you have to break up?” asked Jane.

  “Because! I’m going to get deported!”

  “There’s no need for that. Why don’t you just get married?” asked Rory.

  “Married?” I snorted into my tea. “That’s a bit much.”

  “Why?”

  “Because! That’s what grown-ups do. You’ve witnessed our immaturity.”

  “But you love each other.”

  “We haven’t been together long enough to get married.”

  “You’ve been together longer than Britney Spears and her bloke were before they did.” “But we’re too young!”

  Rory smiled patiently. “Gareth is 31, and how old are you again?”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “You know what? If you love each other and want to be together, you should just go for it.”

  Why does everyone else think the situation is so clear-cut? It’s all too surreal. It was only a year ago I was wondering if Gareth would ever ask me out on a date, and now everyone’s sending us down the aisle?

  WEEK 195

  October 4

  “Hello?”

  “It’s only me,” said the Mothership. “Just wanted to say hi.”

  That didn’t sound right. She always takes great pleasure in announcing, “It’s the Mothership!” Her voice was flat and dull, and she kept asking questions instead of telling me school stories or a scene-by-scene recap of the last episode of Taggart.

  “What’s the weather been like?”

  “Crazy!” I replied. “Freezing one day, unseasonably warm the next.”

  “Oh well, I’m sure you can handle all temperatures now that you’re skinny.”

  “Sorry?”

  “And how’s Gareth? Done his exam yet?”

  “Another few weeks. He’s so busy that we haven’t really talked about the Future yet. I’m crapping my pants.”

  “You’ve got no reason to be nervous when you have that fabulous body!”

  “Mum!” I spluttered. “What the hell does that have to do with anything? Why are you so obsessed with weight today?”

  “I’m not obsessed!”

  “But you keep bringing it up!”

  “Because, because…” Her voice wavered. “I just … admire you for what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve done?”

  “Losing your weight.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Well I’m not really doing it very well lately, I’ve barely lost a thing all year!”

  “You’re doing it!” she insisted. “You’re skinny!”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “How did you do it?” I could hear the despair in her voice. “How did you stop making food the answer to your problems? Where did you find the courage? I’ve got to do something but I just don’t know where to start.”

  “Oh Mum.”

  “I’m just watching my life pass me by and I don’t know how to stop it.”

  Why can’t you just dive through the phone line and hug somebody? She was saying the exact same words I’d said nearly four years ago. I’ve been lounging in this “not quite fat, not quite skinny” stage for so long now that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be serious
ly overweight, how difficult it is to take that first step. Or maybe I just don’t want to remember.

  I felt helpless as she started to cry. I always thought Mum was so strong and in control. I’d watch her in action at Weight Watchers, bubbly and warm, with the ladies clinging to her every word as if she was the Weight Loss Messiah. But then I saw her marriage erode that confidence, and now ten years after it ended she still sounds so lost.

  “Anyway,” she sniffed, forcing a laugh. “Have you got any words of wisdom for me?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Umm. Don’t do anything radical,” I began. “Don’t try and change everything at once, even though everything might feel like shit right now.”

  “That’s exactly how it feels.”

  “Just pick one thing. Think of one healthy thing and do it tomorrow.”

  “Go for a walk?”

  “Yeah! Just try twenty minutes. I used to go early in the morning so no one could look at me.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Seriously, Ma. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t worry about what you’re eating and don’t even think about what you weigh. Just try doing one positive thing this week. That will give you courage to add something else next week. I know it sounds simplistic but it’s much less daunting, and starting small really can lead to something big.”

  “OK.”

  “OK.” My heart was pounding. It felt ridiculous to be giving diet advice to my mother. Did I sound too glib? Did I sound like those patronizing weight loss magazines? But when I think about my lard-busting methods, it really does boil down to baby steps. Why do I always lose sight of that?

  Suddenly she was sobbing again. “I’m so sorry I put you in this position.”

  “What position?”

  “All the things I said to you when you were a kid. All the diets I put you on.”

  “Ma, you don’t have to apologize. We had this out a few years ago, remember?”

  She just cried harder.

  “We weren’t living in a happy environment. It wasn’t easy for anyone. There was a lot of crazy shit going on.”