by Shauna Reid
“I’m so proud of you both for turning out so well, considering everything I put you through. I should have left the farm years before I did.”
“I kept on eating for five years after I left home. I had to take responsibility for my own actions.”
“But you and your sister had to move to the other side of the world to get away from all those memories.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”
“You don’t have to lie!”
“Well…”
“Do you remember what you were like when you were really young?” she said suddenly.
“Umm… aside from ginger?”
“You were the most outgoing little four-year-old. Confident and bright, always chatting to people. Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“When your father and I split up, you changed overnight. It was like someone turned the light out behind your eyes. I think you blamed yourself, somehow. You just withdrew into yourself, you were so fragile and insecure.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were never the same after that. We were so worried about you that I took a whole term off school just to be with you all the time.”
“Oh.” My throat felt tight. “That kind of explains a lot.”
“That’s why I was always sending you to drama classes and swimming lessons, trying to help you find your confidence again. But now I know that I was too overbearing and pushy.”
“Don’t worry, Ma, I was too busy thinking I was fat and ugly to notice.”
“Shauna! I’m trying to apologize!”
“I know.” I couldn’t help it, I was crying too. “I’m glad you told me all this, but I’m OK now. I’ve moved on and I’m doing fine.”
Mum honked into a tissue.
“I’m happy how things have turned out,” I said. “So please don’t worry anymore. I think you need to start worrying about yourself.”
There was a long pause. “I’ll go for a walk tomorrow morning.”
“Good.”
I still don’t know what to make of that conversation. But I am aching to go back in time to that four-year-old me and say, “Chin up, ginger. Twenty-three years from now you’ll think you’re great!”
WEEK 196
October 11
On Tuesday night Gareth’s band played a wee gig at the Liquid Rooms. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in musical action. He’s always been so bashful about playing the bass in front of me, so I’d started to suspect he just goes to the studio to chat with his pals and eat pizza.
But he was all business as he walked on stage with his slouchy shuffle, wearing his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt, and beanie. He picked up his bass then squinted through the spotlights in a searching fashion. Finally we made eye contact. He flashed a grin and held up the Fist of Rock.
And in that tiny moment I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. With that smile of recognition and that cheeky rock fist, everything fell into place. Finally I just knew, knew knew knew: that I had to have this guy in my life no matter what.
Whatever it takes for us to be together, I’ll do it. And I’ll be happy to do it.
He looked so at home on the stage, a faraway look on his face as he plonked away with skill and swagger. That’s what I loved about him right from the start: his serenity, how he looks so comfortable in his own skin. He always looks as if he’s thinking about something deep, although it’s usually motorbikes or equations. But I love how there’s no big dramas with Gareth. No jealousy, no arrogance, no smothering self-doubt. He just is who he is, in a completely unassuming way.
And that’s how he’s always made me feel. Calm, at ease.
I remember the night we met at the pub, with me resplendent in my size 18 jeans and faded T-shirt. I was already happy and content and finally learning to like myself just the way I was. I didn’t think I was looking for love, but now I see it was the perfect moment. I was ready. It’s not that he changed me; he enhanced what was already happening. Meeting him was like taking the final step toward being the confident, joyful person I always hoped was hiding inside the fat suit. For years my life was ruled by doubt, but our relationship is something I’ve always known was right. Even if it’s taken me a while to believe that it really could be that simple.
All my fears about our future suddenly seemed trivial. They were just annoying technicalities that we could work through somehow. I saw the future with perfect clarity, what I wanted and where I wanted to be. And in the midst of wailing guitars and thundering drums I’d never felt so peaceful.
Let’s hope the feeling’s mutual.
WEEK 197.5
October 23
I got brave today and brought up the Future with Gareth. The timing was rubbish—he’s snowed under at work and his viva is just a week away. But we were having a pub lunch in Cockburn Street and he looked rather relaxed after his pint.
“The Mothership called again yesterday,” I began.
“Oh?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. She said she’s found a piper in Goulburn and she’s got him on standby in case of any sudden … important events.”
“A piper!” He went slightly pale.
“Aye! I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.”
(She was perfectly bloody serious. She also asked if Gareth’s family had an official tartan.)
“Well,” Gareth said, “my mother keeps saying stuff like that too. She wants to know if she needs to start shopping for a new hat.”
“Oh dear.”
We smiled awkwardly.
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I said nervously. “This situation?”
“Yeah,” Gareth admitted. “But don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to. It just feels as if our hand might be forced.”
“Yes! That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“I’ve always liked letting things happen naturally, in their own good time, you know?”
“Rather than the Home Office making us … accelerate?”
“Yeah.”
“I totally agree.”
Later on, back at my place, I introduced him to the Home Office website and explained the intricacies of the UK immigration system.
“So as you can see, I don’t qualify for work permits, Ancestry, or the Highly Skilled Migrant program.”
He nodded.
“But I could qualify for a Prospective Marriage visa, which is a fancy name for a Fiancée visa, but that wouldn’t make any sense.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, it’s just not value for money. It’s five hundred quid and only valid for six months, plus you’re not allowed to work. I’d just have to sit on my arse until we got hitched, then we’d have to pay even more dosh to get the Marriage visa. So I’d be broke and unemployed just for the sake of six months.”
“Right,” said Gareth. His eyes were glazed over from a combination of confusion, fatigue, and Guinness.
“Anyway,” I said quickly, already feeling nauseous having said the M word so many times. “No need to worry about that now. Just keeping you informed!”
“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, and kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry. Everything will work out fine.”
WEEK 198
October 25
I’m getting back to basics. There’s no point sitting around getting tubby and worrying about the Future. Onward and downward!
With no further excursions planned at present, Rhiannon and I have scaled back our work at Geriatric Rescue. We’re trying to rebuild our trusty routine of cooking, shopping, and gyming.
I’ve really missed our weekly treks to Tesco. We have turned grocery shopping into sport. We synchronize our watches, catch buses from our respective workplaces so we arrive at the same time. We pause at the magazine rack then glide up and down the aisles with a shopping list that’s ordered in harmony with the supermarket layout. Then we waste half an hour browsing the chocolate, so we always have t
o sprint across the car park to make the bus on time.
Once the pantry was full and the meals were planned, I decided to start tracking my food again. I’d lost touch with just how much I’d been putting away. I signed up with an online food diary service, like a high-tech version of the dreaded points tracker. It’s got a huge database of UK foods, so I just type in what I eat and it spits out the nutritional information. It tells me where my calories are from (fat, protein, carbohydrates) and logs my weight, measurements, and exercise.
Once I did the sums I could see where I’ve been going wrong. One tiny ounce of mild cheddar cheese is 115 calories, yet so many times over the past few months I’ve sliced a fat wedge off the block then wondered why my jeans were strangling me. So this week my goals were to fill in the diary, avoid the vending machine at work, and get back to wholesome foods in sensible portions.
I have to say it’s mildly arousing having so much data at my fingertips. There’s graphs too! I haven’t indulged my inner statistician for so long—maybe that’s what’s been missing from my lard-busting efforts? Of course, I’ll have to make sure I don’t get too obsessed.
I’ve now racked up seven healthy days in a row. I didn’t skip a workout or fall into a pile of buttered toast. I haven’t had a week this good since… I can’t remember when. I was scared that I didn’t know how to do this anymore. I thought I’d never want it bad enough to get back into the groove. But I do want to see Operation Lard Bust right through to the end, so here’s to another healthy week.
WEEK 199
November 3
Gareth passed his viva! We can now officially call him Doctor G!
I told him I’d take him out for dinner to celebrate. He sat on my bed while I ran around trying to find something to wear. All my knickers were in the dryer so I had to dig out an ancient pair in a size 20. When I pulled them on, the waistband came underneath my boobs.
“Now that’s sexy!” he said.
“Why thank you, Doctor! I bet I could pull them over my nipples.”
And I could.
When we finally stopped laughing I said solemnly, “These used to fit, you know.”
“Well, I figured as much,” he said. “Unless you’ve got a large lady lover who’s gone commando today!”
I almost told him that when I first bought those knickers they’d seemed incredibly tiny to me. What would he make of my old size 24s? I bet if he put those on he could pull the waistband over his head.
The other day I asked him how much he weighed, and the scrawny bastard is only 160 pounds. I’m more than forty pounds heavier! How have I managed not to crush him to death?
He wouldn’t believe that I was heavier than him, even after he tried to pick me up and spin me around. “Put me down,” I shrieked. “Unless you have a good chiropractor!”
I can’t help being hysterically secretive about my journal and my starting weight, even though he’s never made any judgment about my size, or batted an eyelid at any mentions of my lardy past. I feel guilty for holding back on something so important to me, especially now that we’re vaguely contemplating making a serious commitment. But I guess it takes time to feel ready to share certain pieces of yourself.
WEEK 203
November 29
203 pounds
148 pounds lost—38 to go
I have a confession to make. I’ve been buying bridal magazines!
It started not long after Gareth’s gig, when I realized that staying together would probably mean an enormous leap of faith, and that leap meant marriage.
I’ve grown rather fond of the idea.
It’s a bit like binge eating. I’ll just buy one, I told myself. But soon I was hooked on the flavor, and now when Gareth comes over I have to hide the big pile of magazines in the back of the cupboard, just like I used to do with chocolate wrappers.
I haven’t raised the topic since that day in the pub, because I refuse to nag my way to a proposal. I’d like to think I have more dignity than that! So aside from strewing my desk with printouts from the Home Office website with the pertinent passages highlighted, I’m playing it cool. In the meantime I’m daydreaming of low-budget weddings and frocks that disguise meaty arms.
It’s not the idea of a wedding that I’m getting excited about, but the thought of us becoming Doctor and Missus Gareth Reid. It’s crazy how something that terrified me a few months ago now seems quite delicious. I am filling whole notebook pages with my potential new signature. Shauna Lee Reid. Don’t you just love it? It sounds like a tragic country and western singer.
WEEK 204
December 9
202 pounds
149 pounds lost—37 to go
Rhiannon is leaving me!
The treacherous wench found a proper job with a work permit, so she’s moving to London. Damn her and her impressive résumé and employability!
We told everyone it feels like a divorce. I’ve seen the rolling eyes; I know they think we’re being melodramatic. But you have to understand I’ll no longer be near someone who finishes my sentences and instinctively knows when to buy pizza on the way home. She’s my best friend.
Just like retired old farts in a caravan, we had routines and we treasured them dearly. I chopped the veggies for dinner while she wielded the wok. I booked our gym classes, she ordered in restaurants. I picked up the Thai take-away while she got the cutlery and queued up the DVD player. Whenever I farted, she’d say, “Shall I reply?” and let one rip too.
Grocery shopping was one of our favorite rituals, and Monday night was the last one. We dawdled in the car park, talking about jeans and how the ones with the “pre-faded” stripes down the front make your thighs look fat, when suddenly our bus barreled around the corner.
“Shauna!” Rhiannon screamed. “Stop the bus!”
I panicked, spinning the shopping trolley around in small, helpless circles. I am useless when asked to make a sudden movement. “Stop the bus? You stop the bus!”
Rhiannon bravely leapt out onto the street with outstretched arms, “Ssstooppp!”
Do you know how hard it is to find someone who’ll stop a bus for you?
But I am happy for her. While she’s enjoyed Edinburgh, she’s been craving more excitement, and I know there’s plenty of adventures awaiting her in the big city.
Even so, I can’t help but be jealous. Not only is her future secure, she’s popping home to Australia for Christmas! She figured she’d be busy and broke once she moves to London, so she wanted to visit everyone while she had the chance. She’ll be back in Edinburgh for a few days in January so we can wage a bitter custody battle over the frying pan and hair dryer, then that will be it.
Today I did a dress rehearsal Solo Shop and it was very traumatic. The checkout chick was merciless, flinging bananas and soup tins and expecting me to keep up. For the past four years, on two different continents, Rhiannon packed the heavy goods while I took fruit and veg. Then she’d do the bread and loo paper and magazines while I handed over the cash. We had a system. How can you have a system with just one person?
My life has changed dramatically these past four years, and I owe so much of it to my little sister. When Rhiannon moved in I was barely treading water. Without her I doubt I’d have found the spark to tackle my weight or move to the other side of the planet. Our friendship has become even stronger here in Scotland, now that I feel capable in my own right instead of leaning on her so much. Without her coaxing I wonder if I’d ever have mustered the courage to change.
“How am I supposed to go on?” I wailed when she broke the news.
She replied with a withering smile, “I have nothing left to teach you.”
Sometimes you can just feel change in the air. It’s as heavy and inevitable as the yeasty fug that spews from the Fountain Brewery. Change is a bit like a brewery, don’t you think? It makes a lot of scary noise and it stinks like hell, but the end product is delicious and good for you.
WEEK 205
December 13
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br /> One happy result from Rhiannon’s impending departure is that she’s been cleaning out her wardrobe and giving me her castoffs. I fit into her old size 12 suit!
I nearly cried as I zipped up the trousers. OK, they were snug and by no means ready to be worn in public, but I never thought my flesh would ever be arranged into a garment of such small dimensions.
Then again, Australian sizes can be generous. Last week I kicked the mirror at H&M because I could only fit into a size 18. Rhiannon tried to reassure me that H&M’s clothes seem to be cut with gazellelike Europeans in mind, but I raged anyway, convinced that the United Kingdom was united purely by a sadistic need to make me feel like a whale.
It’s not just the trousers making me emotional. My sister and I are breaking up, dammit. Everything is changing. Her future is sorted but mine is still dangling. And I don’t want to mention it again to Gareth because not only does he have a massive work deadline, but his thesis corrections are due before Christmas. Naturally I am trying to be supportive and fetch cups of tea, but what I really want to do is scream, “WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GOING TO DO? I NEED ANSWERS!”
For once in my life the only thing going well is the food and the exercise.
WEEK 206
December 21
I must apologize for the lack of weight loss heroism in this year’s diary. It seems Dietgirl has lost her superpowers, as I’m basically the same weight I was at the start of the year. I blame chocolate, which has always been my kryptonite.
Considering the amount of gourmet traveling I did, I suppose I should be grateful I’m not right back where I started. But I’m still cranky because it’s the first time in four years that I haven’t shed a few sizes.
But one thing I’ve shed is the old “I’m Too Fat” excuse: 2004 has been the busiest, most exciting year of my life, and for the most part I put the flabby thoughts on the back burner. I backpacked in strange countries, I talked to strangers, and I took my clothes off in front of a bloke many, many times.
