by Shauna Reid
I got my race pack in the mail today. There was a piece of paper with a number on it that I am supposed to pin on my shirt, then run five kilometers. I know thousands of people can run five kilometers with their eyes closed but it’s my idea of hell. Why would I want to take my lard to the streets? It’s bad enough lurking up the back row of BodyPump!
But then I remembered my To Do When I’m Skinny list. “Run” was item number four, so I’m contractually obliged to give it a stab. I managed to learn how to walk again a few years ago, so let’s see if we can take it up a gear.
WEEK 219
March 21
197.5 pounds
153.5 pounds lost—32.5 to go
Today I bought a set of scales for the marital home and stepped on, to discover I’ve gained a pound. I’ve only been married three weeks, it’s far too soon to be letting myself go! Besides, how can I let go when I never got hold of myself in the first place?
I’m struggling to come to grips with life on the other side of the Forth Bridge. I was so spoiled living in the center of Edinburgh, close to shops, cinemas, and the Fancy Gym, with a dozen buses whizzing by to take me to even more exciting places. Out here in Dunfermline it’s a twenty-minute trek to the train station, and the trains are always late or full of drunks. The nearest decent supermarket is a thirty-minute walk away, and the return leg with the grocery bags is uphill.
I miss my old Edinburgh routine. I’ve been too busy sulking to establish a Dunfermline routine. My commute sucks. I hate washing my hair in the bath with a teacup since Gareth doesn’t have a shower. And he doesn’t have an organizer tray in his cutlery drawer! All the knives and forks are just tossed in one big metallic pile. I asked him how he could possibly live with such chaos and he just shrugged, “It makes mealtimes an adventure.”
I had a brief moment of resolve on Saturday and joined the local gym. But afterward I stopped at the mini supermarket in search of olives and peppers for our pasta dinner. There were no peppers and only a tiny jar of anemic olives for £1.89. I glared at the jar, simmering with bitterness, for those olives were a metaphor for the crapness of my new existence. I prowled the cramped aisles looking for something to calm me down and finally arrived at the freezer.
Aha, I thought, a freezer! And in the freezer is ice cream, that stuff that I really wanted in San Francisco but didn’t get. Now it shall be mine!
I bought one of those Mars Bar ice creams. Then I got an original Mars Bar too, just in case I wasn’t satisfied with the frozen one.
I was halfway home when I remembered Gareth was there with his bandmates. So I quickly unwrapped the ice cream and wolfed it down, lurking behind a tree, putting it down every time a car went by so people wouldn’t think I was a Greedy Fat Chick. I was so jittery that I barely registered the taste.
I squinted into the window of a parked car to make sure I hadn’t left any chocolate evidence on my mouth. When I got home I said hello to the lads then hid in the bedroom for the rest of the evening. I read my Running Made Easy book while breaking off sly chunks of nonfrozen Mars Bar.
What the hell was I doing? Was this how I wanted my married life to be? Clandestine chocolate bars and stuffing foil wrappers in my underwear drawer? Just like Mum used to do when she was married to my stepfather. Just like I used to do too. But I am not my mother, nor am I a child anymore. I have nothing to be afraid of. Gareth doesn’t care if I eat a Mars Bar.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m overjoyed to be married. But leaving Edinburgh was harder than I’d anticipated. I didn’t expect to feel so resentful. I was so relieved that I wouldn’t have to get deported and leave Gareth that I didn’t think about how my daily life would change. I hate having to come up with new ways of doing things. Every time I get a rhythm going, life gets in the way!
WEEK 220
March 28
195 pounds
156 pounds lost—30 to go
Last night I sat on the kitchen floor in front of the washing machine, mesmerized by my socks thrashing around in Gareth’s washing machine. Well, our washing machine now. That beast will be washing my socks until death do us part.
It felt like the first time I’d really sat still since I left Australia. I thought about the random, crazy way it had all unfolded. I’d just thought I’d do a little travel, eat a bit of haggis, and then two years later go back to Canberra and slip back into my old life. But I’m still in Scotland and I’ve got a husband whom I’ve married twice. I smiled and watched his boxers and my knickers mingling in the suds, letting it all sink in.
This week has been the Official “Stop Moping, Start Coping” Week. A cheesy, rhyming slogan always boosts my motivation.
Sunday kicked off with a domestic overhaul. I introduced Gareth to the joys of planning a weekly menu rather than opening the cupboards and hoping for inspiration. Then we ordered groceries online to avoid that uphill trudge home from the supermarket. Then I reorganized the pantry in a more logical fashion, and it warmed my heart to see my quinoa and Brazil nuts nestled beside Gareth’s Branston pickle and spaghetti hoops.
“You don’t mind all these reforms, do you?” I asked timidly, once I’d sorted the dreaded cutlery drawer.
“Of course not, it’s great,” Gareth said as he surveyed our handiwork, “I never knew I had so many teaspoons!”
I smiled. That man makes me believe that marriage really can be about compromise and communication, not flying crockery.
My lard busting is back on track with a two and a half pound loss. I’ve also done two BodyCombat classes at my new Non-Fancy Gym and tomorrow I start Mistress Julia’s running program. I know I’ll get there if I keep doing all these positive things. Weight loss isn’t about willpower or motivation; it’s just the cumulative effect of tiny actions over time. Putting down the chocolate bars, putting on the running shoes. You just have to keep picking yourself up when you fall, over and over again, for however long it takes.
WEEK 221
April 4
It’s only been a week but I can tell you I officially hate running.
It doesn’t help when my earliest memories of the sport are being chased around the athletics track by plovers—giant Australian birds with spurred feet—while the teachers stood around laughing. And then there’s the bitter sting of high school PE classes, where I couldn’t trot more than 50 meters without coughing up a lung. By far the slowest in my class, I was always picked last for teams. One by one my chosen classmates would line up behind their captains, until only I remained in all my red-haired red-cheeked crapness.
CAPTAIN A: Ummmm. I pick that tree.
CAPTAIN B: I pick that stray cat over there.
CAPTAIN A: I pick that abandoned chip bag.
CAPTAIN B: Damn! All right then, I pick Shauna!
I must confess, I actually bought my running shoes six months ago but I’ve been too afraid to use them. It took three attempts just to get inside the door of the running store! The first time, I let my bus sail right past, too nervous to press the Stop bell. The second time, I stood on the opposite side of the street in a blur of tears. I was convinced the sporty salespeople would laugh me right out of the shop, because why the hell would such a fatty fat guts need running shoes? After all the lard I’d lost, I still couldn’t shake the idea that there are things I’m not allowed to do and places I shouldn’t go because of my weight.
All this was despite reassurance and encouragement from Rhiannon, Gareth, and Mistress Julia, who all insisted running was for everyone. They said the shop folk would be happy to help, and my fat money would be just as welcome as some withered marathon dude’s money. Everyone has to start somewhere!
Annoyed into action by such logic, I made my third trip to the store. I hid behind a rack of very tiny shorts while the saleswoman sold some socks to an athletic gentleman. Sadly, the other people were only browsing, so I was spotted before I could escape.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for some running shoes,” I said meekly.
“Excellent!”
“I’m just starting out,” I said in a rush. “Well, obviously!”
I still can’t suppress the urge to justify my presence to skinny people. Yep, I’m fat! I know. Beat ya to it!
But the woman just focused on the task at hand. She asked me to take off my shoes and walk up and down the shop. She instantly spotted my overpronating right foot and fetched a mighty stack of shoes for me to try.
All that attention on my body made me squirm. I’m so used to being anonymous with exercise, hiding at the back of the class and muddling my way through. It was strange to be taken seriously.
“OK, just have a wee run up and down the shop so I can see if your feet like those shoes.”
I froze. “Run? Me?”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, no one’s looking at you.”
“Oh man.”
“I’ll just be looking at your feet, not analyzing your technique.”
“I have no technique.”
I squirmed for another thirty seconds before doing a halfhearted little trot. My face was burning red, but at least it was just from embarrassment and not exertion.
I must have tried a dozen different pairs. I kept blurting, “These are OK! I think these will do!” Anything to get her to stop paying so much attention. Finally, after half an hour, she was satisfied with my choice and I made my escape.
Perhaps I thought I didn’t need to use the running shoes, since the act of buying them was such a remarkable achievement in itself. But I’ve signed up to a charity race and Mistress Julia’s program so I’m out of excuses. And now Gareth is doing the training with me! When he offered to come along for moral support, I said I’d be delighted, but now I’m cursing my politeness. Not only is he humiliatingly fitter than me, it means I’ll actually have to do some running. I can’t just sit under a tree for half an hour, splash my face with water, then go home and say, “Dude! Tough workout!”
The first session this afternoon was hell. I thought I’d built up a reasonable level of fitness with all my gym classes, but running is a different beast. There’s no instructor to tell me what to do. There’s no machine to slump on when I get tired. It’s just me, my body, and the open road.
When you’ve avoided running your whole life, it feels bizarre to arrange your body in a running-type configuration. Julia’s instructions were customized for the absolute beginner, so I alternated walking with one-minute bursts of running. Or rather, one-minute bursts of slightly swifter shuffling. My lungs! My poor lungs! Where had all the air gone? Why was my face on fire?
I’d never felt so inept in my life. I looked at the ground the whole time, hoping it would render me invisible to all the real runners in the park. I should have resurrected the old Vampire Method!
Gareth, on the other hand, loped along effortlessly, throwing punches and singing the theme from Rocky, “Shauna’s training! Getting strong now! Won’t be long now!”
When we finally finished, my face was so red it melded seamlessly with my hair and eyebrows. Gareth hadn’t even broken sweat. The bastard.
How will I ever last five kilometers?
WEEK 222
April 11
There was a girl beside me on the train platform this afternoon who appeared to be about the same size I was at my largest. She looked nervous as the train pulled in, shuffling from foot to foot. I wondered what was wrong. Sometimes I look nervous when the train arrives too, because I’m always trying to guess where the doors will be when it stops. I’ve been very lucky lately; the doors have landed right in front of my nose, so I can get right on board with a good chance of getting a seat. It’s a beautiful thing!
The Door Gods smiled on me again today, and I was about to jump on when I noticed the girl looked even more flustered. Suddenly I recognized that agitated expression. I stepped back and let her get on first.
She didn’t venture into the carriage proper, where most of the seats are, but instead hung around in the open space at the end where the bike rack and toilets are. There’s just one seat that folds down from the wall, and she swooped on it immediately. That space is always hot and noisy, but since everyone else was busy fighting over the seats in the air-conditioned bit, she had it all to herself.
I didn’t feel pity; it was simply a moment of recognition and empathy. I’ve almost forgotten how my days used to be an endless series of logistical operations. Trying to maneuver my body down narrow shop aisles without knocking over merchandise. Praying that I’d fit in the cape at the hairdresser’s. Making plans with friends then wondering if I should put antichafing powder on my thighs in case they wanted to walk anywhere. Rushing onto trains to find a seat so I wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. Always trying to anticipate danger.
The Fat Girl Logistics Department has been retired for quite some time. I don’t have to worry about nonretracting seat belts or breaking chairs in restaurants anymore. But today I remembered how exhausting it was, physically and mentally, just getting around. All the dread and fatigue flooded back, and I kept patting the empty space around my seat to make sure I really did fit.
WEEK 224
April 27
Gareth still hasn’t read a word of this journal. I didn’t ask him to stay away; he just said he didn’t want to intrude on my private space. If the situation were reversed, I’m not sure I’d be so polite. If he told me he used to be really fat and depressed and I could read all the filthy details, there’s no way I could resist!
Part of me wants him to visit and slog his way through the archives. I want him to see the hard evidence of how different I used to be. Not to show off my lard-busting prowess, but to give him the full background. I’ve only made vague references to my pudgy past, so if he read about it, maybe he’d understand why I can still be such a nutter about my body.
On Sunday we commenced Week Four of our running regime. Well, Gareth was running, I was still gasping and turning redder than my hair. I had that blind, white-hot, premenstrual rage coursing through my veins. It was just too bloody hard, and there was still another t wenty-five minutes to go.
I glared sideways at Gareth. I hated him for barely breaking sweat while my own heart clobbered against my ribs. Didn’t he realize how traumatic this was for me? Didn’t he realize that I used to be so unfit that I might as well have been comatose?
“Hey,” I wheezed, “do you want to know why I hate this so much? [Puff puff puff] Do you want to know why I’m so bloody cranky and find this so bloody difficult? Well! I used to weigh twice as much as you do now. [Pant] Yeah that’s right, twice as much! I couldn’t walk around the block, let alone run! So just try and imagine that, buddy. Two of you stapled together!”
That told him, I thought. At last he knows the awful truth!
“It doesn’t matter what you used to weigh,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “What matters is that you found the guts to change your life. Learning to run is just your next adventure.”
What? He was supposed to say, Wow, you were huge! How remarkable, then, that you jogged for thirty seconds today when before you couldn’t tie your own shoelaces. Let’s go home and I’ll make you a cup of tea to celebrate!
I just don’t know what to make of myself or my body these days. Am I still a helpless blob that deserves patronizing applause for making the effort to waddle to the fridge? Or am I just as Gareth sees me, a normal, healthy chick taking up a new fitness challenge?
Last week I was hanging out with Maghie and Vicki, two friends of Gareth’s who are fast becoming friends of mine. We’re all madly into healthy living, so we got together to drink herbal tea and talk about tofu and yoga. Part of me was in seventh heaven to find such like-minded souls, but part of me wondered if they were thinking, Who’s this big lump, thinking she knows all about health and fitness? I felt like a fraud.
Eventually curiosity got the better of Gareth. He asked me as we were drifting off to sleep, “Did you really weigh 350 pounds?”
“Yes.”
/> “Life must have been a lot different back then.”
He was warm and understanding, just like he would have been if I’d been honest right from the start. But instead of being relieved I got defensive and refused to talk. I started crying there in the dark, feeling ashamed, as if all those extra pounds had suddenly reattached to my body. I imagined floating above the bed, looking down at the two of us—a huge blubbery pile of me with slender Gareth curled up behind.
I don’t quite know who I want to be lately. I feel so desperate to escape from the Old Shauna, but part of me doesn’t want to let her go. Maybe I’m just too scared to find out if the new one is for real.
WEEK 227
May 16
191 pounds
160 pounds lost—26 to go
I’m happy to have lost four pounds over the past seven weeks, but all this running makes me ravenous. I can’t stop thinking about food! I was walking home from the train station today when I caught sight of a sign above a shop on the high street. Half of it was obscured as I went around the corner, so I could only see:
N T A L
E R Y
Oh yes! My stomach purred with excitement. Continental Bakery! Bring on the pies and pastries!
Imagine my heartbreak when I got closer and saw the full picture:
D E N T A L
S U R G E R Y
WEEK 228
May 23
Today I came out of the fat-blogging closet!
Well, partially. Tales from the Scale was finally released in America this month, so in a bold move I sent copies to Rhiannon and the Mothership.
Mum sent me a text message last night: Nice book, thank u!
I wrote back, mimicking her nagging tones: DID YOU LOOK at the contributor biographies in the back of the book?
OMG! came the reply.
It’s so exciting to be in print! At first I played it cool, thinking I shouldn’t get too smug about having a few pages in someone else’s book. But then the glee won out and I had to jump up and down and scream. This is something I’ve dreamed of my whole life. When I was a kid, all my friends wanted to be teachers or models, but I’d always say, “I want to be an author.” I don’t know where I heard the word but I liked the way it sounded. Try and imagine my tiny Aussie accent: OR-THA!
