The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (11 page)

I gave Donna a hug and rushed out the door. How long had it been since I stayed for a meeting? How long had it been since I’d filled in a points tracker or eaten a Weight Watchers chocolate mousse? I can’t help feeling I’m outgrowing Weight Watchers. I feel like a rebellious, ungrateful teenager in my lipstick and new frock, sneaking out the bedroom window in search of new adventures.

I survived my first Christmas as a dedicated fat-fighter! Temptation abounded in the form of pavlova and ham, but I stuck to salads and fruit. My only concession was Nanny’s caramel pie. Shortbread crust, oozy caramel innards, and an artery-clogging layer of whipped cream—it’s an annual treat that I refuse to give up!

I weighed in tonight and there was a belated Christmas Miracle—a minuscule half-pound gain over the festive period! Which was the same half pound I’d lost on Christmas Eve. The Lord giveth and he taketh away.

In other news, I’ve chopped off my hair. After my pity party earlier in the month, I decided it was time to start taking some pride in my appearance. My new graduation outfit reminded me that looking good helps me feel good.

My hairdresser Michelle smiled at me in the mirror. “So Shauna, what shall we do today? Just the usual trim?”

“No! I feel old and frumpy. I want to look young and hot. Do you think that’s possible?”

An hour later there was a puddle of ginger on the floor. I emerged with a short, funky cut and blond highlights. I love it! I’ve never had people rave over my hairdo before, telling me it’s flattering and demanding to know who did it. It’s an excellent way to distract them from my thighs.

I’m about to clock up one year of lard-busting adventures. Somehow I’ve managed to lose 99 pounds, tame my chocolate addiction, and coax my arse off the couch. I’m still a hefty lass at 252 pounds but I’ve got a new hairdo and I’ve got hope. Onward and downward!

The instructor came up to me after BodyPump tonight and told me I had Good Form.

“I’ve been watching you hiding at the back,” she said. “You’re doing great. Your squats are superb too. Keep up the good work!”

I blushed and stammered as though I’d been touched by a rock star. I thought such a muscle-bound goddess would only speak to the nubile hipsters in the front row. But she noticed me! Me, twice the size of the average participant. Me, without rippling body or coordinated outfit. She looked beyond the red face and tummy rolls and saw the athlete within. Happy New Year, indeed!

I’ve flown the coop. I’ve left Weight Watchers!

I’ve been fantasizing about leaving for months but never felt ready to actually do it.

I can’t help feeling ungrateful, especially since Donna and crew looked after me like a helpless baby bird for a whole year. I squawked and flapped and demanded constant nurturing, but just like Rhiannon, they were patient and understanding. Who knows how different the past fifty-five weeks could have been without their support? I might have wound up with a heart attack, facedown in a four-liter tub of ice cream.

So I must credit Weight Watchers with reminding me how to eat healthily. They gave me the rules, structure, and accountability that I desperately craved. I wanted a system to believe in, because I didn’t believe in myself.

But now I do believe in me, and I do believe I’ve had enough of the system too. I’m tired of standing in the queue, listening to other ladies justifying their gains before they’ve even gotten on the scale. I’m tired of the weekly fee, the points, the magazine, and the crappy granola bars.

To be honest, the gym is the biggest reason I’m fleeing the nest. Not only do I get more satisfaction from getting fitter than from getting on the scale, but the Weight Watchers meeting really is a rude clash with my BodyPump class. Why stand in a queue when I could be securing my favorite spot in the back row? Why listen to some old dame asking how many points are in a Fisherman’s Friend when I could be burning blubber?

I weighed in tonight at 250 pounds. I grinned because my mental spreadsheet told me I’d finally cracked the magical 100 pounds lost mark. It seemed poetic somehow, so neat and tidy; the perfect milestone to wind up this chapter of my lard-busting adventure.

So how does one break up with Weight Watchers? Do you go for a long, tearful goodbye or just walk out the door and never look back?

Donna was surrounded by a horde of New Year’s Resolutionists, helping them fill out the membership forms. I smiled and waved, mouthing goodbye.

“Off to your weights class?” she called out.

“Oh yes. Gotta make some muscles!”

“Have fun!” She smiled and turned back to her brood.

Maybe I should have thanked her again, for her kind words and encouragement; for helping me through the shittiest moment of my life. I know I’ll always be grateful for that. But there were dozens of new recruits who needed her.

So I’m going to do this on my own now. I want to keep learning how to think for myself. There’s a tiny gnaw of doubt that it’s too soon, that all the exercise endorphins are pumping me with false confidence. But I’ve got to try.

I bought some new knickers the other day. Still the same horrible Bonds Cottontails, as worn by nuns and spinsters; but these are a size 18. They’re hardly dainty compared to Rhiannon’s but still look much smaller when hanging on the line next to my ancient size 24s. Weight Watchers helped me shrink my smalls, but I did a lot of the work myself. When I come to buy the next size down, I want to take all the credit.

I rocked up for my BodyPump class tonight to find the gym was CLOSED.

Not only was it closed, but there was yellow tape and a burly security guard blocking the entrance. According to the carefully worded note on the window, there’s been a “misunderstanding” between the building owners and the gym management.

It costs $700 for a yearly membership, and there must be at least seven hundred bazillion members, so what’s their excuse?

Naturally I panicked. What if they don’t pay up? What if they’re siphoning my fees to feed drug habits or buy luxury cars? What will I do without the gym? What about my growing muscles? Will they just deflate overnight? Will all the fat come back?

My body was twitching to get inside. I needed my fix. I wanted to jump on the scale too, to make sure the two pounds I’d lost on Monday were still lost. I almost cried! Can you believe how things have changed around here? I wanted to cry because I couldn’t exercise.

We’ve been assured the gym will be open tomorrow. It bloody better be.

Apologies for such a long period of silence; I’ve been too busy worrying about the future. I had a total of one billable hour on my time sheet last week. Which means I did bugger all for thirty-nine hours. This was a remarkable improvement on the previous two weeks, in which I had zero billable hours.

My working day consists of sitting at my desk nursing a sinking feeling, wondering what attempts at redeployment will occur today. This involves a lot of rejection. My boss Jill’s phone will ring and it will be the Resource Manager.

“Does Shauna have the skills to do X, Y, and Z?”

“Regretfully, no!” says Jill.

Today I accompanied her to a meeting with someone in another department.

“Can Shauna do A, B, or C?” they asked.

“No, Shauna is a content editor.”

“I see.”

Now I know how people who used to screw things together in factories felt when they invented robots to screw things together in factories. Goddamn technology. Only two years ago everyone was crying out for people to edit content for websites. Now our clients have the software to produce a Web page as easily as a cup of tea. They don’t need me to make things bold and hyperlinked anymore. They’ve finally discovered how ridiculously simple it is, so why should they pay me to do it for them? This year the content work has completely dried up, and the role of professional cut and paster is all but obsolete.

I spend a lot of time asking Jill can I help her with anything. She laughed on Friday and said, “You’re really worried about this lack of work thing, aren’t you?”

Well, I guess the novelty of surfing the ’net for eight hours a day has worn off. Things are getting grim. I bought the
Canberra Times
tonight and moped all over the Positions Vacant. What do I do now? Why didn’t I see this coming?

My friends have suggested I retrain and become a programmer, but I’m really not interested in high-level geekery. I’m interested in the words on the screen, not the technical crap that put them there. I don’t know where to go from here. I feel so bloody unemployable.

But I’ll keep looking, or otherwise join a convent. The job security is good—I’m not likely to be replaced by a robot—plus a nun’s habit is very slimming.

In the past fortnight I’ve signed up with four recruitment agencies and applied for eight different jobs from the paper. I’m trying not to panic, but I would just like to say that this whole thanks but no thanks you’re too inexperienced not confident enough too overqualified not as good as that guy over there too tall too short too brown-eyed too two-legged for this position caper is extremely demoralizing.

Today Jill and I went down to the greasy little shop behind our building to catch some lunchtime sun. I had a greasy chicken wrap that I regretted before I’d even taken a bite; she had a salad roll.

“So boss, heard any more news?”

“Bloody hell, I said no onions. Now my breath will be feral all afternoon.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing concrete yet. But perhaps it’s safe to say that our jobs are unsafe.”

“Oh. Great.” Why did I buy that stupid wrap? I kid myself it’s healthy because of the salad and whole-wheat lavash bread, but what about the cheese, barbecue sauce, and oily rotisserie chicken?

“But don’t worry, it’ll get sorted. You’re a smart girl. Whatever happens, you’ll land on your feet.”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly,” she smiled. “You don’t have to look so scared.”

But I am scared. My mind is cloudy with fear. I hate the uncertainty. I hate my lack of control over the situation. That’s why I like dieting, in a perverse way. The outcome is entirely up to me. If something turns to crap, I can put it right again. I am in control.

Or am I? The scale hasn’t moved for weeks. Maybe my Weight Watchers withdrawal was too hasty. After all, there I was, eating a greasy chicken wrap that would make a points calculator explode.

I had my annual performance review today and it was a disaster.

The official review was fine—apparently I’ve been a pretty good worker bee. The Boss said I am bright and reliable, but my lack of confidence and initiative is holding me back. That was when my stomach started to churn with dread.

Jill put down the review papers and told me she wanted to address me on a personal level. Apparently she is very worried about me. I have this “attitude” lately and I am all “quiet and withdrawn.” I put on my headphones and stare at the screen, and if she speaks to me I give her “a look” that suggests she shouldn’t have interrupted me.

On and on she went. I kept staring at my hands and realized I needed to do something about my nails. They were getting longer than the red polish I’d put on last week. She said I seemed to be drifting away and not wanting to engage in conversation. Blah blah blah. She said I was clearly unhappy and perhaps I needed a change.

“What do you think of all this? Do you agree with me?”

I just stared at the table, until the grains in the wood swirled beneath my eyes like river currents. I wondered if they’d swallow me up if I just kept staring.

“A change might do me good,” I said quietly.

“Shauna, you’ve got a face that just can’t lie. Anyone can see that all is not well.”

My body betrayed me and I started to cry like an idiot. “I just can’t get it together,” I sobbed, “I hate being me lately.”

It all tumbled out—how it feels like I’m going nowhere; how everything has become a blur. I felt ashamed and fat and stupid but I couldn’t stop the words.

I didn’t go to work yesterday, I just couldn’t get out of bed. I almost called in sick again today until I remembered my review at the last moment. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Ever since things started going bad at work, everything else has started to slide and I can’t seem to stop it. I’m trying to convince myself it’s just a bad patch, but it seems to be getting worse. It’s like being on the verge of drowning and not knowing if you want to struggle or just let go.

“You don’t have to feel down, you know,” I heard Jill go on as I counted the lines on my knuckles. “You can make a conscious decision whether to feel down or not. You just have to ask yourself, ‘Am I going to feel like crap or am I going to get over it?’”

I nodded but wanted to punch her.