The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (18 page)

But we’ve discovered that busting blubber on a Scottish budget just requires a little more imagination and planning. In fact the effort is perversely pleasurable. Rhiannon and I used to cringe when the Mothership raided the bargain bins and bought generic food, but now we’ve embraced our frugal genes. We scour the green grocers for the cheapest carrots then trek a mile in the opposite direction to fetch bulk rice and lentils from the health food shop. It makes us feel rather righteous too, lugging groceries in our backpacks while other people load up their Land Rovers. We slave over a vat of veggie chili while our flatmates zap their overpackaged ready meals. We’re saving money, we’re eating healthily, we’re getting bonus exercise, and we’re being nicer to the environment. I could spew from all this smugness!

At work today I drew many curious stares as I crunched on my packed lunch of mixed lettuce, cherry tomatoes, avocado, peppers, and chickpeas.

COLLEAGUE
: What’s that you’re eating?

ME
: It’s a salad.

COLLEAGUE
: Ooh. That looks complicated.

Tonight I had my first pint of beer. Well, it was a half-pint. And I only drank a quarter of it. But still, I tried. It’s important to at least attempt to embrace the culture of your new home.

This was a Proper Scottish Pub too—ancient black beams, low ceilings, and red pressed-tin walls. There were grumpy men propped up at the bar half hidden in the cigarette haze. It was like being trapped in an episode of
Coronation Street
, or the Scottish equivalent. None of it was good for my lungs or liver, but I loved being right in the thick of it.

We had come for the pub quiz. Jane and Rory had formed a team with their friend David and invited Rhiannon and me to join them. I pounced on the chance, as pub trivia is the only place my passion for useless information is actually useful.

I felt happy sitting there with my pint and my new friends. I’m on a high lately, and it’s not just the exercise endorphins. For once, my fat hasn’t been the first thing on my mind. Suddenly I’m embracing the uncertainty and unfamiliarity of my surroundings. It’s so liberating to live in a city of strangers and freely roam the cobbled streets, safe in the knowledge that nobody’s going to pop out from behind a statue and ask after my mother or demand to know if I’ve found a boyfriend.

Moving to the other side of the world has given me a brand new perspective. The past finally feels like the past. It doesn’t matter how fat I used to be, where I went to school, or what my first pet cat was called. All that matters is who I am, right now. No one has to know anything I don’t want them to. I could completely reinvent myself, like a less dangerous version of a witness relocation program!

There was one late addition to our team, just as the first question was read. He came huffing through the door, flush-cheeked, bald-headed, and hauling a bag of books. He apologized for being late and no one looked surprised.

His name was Gareth. He was a Ph.D. student at the university where Jane works. He had a gorgeous, quiet Scottish accent, in contrast to the shrill, competitive tone I seem to adopt for pub quizzes. He was unpretentious, warm, and witty. He listened to people when they talked to him. And he shot way up in my estimation when he knew the answer to an obscure question. I like a guy who knows stuff about nothing.

When Rhiannon mentioned we were off to Paris on the weekend, Gareth piped up and said he went there a few years ago. I asked what he’d done, and he replied that he went to Euro Disney and rode all the roller coasters. This was back in the prebudget airline era so he had to take a three-day bus trip from Edinburgh.

“Next time I’ll do the proper tourist stuff,” he smiled.

For some reason, I found that incredibly charming. I don’t know if it was my eighth of a pint of Stella Artois, but there was something about him. He was so laid-back and easy to talk to, not trying to impress anyone. I had the briefest glimmer of a grandchild sitting on my knee as I told the story, “We met at a pub quiz in Edinburgh. He had all the answers!”

I really need to lay off the beer.

In other news, our team won, which really capped off a good night.

As we jumped off the train at Gare du Nord in Paris, an aesthetically pleasing young man appeared and asked if we were lost. We immediately assumed he was going to kill us, because this would prove correct the Mothership’s theories about Young Ladies Out in the Big Bad World. But no, he was simply a hunky lad with a strong sense of community. He spent fifteen minutes explaining the intricacies of the Paris metro system then ran away while I was still figuring out how to say
en français
, “Take her, she’s got more cash!”

Before long we were on a sightseeing bus, our cameras clicking in unison. Disgustingly famous and fabulous sights lurked around every corner. When the Arc de Triomphe loomed into view we couldn’t help crowing, “Holy fucking shit! We’re in Paris!” It felt unreal, as if we’d run away from boarding school and would get busted by Matron at any moment.

We hopped on and off the bus, trying to do as much as possible while spending the least amount of money. The pace didn’t slow until late afternoon when, after wandering around Notre Dame, I barreled back onto the bus and whacked my head on the roof as I ran up the stairs.

On Saturday morning we went out to Versailles super early in order to beat the crowds. Not a bad little château, I tells ya. Then we wandered around the town and argued over who would buy lunch:

“You ask for it.”

“Noo. You ask for it!”

“No. You ask for it! You’re the one who did the classes!”

“I wish I knew how to say ‘Rhiannon’s being a bitch’ in French!”

Rhiannon is always making me ask for things. It must be part of my Fat Girl rehabilitation. I used to hide behind her and make her be my spokeswoman, but ever since we moved overseas she’s had me making phone calls, ordering meals, asking for directions, and buying bus tickets. It still makes me nervous to draw attention to myself like that, but I’m gradually overcoming my wimpy ways. At least in English, anyway.

Somehow we ended up with three croissants and a tiny quiche, but it was all very tasty. That was about as French as our cuisine got the whole weekend. Not only had we run out of money, we had run out of nerve. I’m ashamed to say we ate from the supermarket or Quick (the local equivalent of McDonald’s) because we were too chicken to try out more French. We ate far too many baguettes
avec jambon et fromage
because that’s all I could ask for. We also ate yogurt in our hotel room by sticking our noses in the pots and slurping it out because we didn’t have any spoons. But it was our first proper European jaunt, so I’m sure we’ll be better tourists next time!

The scale at the gym is an old clunker like the one at Weight Watchers all those years ago. It’s plonked right next to the abs station where the nubile bunnies perform their perfect crunches and it intimidates me greatly. So instead of being a slave to the scale, I’ve tried to adopt a general policy of three gym sessions a week, lots of incidental walking, and eating a Frugal Tourist Diet. It seems to be working because I can once again breathe in my jeans.

But my inner statistician cried out for cold hard data, so I weighed myself tonight—223.5 pounds. Seven pounds gone in five weeks! I’m a loser in the northern hemisphere!

There’s this running joke in our family. Whenever we’re too lazy or tired to do something, we whine, “I can’t. I’m too fat!”

It all started with the Mothership, who asked my sister to change a lightbulb for her one day.

“Do it your bloody self!” snapped Rhiannon.

“I can’t, I’m too fat!” came the reply.

The phrase quickly passed into our lexicon. It’s perfect for those lazy arguments over who should do the dishes or who should nip around to the shop for some milk.

But seriously, I have an exhaustive list of things I didn’t do because I was too fat, or believed that I was. I’ve waddled away from job opportunities, roles in school plays, writing gigs, concert tickets, boyfriends, holidays, and party invitations. When I was sixteen I was selected to spend a year in Japan as an exchange student. Mum and my teachers were flabbergasted when I refused to go, but the thought of being a red-haired whale among all the delicate Japanese people was too terrifying.

Sometimes I was quite literally too fat—like for canoes or amusement park rides. But most of the time it was all in my head. I’ve spent so many years cutting myself off from new experiences because I felt like a worthless butterball.

But now I’m desperate to make up for lost time, so today I confronted one of my longest-running Too Fat fears—the rock festival.

I’ve always been passionate about music but thought festivals were best left to the skinny people. If you couldn’t fit into a tour T-shirt and drainpipe jeans, then you had no right to be there. I convinced myself that I preferred a dark room and headphones to a live show. A mosh pit was no place for a fat chick; the hipsters would bounce off me like a trampoline! A few years ago some friends had tickets for the Big Day Out festival in Sydney, but I concocted an elaborate work emergency to worm out of it. My size 24 body didn’t belong in a crowd of thousands on a summer’s day!

So it was terrifying and exhilarating to find myself at the T in the Park festival on an uncharacteristically scorching Scottish day. Rhiannon and I wandered around the various tents and ended up at the main stage, eating ice creams while the Proclaimers and thousands of Scots belted out “500 Miles.”

After that it was a blur of bands—some I knew, some I’d only read about in expensive imported copies of
Q
magazine back in Australia. The crowds were obviously familiar with them, as they sang every word with drunken joy. It was fantastic. And violent and insane. I felt so very old; surely they all needed permission notes from their mums? With acne on their chins and beer on their breath, they jumped and jumped and jumped, so I jumped and jumped and jumped too.

And then finally it was time for REM. Michael Stipe skipped onto the stage, dripping charisma from every pore. The shoving and kicking resumed in earnest. My shoelaces got shredded, a bottle of Fanta exploded over my hair, a topless woman toppled off her boyfriend’s shoulders and landed on Rhiannon’s head.

The long arm of the TV camera swept over us periodically, and we’d jump and flail with even more vigor. On the big screen it just looked like a sea of happy faces with no hint of the stomping and vomiting and groping and fainting going on beneath.

It was wonderful. I feel far too crumbly to ever do it again, but today was really for the spotty teenager with the Smash Hits posters taped to her walls. I’m glad she got her day in the sun.

It’s now 3:00
A.M.
and I’m counting all the bruises on my legs. Each one is proof that my Fat Girl thinking was wrong. Today I danced and sweated and sang, and not for a single moment did I think I was Too Fat to rock. Suddenly the world feels open and ripe with opportunity and all I have to do is decide what’s next.

“I’m too fat” no longer.

I wish I could live at Fancy Gym. I wouldn’t be any trouble; I’d just curl up on a treadmill and let the techno music lull me to sleep.

I’m in love with the fancy lighting. Our Aussie gym had fluorescent strips that illuminated every lump and bump in the mirrors, but Fancy Gym has calm flattering light throughout. Even the loos have a soothing glow. Bright lights have always made me feel exposed, so at Fancy Gym I can happily skulk about in ambient shadows.

I’m mad for the classes too. They have my old favorites, BodyPump and BodyCombat, plus a galaxy of other options—spinning, yoga, kung fu, Pilates, circuits, and ballet. I have copies of the timetable on my wall and in my handbag so I can pull them out at any time and drool over all the possibilities.

My new routine involves racing home from whatever crappy temp job I have this week, scoffing down my dinner, then hurrying to the gym. I do a couple of classes or just plonk along on the treadmill, watching programs about grumpy British people buying houses in the sun.

I weighed myself again on Sunday—216.5 pounds. It’s metric milestone day! I’m now 98.4 kilograms, which means after nine years I’m back in double digits. It just sounds skinnier without a “hundred” in the number. All hail the metric system!

My weight loss is quite slow compared to the dramatic superhero efforts of 2001, but I don’t miss obsessing over crazy deadlines. I’m enjoying my new life in Scotland, and that happens to involve the occasional drink or chocolate bar. It may take me longer to get to my goal, but I’d rather have a slice of cake with friends than sit home alone with a diet yogurt and an Excel spreadsheet.

Life is rattling along at a hectic pace. The Edinburgh Festival has started, so the population has swollen with tourists and wacky performers. Just walking down the street is an exciting adventure.

Even more exciting are my new jeans! My Aussie ones were slipping so low I was flashing my undies. Both old and new pairs are a size 18, but the UK ones are much smaller.

Last night we met up with Jane and Rory to see Dave Gorman’s show. We went for a drink afterward and I found myself standing under a tree talking to that Gareth guy again. That seems to happen a lot lately. I don’t know if it was the confidence that comes with jeans that don’t show off your knickers, but I was buzzing after our chat. How do you know if someone is interested in you? It’s been so long that I don’t remember how it works. Is the inability to make eye contact an indication of attraction? He makes me feel shy yet talkative at the same time. I gravitate toward him, much as I used to gravitate to a buffet. It’s an irresistible urge. We got so lost in conversation that he almost missed the last bus home. As he sprinted off into the night it occurred to me, Hey, I was talking to a man! And I wasn’t even thinking about my belly rolls!