The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (19 page)

There was a disturbing incident at Fancy Gym this morning. I’d taken the bold move of hitting the showers after my BodyPump class, which meant facing my fear of changing rooms. After all these years I still race home after my workouts, as the crowds of naked toddlers and mothers yelling
“Just put your pants on!”
make me feel panicky.

Today I was surrounded by chicks who were stripping off with great aplomb. They slapped moisturizer onto tanned thighs and happily fluffed their pubes with a towel. After 10 minutes I finally summoned the nerve to remove my shoes and socks but then I froze.

It was then I realized that, despite my newfound positive body image and happiness, I was still a trembling prude.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhiannon reassured me as I toyed with the hem of my T-shirt. “No one is looking!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I huddled in the corner with my head low and shoulders rounded in my traditional Fat Girl Hiding stance. Alas, there is no practical way of removing bra and undies while covering yourself with a towel at the same time (how do you secure the towel, with your teeth?) so I just had to strip and be done with it.

Once I’d had my shower I felt a lot better. I padded back to the locker in a towel and realized that Rhiannon was right. Nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention.

But then as I started to dress, who should saunter in and sit down on the bench opposite me but our BodyPump instructor! She fetched a water bottle from her locker then just sat there, for what seemed like an eternity, sipping her water, all of ONE METER directly behind my naked arse.

I looked at my sister. We held an alarmed eyebrow conversation. What is she doing? I don’t know. Is she going to go soon? Doesn’t look like it. I don’t want to get changed now! Me neither, and I ain’t no prude. She is RIGHT THERE near my butt! I know; it’s too weird!

It was extremely unsettling to be naked near one’s fitness instructor. It’s not a position you expect to be in. Instead of mixing with the mortals after class, I always imagined the instructors went to a private temple out the back to have their beautiful muscles kneaded by chiseled boys in loincloths.

In the end I held the towel around me by holding it on my chest with my chin, then executed a dainty wriggle/slide motion to pull my undies on without the towel dropping. I knew I was being ridiculous, but once you start these things, you just have to see them through.

Afterward Rhiannon and I went out for brunch, where I devoured a big plateful of scrambled eggs and bacon without a trace of self-consciousness. I just operate so much better with clothes on.

Rhiannon and I went to Jane and Rory’s for afternoon tea today. It makes me feel disloyal to Nanny to say this, but Jane is a master cook. She churns out quality cakes and scones that are almost impossible to resist. That’s one annoying irony of losing weight and becoming a social animal: the more you leave the house, the more you fall in the path of tasty treats.

Gareth arrived late and the only seat left was beside me. It was then I noticed his lovely forearms—strong and lightly tanned from the balmy summer we’ve been having. I’ve always liked a nice forearm. And a great set of eyebrows too. His have a good strong arch. What is it about this guy?

He became even more appealing when Rory held a Vegemite Tasting. Rory’s parents had sent over a jar of New Zealand Vegemite and wanted to see if we could tell the difference between the Kiwi and Aussie stuff. I’m proud to say Rhiannon and I immediately detected our native spread.

Then Gareth volunteered to join in. Foreigners usually run screaming from the room when you offer them the black stuff, but not only was he up for it, he enjoyed it and asked for another slice! I know it was just a sandwich but to me it was a manly feat of strength and character. I just love his quiet curiosity about the world. Maybe that appeals to me because that’s how I’m starting to live my life.

Iceland! On the bus into Reykjavik there was a crazy man beside me with a grizzly beard and a camouflage jacket. He muttered about how he “got done” at customs for having two bottles of duty-free whiskey too many. Rhiannon rolled her eyes and made her “dickhead!” face.

Meanwhile, a blond girl was rummaging through her swanky handbag and looking confused, as if she had no idea how she’d ended up in Iceland and the answer was hidden beneath her Evian and breath mints.

“Do you have any idea where I could stay tonight?” she asked the bus in general.

“You’ve got nowhere to stay?” asked Crazy Man, leaning over the aisle. “I can help. How much are you willing to spend?”

“Oh, money isn’t a problem,” she replied as she slopped on some lip gloss. “I’m here on my own, I’ve got no plans.”

I heard the voice of the Mothership on my shoulder: “Tell her to shut up! She’s giving him way too much information! And you know he has a collection of large knives in that duffel bag. She’s sushi tonight, I tell you.”

But one look out the window and I forgot to care. All the guidebooks waxed lyrical about Iceland’s “lunar landscape,” but the clichés were true. The contrasts and emptiness were overwhelming. The silvery highway slashed through the middle of an endless stretch of lava rocks, all weird and clumped and covered in brilliant green moss.

Crazy Man bragged that he’d been to Iceland five times before and offered to show Blondie around town. I just wanted him to shut up and go home so we could have this strange, beautiful place to ourselves.

Rhiannon and I spent the rest of the day wandering around Reykjavik. Having squandered our money on the flights and day trips to spectacular geysers and waterfalls, it was a case of lots of looking but not much touching. We turned into those annoying Oh My God tourists, cooing over brightly colored houses and weird boutiques and road signs with names we couldn’t pronounce.

I saw a duck out the front of the Hallgrímskirkja church. You can’t help go crazy over a duck in a foreign land, especially when it’s a land so completely removed from your own. I used to roll my eyes at Japanese tourists in Cowra, squealing as they snapped twenty photos of a fat old sheep. But now there I was crouched beside the duck, yelling to my sister, “You have to come see this Icelandic duck!”

I don’t know what I expected; perhaps when it opened its beak it would issue weird glacial soundscapes. But no, it just gave me a withering look and said quack in the usual manner. Then Rhiannon informed me it was actually a goose.

Next stop was Bónus, the local supermarket, where we bought our rations for the trip—a loaf of bread, four apples, and a jar of peanut butter. Along with the two-minute noodles and chocolate bars we’d bought from home, I’m proud to say our entire food expenditure was a mere four hundred krónur. I honestly think supermarkets are the best part of foreign travel. We cruised the aisles, poking each other when we found something exotic. “Look at these Icelandic beans!”

I took four extra Bónus shopping bags as souvenirs. I wonder if Icelandic tourists in Scotland save their bags from Tesco? Maybe they would if they had a little pink pig on their logo, like Bónus.

Iceland continued to astound us over the next three days. It was worth every penny to see the massive waterfalls, gurgling hot springs, and the steam rising from the barren hillsides.

But the happiest moment was on the first day, sitting by the harbor with the fog obscuring the view of almost everything. The temperature plunged as we ate like savages, dipping chunks of bread into the peanut butter jar and not thinking of the calorie content. I sang the praises of Icelandic peanut butter until Rhiannon pointed out it was American peanut butter. Of course. Iceland is hardly the ideal climate for peanut growing, nor does it have the economic clout to lord it over a country that does.

Still, it was a delicious meal. We sat there in the drizzle with our hair doubling in volume, and I couldn’t quite believe that I’d traveled from a couch in Australia to a park bench near the top of the globe.

The travel bug has taken hold. Rhiannon has put a giant map of Europe on her bedroom wall, and every night we congregate beneath it for dinner, plotting our next move. Since we got back from Iceland, all we can think about is where to go next. Who put so many countries in Europe? How are we going to have time to see them all in the next eighteen months? I want to see Russia, Scandinavia, and the Baltic States. I want to soak up the sun in Spain and eat a giant, calorific sausage in Germany.

But we realized that none of this will be possible on our current paltry incomes, so we’ve taken on second jobs in the call center at Geriatric Rescue. This means giving up the occasional weekend, but it’s the only way we’ll afford to see all these crazy places in the limited time we have over here.

I’ve started yet another new weekday job too. I’m a personal assistant at a government agency that I shall call the House of Sport. After six jobs in six months, I’ve finally scored a long-term contract!

After all my job woes last year, it seems hilarious now that I’m excited about a new secretarial gig. But moving to Scotland has stripped me of all employment snobbery. I used to be terrified of job interviews; but I’ve had at least two dozen this year. I no longer have the luxury of fretting over whether I am bursting out of my trousers or if the interviewer is counting my chins; I just have to put myself out there because I’ve got to pay the rent in Scottish pounds! Do I want to travel or do I want to slink back home?

I’m beginning to think moving to Scotland was the best decision I’ve ever made. If I’d stayed in Australia, I doubt I would have found the inclination to push myself and confront my fears. I may have taken a few steps down the career ladder, but it’s been worth it just to stop living in my head and start engaging with other humans! I’ve been a receptionist, a personal assistant, a call center slave, a filing lackey, and a data entry automaton, and with each new gig I feel more outgoing and practical, instead of insular and clumsy. I’ve even overcome my fear of making tea and coffee—I dreaded wobbling into meeting rooms with the tea tray, positive that everyone was sneering at my incompetence, but now I realize nobody gives a shit. I’ve stopped worrying what people are thinking and have learned to laugh at myself and my myriad mistakes.

So this is my roundabout way of convincing myself I’m glad to be broke and working two crappy jobs. It has been character building. I’m so full of character now I should be in a Dickens novel.

Unexpected advantage of being fat: I have excellent balance.

I went to a BodyBalance class tonight and discovered an uncanny ability to hold the tree pose for a lengthy period. Gravity is on my side!

Do you remember the first time I tried BodyBalance? I got stuck on my back like a cockroach. Now, almost four years later on the other side of the world, I’m as uncoordinated as ever. But I muddled my way through all the moves, albeit with less grace and flexibility than my classmates. And not once did I curse my reflection; instead I chuckled to myself when I arsed things up. I’m amazed at how my body keeps adapting and evolving as this lard-busting journey drags on. I floated out of the room afterward, utterly mellow and relaxed. It was a beautiful high, like after an orgasm or a particularly good dessert. I’m a dying cockroach no more.

Tonight we met up with Jane, Rory, and Gareth at David’s house. It’s turning into a regular little expat gathering—four Aussies, an Englishman, and Gareth. He lives fifteen miles away in Dunfermline, and apparently Fife is like a whole other planet, so that sort of qualifies. Each week we order an Indian take-away and watch a DVD.

When Australians living in Scotland congregate, at some point the conversation will inevitably swing to “Is the Food Shit Over Here or What?” Which is unfair, as I’ve found scores of British delights like oatcakes, affordable raspberries, and Green & Black’s chocolate. But when you meet your fellow countrymen you’re obliged to get misty-eyed about vegetables that don’t come in Mexican plastic jackets and checkout chicks who don’t ask, “What the hell is this?” when you buy some passion fruit. That cost £1.50 each.

Last week we were all pining for Mint Slices. They are a true Australian classic—a delicious chocolate biscuit with a layer of peppermint cream, elegantly coated in smooth dark chocolate. They marry the adultness of an after-dinner mint with the dunkability of a biscuit.

“Oh yeah,” Gareth piped up. “That sounds just like a Viscount!”

We shot him doubtful looks, certain that the country that gave the world the deep-fried pizza would be incapable of producing anything near the standard of a Mint Slice biscuit. But he bravely faced the panel of Australian critics and brought a packet tonight.

I was excited, as I am by anything that combines chocolate and mint. You get the goodness of chocolate, then as a bonus your mouth is left minty fresh, as if you’ve just brushed your teeth. It’s like the calories never happened!

The Viscounts came individually wrapped in green foil. We turned them over in our hands, slowly unwrapping, regarding them suspiciously. After examining them from all angles, we took tentative bites.

“Pretty good,” I said diplomatically.

“No,” said Rhiannon. “It’s all wrong.”

“It’s not quite the same,” said Rory. “The biscuit isn’t chocolate, for starters.”

“And the coating should be dark chocolate. This is a low-grade milk.”

“The mint isn’t evenly distributed across the surface of the biscuit.”

“It’s basically nothing like a Mint Slice at all.”

“Oh!” said Gareth.

“Well I think they’re all right!” I said brightly, and promptly shoveled down three more. One, because I am a big greedy-guts, and two, because I’m increasingly convinced that I want to get into Gareth’s pants. Surely a hearty appetite has got to impress him?

I’m paranoid about Scary Bastard, one of the gym instructors. He’s a wonderful instructor; all bulging biceps and flirtatious manner. He works us hard and is a stickler for technique, which is what you want in a teacher.