The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (27 page)

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Of course I still bitch about my blubber sometimes, but I’m so much happier in my own skin. If 2001 was the year of Obsessing about Fat, then 2004 was the year of Obsessing about Me. I’ve scoffed new experiences with the enthusiasm I used to reserve for scoffing ice cream straight from the tub. It was like the carefree college days that I was too miserable to have at the time.

Next year is going to be a cracker. Are you voting for the hasty wedding or the tearful deportation? Speculation is rife among my colleagues. The diehard romantics are gunning for a wedding and have offered everything from dresses, garters, and cake decorations to their back gardens for a venue. The cynics say he’ll never propose and come March I’ll be on the plane back to Australia.

I feel almost calm about the whole thing. If I’ve learned one thing from my weight loss adventures it’s that life tends to get more interesting when you stop trying to control the outcome. Somehow I just know that everything will work out. Besides, there’s still ten days left in this leap year—I can always pop the question myself!

“It’s here, it’s here!” Gareth leapt out of bed at the sound of the doorbell. “Your present is here!”

I sat bolt upright. “Oh my God!”

My stomach grumbled. I couldn’t decide if it was nervous anticipation or unbridled gluttony. I’d been staying at Gareth’s place for the lazy days between Christmas and New Year’s and I’d done nothing but eat and panic.

He’d told me there’d be a slight delay in the delivery of my gift, which I assumed had to be the Ring! Everyone predicted he would propose over Christmas. He’d been so incredibly sweet and tender over the past few days, even more so than usual; so he must be up to something! I’ve never heard of an engagement ring coming by courier, but the boy does like his online shopping.

I fluffed up the pillows and fluffed up my hair and tried to look as alluring as possible as he came back into the bedroom.

“Here you go!” He presented me with a large heavy box.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you!”

“Oh I see.” I smiled. He’s trying to be funny. He’s buried the ring in that giant box just to throw me off the scent. I tore it open, scattering polystyrene bubbles over the bed. I reached in and pulled out a large plastic blob.

“Speakers!” I gasped.

“Yeah!” grinned Gareth. “They’re for your laptop. You’ve been bitching for ages that you missed your stereo back in Australia!”

“Oh! You’re right,” I said. “I have been bitching about that!”

“There’s a subwoofer too! You just plug it into your laptop and you’re ready to rock! You’re going to be blown away at the sound these little things pump out. I know how much you love your music.”

“Yes!” I beamed. “I do love my music! Thank you, baby!”

He looked so happy and proud of himself that I wanted to cry. I cooed over my lovely speakers while discreetly pawing through the box, just in case I’d missed anything.

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh! Nothing. Thanks so much, Doc. I love ’em. You’re a legend.”

He went and fetched my computer and hooked up the speakers. We snuggled up close as the room filled with Radiohead.

I felt like a royal goose. How could I have been so presumptuous? Maybe he’s not ready to ask me yet. Or maybe, somehow, he doesn’t quite realize the urgency of our deadline.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to marry me at all?

Rhiannon came back to Edinburgh today bearing a slight tan and an enormous stash of Australian confectionery. I perched on the bed, my mouth shiny with Pavlovian drool, until she finally tossed me a mini Cherry Ripe bar.

“Oh yes,” I moaned, gnashing on the coconut cherry goodness. “Tastes like sunshine.”

She smiled. “Now that I’ve got you somewhat sedated, how about an update on the greatest romance of the century?”

“Urgh. If you insist.”

I managed to keep quiet for three whole days after the Speaker Incident before I exploded from anxiety and/or sugar insanity caused by excess consumption of Cadbury’s Roses. When we woke up on New Year’s Day, Gareth casually said, “So. What do you fancy doing today?”

I stared at him, breathing heavily.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Are
you
all right?” I blurted.

“What?”

“Do you not realize we are running out of time?”

“Running out of time?”

“My visa, Gareth, my visa!” I shrieked. “It expires in less than three months! I’ll have to go back to Australia if we don’t decide something soon.”

He looked mystified. “Why would you have to go?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Your visa runs out at the end of March, doesn’t it? I thought we could get one of those Fiancée visa things?”

“The Fiancée visa?” I punched a pillow. “Don’t you remember when we looked at the Home Office website? I explained that it wasn’t a good option because it’s expensive and I’d not be allowed to work. I’d have to quit my job just for the sake of six months’ grace, and then of course we’d have to fork out even more money for the Marriage visa!”