The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (29 page)

“I know,” I wailed from behind my copy of
Scottish Wedding Directory.
“There’s just not enough time to do this properly. I haven’t even found a dress yet!”

“It just doesn’t feel like it’s about you and me.”

“And I’ll die of guilt if Nanny has to sell her china cat collection to pay for a flight.”

“Hey,” Gareth said suddenly, “we should just go away somewhere.”

I put down my magazine. “What? You mean like … elope?”

“Yes! Why don’t we nick off to Vegas?”

“Vegas?”

“Yes, Vegas!”

“Are you serious?”

“I am deadly serious.”

“Well,” I smiled, “I suppose if we have to do something as ridiculous as get married in a hurry, we may as well do it in the most ridiculous place on earth.”

“Exactly!”

After a brief poke about on the Internet and a flurry of e-mails and credit card transactions, we had formulated our cunning plan. KLM had a New Year’s sale on flights to San Francisco, a city we’ve both always wanted to see. So we’ll fly there for a couple of days while we shake off the jet lag. Then we’ll nip down to Las Vegas to do the formal bit in a dinky chapel, just the two of us. After a brief excursion to the Grand Canyon, we’ll return to San Francisco and stay in a charming boutique hotel for our honeymoon, giving us plenty of time to laze around and get used to the idea of being hitched.

And how to keep our families happy? We’ll have a wee party in the summer for the Scottish contingent, and then, since I’m overdue for a visit home, we’ll head Down Under in October for a shindig with my Australian kin. This way we’ll get to celebrate with all of our family and friends, and each mother will get her own Event to fuss over.

Thankfully everyone agreed that Las Vegas, while insane on paper, is actually a very sensible solution.

“It’s a bit … unusual,” said Gareth’s mother Mary.

“It’s a bit … different,” said the Mothership.

“But you’re OK with it?”

“Darling daughter, if you two are happy then I’m happy.”

We are happy. It finally feels like our wedding belongs to us. I can hardly wait for our big day(s).

I’m off to London this weekend to continue my dreary wedding frock hunt. I can’t put it off any longer, I think Mary is worried that I’ll marry her son in my jeans!

So far it’s been a fruitless search. I’m not even looking for a proper wedding dress, just something vaguely stylish that you might wear to a fancy party. I’m too scared to try anything on because it’s all dainty spaghetti straps or no straps at all. Designers just don’t cater to the pale, wobbly-armed, dumpy-legged market. At this stage I’m resigned to being a vision of frumpiness, perhaps in some sort of formal caftan. I’ll just burn the wedding photos if I have to.

In happier news, I zapped another two and a half pounds this week, bringing me to over 150 pounds lost! That just sounds so impressive all of a sudden.

Everything is purring along in the weight loss department, no doubt fueled by vanity. Of all our weddings, it’s Part III: Return to the Motherland that I’m really looking forward to. After two and a half years all my Aussie family and friends will be gathered in one spot, giving me eight months to achieve maximum foxiness. Never mind showing off the new husband, I want to show off me! Short of landing on a red carpet in a helicopter, the most spectacular entrance I can think of is just to look confident and sexy as hell, instead of the joke-cracking wallflower they remember.

Meanwhile my social life is hectic. This week alone I’ve had farewell drinks at Geriatric Rescue (Yes! I’m down to one job!), dinner with my almost-in-laws, lunch with Jane and Rory, and a “Stag Do” with the blokes from the House of Sport. It’s been food and booze galore! But instead of panicking, I planned. I kept my meals simple and bumped up the exercise so I didn’t have to sit with a lettuce leaf and a glass of water while everyone else had fun.

I am trying to find that delicate balance, my friends. You’d think with three weeks to go I’d be chugging Slim Fast and nibbling on seaweed, but I want to be properly fueled for this matrimonial circus. I am busting to get to the altar, and the size of my frock seems a secondary concern. I can’t wait to be Gareth’s wife. I know we’ll have a blast together. I’m still prone to spontaneous tears of joy and relief that he wants to do this; that he thinks we’re worth all this trouble.

The very first dress in the very first shop. Surely this was a Guinness Book of Bridal Records moment? But it was all in a day’s work for Rhiannon, the High Priestess of the High Street.

My sister thinks of everything. She’d done a reconnaissance mission on Oxford Street and found what she thought was the ideal frock. Then she tracked it down to a small boutique in Kensington so I wouldn’t get overwhelmed by the Saturday crowds and give up far too easily.

We arose at the crack of dawn and arrived just as the shop opened. No hovering salesladies, dressing room queues, or abandoned husbands cluttering up the aisles. Rhiannon simply strolled in, plucked a dress from a rack and declared, “Here it is!”

I looked at the little puddle of cloth. “A skirt?”

“No!” She laughed and held up the hanger. “It’s a dress, see?”

I tried to picture my Boeing 747 arms and chunky ankles stuffed into that scrap and felt the stirrings of a full-scale Fat Girl Freak-Out.

“No, no, no!” I said. “It’s too slinky, it’s sleeveless, and there’s no way my elephant legs will wedge into that!”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes and said in crisp Mothership tones, “How about we try it on and then decide what it looks like?”

Retail Fat Girl Freak-Outs are always the worst. They start with a pounding heart and a burning throat. Then tears sting your eyes as your Fat Sense detects pending humiliation and bludgeoning of self-esteem.

“Can’t we just go?” I begged as Rhiannon led me to the changing rooms. “What’s wrong with getting married in jeans anyway? Anything goes in Vegas. It worked for Britney Spears!”

“Come on!”

“No!” I dug my heels into the carpet like a toddler. “You try it on,” I told her. “Just so we can test the sizes.” The biggest size was a 14, and it didn’t look like any 14 I’d ever seen.

“All right then!”

Of course it was too big for Rhiannon. It swished around her hips like a 1920s flapper dress.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said firmly. “There’s no harm in trying!”

I instructed her to patrol outside the cubicle and shoot intruders on sight.

I stripped off my jeans and stepped into the dress. It slid up over my hips … then my gut … then my boobs!

“Shit, I think this might work,” I whispered.

“I knew it!” Rhiannon threw back the curtain triumphantly. “Oh please, take off your socks, Shauna!”

“Hang on, false alarm. There’s a zipper.”

“Don’t panic, we’ll get it closed.”

It took ten minutes with much heavy breathing and grunting. It was a figure-hugging dress for starters, but on my voluptuous form it was bordering on figure-strangling.

“It’s too small!”

“Nonsense,” said Rhiannon. “You’re just used to wearing slobwear from three sizes ago. Dresses are meant to show off your shape.”

The frock was a flattering gold color, made of heavy lace. It wasn’t a purpose-built wedding dress but it looked sufficiently glamorous.

“Nice and sparkly for Vegas,” said Rhiannon, handing me the matching beaded chiffon wrap. The wrap was sheer so it looked part of the outfit, rather than obvious fat girl camouflage.

I hadn’t looked at my body that closely over the long winter, and now I could see it had been busy transforming. My waist was smaller and my shoulders were shapelier.

“Hey, my arms are not as hamlike as I thought,” I mused.

“Shauna, I will tell you one last time,” said Rhiannon. “Get over your fucking arms!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I gave her a quick hug. “Thank you for all your hard work. There’s no way I’d have dared picked this up from the rack.”

She smiled serenely like the cat that had swallowed a thousand canaries. She’d delivered the project on time and within budget. “No worries. You look fab. Gareth is going to love it.”

“And it’s a size 14!” I squealed. “From a Normal Shop!”

“Of course it’s from a Normal Shop!”

I think when you find your wedding dress there’s meant to be a touching moment when you look in the mirror and cry prettily at the sight of your bride-to-be reflection. But I just said, “Quick! Get this thing off me! We’ve gotta buy it before it changes its mind about fitting!”

“Right,” said Rhiannon as we stepped back out into the London sunshine. “We need serious undergarments.”

There are two types of women in this world. There are chicks who can toss any scrap of fabric over their head and waltz out onto the street without needing serious hydraulics under the surface. Then there are we mortals who require smoothing and lifting and flattening.

We walked into the Shapewear section of the M&S lingerie department and Rhiannon said, “Looks like we have choice of light control or firm control.”

“Are they the only levels? What if your flesh is out of control? Why don’t they have, ‘You’re Not Going Anywhere Little Lady’ control?”

I tried on a beige bodysuit, a garment so vast and hideous it made Bridget Jones’s knickers look like the tiniest whisper of a thong. I didn’t really look at it closely before putting it on; I assumed you just stepped in like a swimsuit. But things got dicey around mid-thigh when I couldn’t pull up the bra bit any higher. My knees were fused together by the crippling power of Lycra so all I could do was slide helplessly to the floor. I poked my head beneath the curtain and bleated, “Rhiannon. Please. Help!”

She stepped over my body and snorted with laughter. “I think you were meant to put it over your head then pull it down. Did you undo the crotch snaps?”

“What crotch snaps? Oh.”

It was an elegant picture. I was hunched over, hands braced against the wall with Rhiannon positioned behind me trying to haul the fabric over my hips.

“It won’t fit!” I gasped. “It’s just too tight!”

“Just stay still!”

Finally I was strapped in. Somehow I’d managed to find underwear even less attractive than my old size 24 Cottontails. But once we added the wedding frock, I could see my unruly flesh had been somewhat tamed.

“Whoa,” I said. “I’ll have to be careful about what I eat until the wedding. One false move and the seams will explode!”

“Yeah,” Rhiannon admitted. “But you’re a veteran. You can do it!”

It took another ten minutes of wrestling to remove the bodysuit. How on earth am I going to do that on my own in Las Vegas?

Rhiannon waited with me at Piccadilly station for the tube to Heathrow. All weekend I’d been so proud and happy for her, the way she strutted around the big city like she’d lived there forever. Yet I still felt a bittersweet ache at how our lives were pulling off in different directions.

She sighed suddenly. “Well…”

“Well indeed.”

The two of us started bawling like babies, hugging and sobbing all over the ticket barriers.

“Bloody weddings!” sniffed Rhiannon. “They bring out all the emotions!”

But I do suspect she was crying from the trauma of seeing me tangled up in a Lycra bodysuit. And perhaps I cried because instead of Wedding Night Action, I’ll be too busy having the damn thing surgically removed.

It’s Metric Milestone Day! Today I weighed in at 197 pounds, which is 89.5 kilograms. I’m finally an Eighties Girl! I hadn’t seen a number beginning with eight since 1994. I’ve lost eleven years of lard!

Meanwhile I’m anxiously monitoring my intake and noting what foods give my belly the slightest amount of puffiness. So far lentils, alcohol, beans, and pasta have been declared my mortal enemies until after March 3. I assure you this isn’t bridal hysteria; I’m truly walking a fine line between squeezing into and exploding out of that dress!

I experienced a mild Fat Bride Freak-Out today. I called the Mothership and whined that I was genetically predisposed to be crap at marriage, since my parents are such prolific divorcees. But she assured me that you don’t have to let your genes dictate your path in life. Which I suppose is true. Joe Stalin had kids, and as far as I know they weren’t genocidal tyrants. Likewise there are no reports of Apple Paltrow-Martin writing dull but heartfelt songs. YET. So I am cautiously optimistic.

In other news, our American itinerary is taking shape. My lovely Internet friend Jillian offered to host us in San Francisco for our pre-honeymoon. We’ve been e-mail buddies ever since she started reading my diet blatherings three years ago, so I can’t wait to meet her.

All I have to do is figure out how to explain this to Gareth. So far Jillian is Just this Chick I Know from the Internet. I still haven’t told him about my journal, in fact I still haven’t told anyone, not even Rhiannon or the Mothership. I’ve kept it secret for so long that it would be embarrassing to mention it now. Jillian says she’ll go along with whatever I decide. In the meantime she says that her husband Greg is coaching her to call me Shauna and not Dietgirl!

I’ve just had my final weigh-in as a single woman. Two pounds lost. More than 150 pounds lost overall! And would you believe after 215 weeks of lard busting, the Body Mass Index chart says I am no longer obese. I’m just plain old fat now. How generous of them.

Tomorrow night I’m moving out of my flat and over to Dunfermline. It would have been a quick and easy process if I weren’t so sentimental. I came to Scotland with just one wee suitcase, but now I have the same wee suitcase plus eleven boxes of “mementoes.” I like to sift through my magpie’s nest and let random objects trigger memories, rather than having to remember things with my actual brain.

So in lieu of packing, I’ve spent two days blubbering over two years of Scottish detritus. The wrapper from my first Tunnock’s Teacake. A tiny lump of Icelandic volcano. Twenty-two boarding passes from our travels. A condom wrapper from a particularly good shag. A handwritten sign,
SHAUNA AND RHIANNON’S FOOD CUPBOARD, KEEP OUT!