The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (31 page)

As we unlocked lips the photographer hit the Play button on the portable tape deck. Muzak dribbled forth as Elvis burst back into the chapel. The reverend gestured with her eyebrows for us to take a pew and be serenaded. We grinned into the cameras as the King sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

It’s cool to be on your second marriage without encountering lawyers, bitter arguments, or property settlements. Best of all they gave us each a free XXXL T-shirt with the slogan,
I RENEWED MY VOWS AT GRACELAND WEDDING CHAPEL!

Back at the Luxor, we paused in the casino to put two dollars through a slot machine, but then I couldn’t stand it any longer. We went back to our room and unzipped my dress and my squashed-up flesh screamed with relief. Once in our usual jeans and T-shirt uniforms, we went down to the Pharaoh’s Pheast buffet, where I dove into the all-you-can-eat American goodness. Then it was back to the room to watch
Judge Judy
and take a quick nap. Finally we headed over to the MGM Grand and watched Tom Jones live in concert, holding hands and feeling ridiculously in love.

“It’s not unusual,” he told us.

And that was the happiest day of my life, right there.

I left my heart and stomach in San Francisco. We’ve been back in Britain for a week and still I can’t stop thinking about all the yummy things I ate in the States.

I was so restrained before the wedding, convinced that an extra lettuce leaf would cause the sequins to blast off my dress. But once I was safely down the aisle, I got acquainted with the local delights. Giant breakfasts with homefries and bacon. Fat burritos bursting with beans and cheese. Fresh, affordable sushi. And all those American candies that I’d only known from television shows—Junior Mints, Peanut Butter Cups, York Mint Patties, and Three Musketeers. Oh my.

But while my candy wrapper collection expanded, miraculously I only gained a pound and a half in the three-week trip. It helped that we shared a lot of dishes and walked up dozens of steep San Francisco streets. Maybe I’m learning the fine art of moderation, or maybe I just didn’t want to be a pig in front of my new husband?

On our last day I was anxious and annoyed because I hadn’t tried all the foods I’d wanted to try. What if we never came back to America again?

“I want ice cream!” I declared as we walked through Golden Gate Park. “I must have ice cream.”

Gareth looked conflicted. “You told me to tell you that you didn’t need stuff like ice cream.”

“That was pre-wedding angst. This is supposed to be a holiday, and I haven’t eaten anything good.”

“But what about all the restaurants?”

“We didn’t have dessert in any of those.” I rolled my eyes. “Dessert is good. Dinner stuff is just dinner. It doesn’t count unless there’s something sweet at the end of it.”

“Didn’t you have dessert when we went to Greens with Greg and Jillian?”

“We shared a dessert between four people and I only had two bites.”

“Only two?”

“Three, tops.” I sulked. “I just want something
sweet!
”

“Oh.”

“And I really wanted to go to Ghirardelli for the apparently famous Hot Fudge Sundae but we didn’t get there and I’m still spewing. I haven’t had my treat quota!”

“But we shared that bar of chocolate earlier…”

“That was dark chocolate with nuts and raisins. All those antioxidants, that’s practically health food!”

“What about the chocolates we ate on the bus to the Grand Canyon?”

“I ate those because the only other thing available was a blackened banana that cost one whole dollar. Plus tax. And it was crap chocolate. It wasn’t something I was busting to have.”

“So…?”

“So it doesn’t count. It’s only a treat if it’s something you really, really wanted. Can’t you see the difference? Jeez.”

Gareth smiled, but I’m sure he was wondering just what he’d signed up to.

But I can’t dwell on food-related disappointments. I’ve got work to do. I’ve signed up for a running race!

Well, it’s not really a race per se. It’s the Race for Life, a 5K charity event. You could walk or scoot along backward on your arse if you preferred, but I’m going to run.

My friend Julia, a Dietgirl reader in Italy, is a running coach, and late last year she volunteered to virtually teach me how to run. With three sessions a week for ten weeks, she promised I’d transform from breathless slob to Chariot of Fire. I was too full of angst to take up her offer at the time, but now I’ve got no excuse. The commitment scares me more than marriage, but now that the initial Wedding Dress Fear has passed, I need a new challenge to keep me on the straight and narrow.

I got my race pack in the mail today. There was a piece of paper with a number on it that I am supposed to pin on my shirt, then run five kilometers. I know thousands of people can run five kilometers with their eyes closed but it’s my idea of hell. Why would I want to take my lard to the streets? It’s bad enough lurking up the back row of BodyPump!

But then I remembered my To Do When I’m Skinny list. “Run” was item number four, so I’m contractually obliged to give it a stab. I managed to learn how to walk again a few years ago, so let’s see if we can take it up a gear.

Today I bought a set of scales for the marital home and stepped on, to discover I’ve gained a pound. I’ve only been married three weeks, it’s far too soon to be letting myself go! Besides, how can I let go when I never got hold of myself in the first place?

I’m struggling to come to grips with life on the other side of the Forth Bridge. I was so spoiled living in the center of Edinburgh, close to shops, cinemas, and the Fancy Gym, with a dozen buses whizzing by to take me to even more exciting places. Out here in Dunfermline it’s a twenty-minute trek to the train station, and the trains are always late or full of drunks. The nearest decent supermarket is a thirty-minute walk away, and the return leg with the grocery bags is uphill.

I miss my old Edinburgh routine. I’ve been too busy sulking to establish a Dunfermline routine. My commute sucks. I hate washing my hair in the bath with a teacup since Gareth doesn’t have a shower. And he doesn’t have an organizer tray in his cutlery drawer! All the knives and forks are just tossed in one big metallic pile. I asked him how he could possibly live with such chaos and he just shrugged, “It makes mealtimes an adventure.”

I had a brief moment of resolve on Saturday and joined the local gym. But afterward I stopped at the mini supermarket in search of olives and peppers for our pasta dinner. There were no peppers and only a tiny jar of anemic olives for £1.89. I glared at the jar, simmering with bitterness, for those olives were a metaphor for the crapness of my new existence. I prowled the cramped aisles looking for something to calm me down and finally arrived at the freezer.

Aha, I thought, a freezer! And in the freezer is ice cream, that stuff that I really wanted in San Francisco but didn’t get. Now it shall be mine!

I bought one of those Mars Bar ice creams. Then I got an original Mars Bar too, just in case I wasn’t satisfied with the frozen one.

I was halfway home when I remembered Gareth was there with his bandmates. So I quickly unwrapped the ice cream and wolfed it down, lurking behind a tree, putting it down every time a car went by so people wouldn’t think I was a Greedy Fat Chick. I was so jittery that I barely registered the taste.

I squinted into the window of a parked car to make sure I hadn’t left any chocolate evidence on my mouth. When I got home I said hello to the lads then hid in the bedroom for the rest of the evening. I read my
Running Made Easy
book while breaking off sly chunks of nonfrozen Mars Bar.

What the hell was I doing? Was this how I wanted my married life to be? Clandestine chocolate bars and stuffing foil wrappers in my underwear drawer? Just like Mum used to do when she was married to my stepfather. Just like I used to do too. But I am not my mother, nor am I a child anymore. I have nothing to be afraid of. Gareth doesn’t care if I eat a Mars Bar.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m overjoyed to be married. But leaving Edinburgh was harder than I’d anticipated. I didn’t expect to feel so resentful. I was so relieved that I wouldn’t have to get deported and leave Gareth that I didn’t think about how my daily life would change. I hate having to come up with new ways of doing things. Every time I get a rhythm going, life gets in the way!

Last night I sat on the kitchen floor in front of the washing machine, mesmerized by my socks thrashing around in Gareth’s washing machine. Well, our washing machine now. That beast will be washing my socks until death do us part.

It felt like the first time I’d really sat still since I left Australia. I thought about the random, crazy way it had all unfolded. I’d just thought I’d do a little travel, eat a bit of haggis, and then two years later go back to Canberra and slip back into my old life. But I’m still in Scotland and I’ve got a husband whom I’ve married twice. I smiled and watched his boxers and my knickers mingling in the suds, letting it all sink in.

This week has been the Official “Stop Moping, Start Coping” Week. A cheesy, rhyming slogan always boosts my motivation.

Sunday kicked off with a domestic overhaul. I introduced Gareth to the joys of planning a weekly menu rather than opening the cupboards and hoping for inspiration. Then we ordered groceries online to avoid that uphill trudge home from the supermarket. Then I reorganized the pantry in a more logical fashion, and it warmed my heart to see my quinoa and Brazil nuts nestled beside Gareth’s Branston pickle and spaghetti hoops.

“You don’t mind all these reforms, do you?” I asked timidly, once I’d sorted the dreaded cutlery drawer.

“Of course not, it’s great,” Gareth said as he surveyed our handiwork, “I never knew I had so many teaspoons!”

I smiled. That man makes me believe that marriage really can be about compromise and communication, not flying crockery.

My lard busting is back on track with a two and a half pound loss. I’ve also done two BodyCombat classes at my new Non-Fancy Gym and tomorrow I start Mistress Julia’s running program. I know I’ll get there if I keep doing all these positive things. Weight loss isn’t about willpower or motivation; it’s just the cumulative effect of tiny actions over time. Putting down the chocolate bars, putting on the running shoes. You just have to keep picking yourself up when you fall, over and over again, for however long it takes.

It’s only been a week but I can tell you I officially hate running.

It doesn’t help when my earliest memories of the sport are being chased around the athletics track by plovers—giant Australian birds with spurred feet—while the teachers stood around laughing. And then there’s the bitter sting of high school PE classes, where I couldn’t trot more than 50 meters without coughing up a lung. By far the slowest in my class, I was always picked last for teams. One by one my chosen classmates would line up behind their captains, until only I remained in all my red-haired red-cheeked crapness.

CAPTAIN A:
Ummmm. I pick that tree.
CAPTAIN B:
I pick that stray cat over there.
CAPTAIN A:
I pick that abandoned chip bag.
CAPTAIN B:
Damn! All right then, I pick Shauna!

I must confess, I actually bought my running shoes six months ago but I’ve been too afraid to use them. It took three attempts just to get inside the door of the running store! The first time, I let my bus sail right past, too nervous to press the Stop bell. The second time, I stood on the opposite side of the street in a blur of tears. I was convinced the sporty salespeople would laugh me right out of the shop, because why the hell would such a fatty fat guts need running shoes? After all the lard I’d lost, I still couldn’t shake the idea that there are things I’m not allowed to do and places I shouldn’t go because of my weight.

All this was despite reassurance and encouragement from Rhiannon, Gareth, and Mistress Julia, who all insisted running was for everyone. They said the shop folk would be happy to help, and my fat money would be just as welcome as some withered marathon dude’s money. Everyone has to start somewhere!

Annoyed into action by such logic, I made my third trip to the store. I hid behind a rack of very tiny shorts while the saleswoman sold some socks to an athletic gentleman. Sadly, the other people were only browsing, so I was spotted before I could escape.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for some running shoes,” I said meekly.

“Excellent!”

“I’m just starting out,” I said in a rush. “Well, obviously!”

I still can’t suppress the urge to justify my presence to skinny people. Yep, I’m fat! I know. Beat ya to it!

But the woman just focused on the task at hand. She asked me to take off my shoes and walk up and down the shop. She instantly spotted my overpronating right foot and fetched a mighty stack of shoes for me to try.

All that attention on my body made me squirm. I’m so used to being anonymous with exercise, hiding at the back of the class and muddling my way through. It was strange to be taken seriously.

“OK, just have a wee run up and down the shop so I can see if your feet like those shoes.”

I froze. “Run? Me?”

She smiled. “Don’t worry, no one’s looking at you.”

“Oh man.”

“I’ll just be looking at your feet, not analyzing your technique.”

“I have no technique.”

I squirmed for another thirty seconds before doing a halfhearted little trot. My face was burning red, but at least it was just from embarrassment and not exertion.

I must have tried a dozen different pairs. I kept blurting, “These are OK! I think these will do!” Anything to get her to stop paying so much attention. Finally, after half an hour, she was satisfied with my choice and I made my escape.

Perhaps I thought I didn’t need to use the running shoes, since the act of buying them was such a remarkable achievement in itself. But I’ve signed up to a charity race and Mistress Julia’s program so I’m out of excuses. And now Gareth is doing the training with me! When he offered to come along for moral support, I said I’d be delighted, but now I’m cursing my politeness. Not only is he humiliatingly fitter than me, it means I’ll actually have to do some running. I can’t just sit under a tree for half an hour, splash my face with water, then go home and say, “Dude! Tough workout!”