The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (34 page)

The photographer told me not to worry. She told me to take a break and got the makeup artist to try out the pose while she set up the lighting. The makeup artist, gorgeously slim and elegant, jumped on to the bed and landed delicately on her side, leaning on her elbow. Perfect.

Then it was my turn. The bed groaned as I clambered on.

Now I know why models are so skinny. Because it’s just easier when there’s less flesh to arrange. I tried to stretch out all languid and feline, but my stomach flopped on the quilt, no matter how hard I sucked in. My jeans, which I now realized had been on the £20 bargain rack for a reason, were baggy in the crotch, so the fabric bulged. And my smile was tortured from straining to hold my breath.

“Just relax, Shauna,” said the photographer in soothing tones. “Why don’t you tell us about your
Grazia
story?”

“Umm,” I cringed. “Well. I lost a bunch of weight and wrote about it for a book.”

“Wow, that’s fab!”

“Obviously I still have a few pounds to go!”

By the time we move to the next move, the Come Hither on the Chaise Longue, I was fighting back a full-scale Fat Girl Freak-Out. I felt ridiculous posing for a story about weight loss when you could tape these two chicks together and I’d still be wider. The fact that they were so kind and friendly made it worse. They complimented my skin and my hair and my ability to smile on cue, but I felt like a fraud. Why can’t I be proud of myself? What happened to that confident woman who ran the 5K? I thought I’d turned things around. I thought I liked myself more than this.

Afterward as I washed off all the war paint, I felt a brief flicker of pleasure at the sight of my fancy hair and makeup. I was shocked by how much my face had slimmed down. But then I pictured my blobby body in the magazine, plonked beside those skinny stars. It just seems too ridiculous to contemplate.

And now comes an agonizing three week wait to see how it all comes out.

We interrupt this angst to inform you that this weekend I finally learned that there are more important things in life than my lard. Like friends, family, love … and cake.

Saturday was Wedding Part II: Scottish Edition. Gareth’s mother Mary had organized a wonderfully laid-back affair, with a ceilidh dance followed by a buffet.

I was more nervous about the party than the original wedding. All these people giving up their Saturday night because of us? Wasn’t there something better on the telly? Some people relish being the center of attention, but it turns my stomach to ice. What if no one had a good time? What if they thought the ceilidh was naff? What if people whispered, “Couldn’t Gareth have found a bride with smaller arms?”

Luckily this time I had Rhiannon on board to calm me down and help me into my dress. It was a less strenuous wrestle than in Vegas. I’ve lost less than seven pounds since March, but my exercising has whittled me down enough to allow unassisted breathing in the frock. I no longer feared my boobs were about to jump out and slap somebody.

“You look lovely!” gushed Mary when I made my entrance. “And your dress is sitting so much better now!”

“Oh really?”

A look of horror dawned on her face. “I mean, not that it didn’t look good the first time!”

“It’s OK!” I laughed.

So I felt foxy, but I couldn’t help fretting about my upper arms. I tried to disguise them with the chiffon wrap as I romped around the dance floor.

The ceilidh was a brilliant icebreaker. We trampled on toes and swapped partners while the band fiddled and a bossy lady told us what to do. It was a scorching evening by Scottish standards, and soon our guests were red and glazed like Christmas hams. I handed out all the cards from our wedding gifts so the ladies could fan themselves between dances. Finally it was just too hot for the wrap so I tossed it aside and let my wobbly arms say hello to the world.

And then I didn’t think about them for the rest of the night.

I mean, really. Who gives a shit about my arms? Our guests were here to celebrate our marriage. And get drunk and dance. They were too busy having fun to be bothered with my arms. Why the hell was I bothered? Wasn’t I there to have fun too?

So I did. Perhaps a little too much fun, as demonstrated by my drunken speech.

Cutting the cake was the only Official Wedding Thing that Gareth and I thought we’d have to do. We stabbed the slab, posed for pictures, then poised to flee. But people started hollering, “Speech! Speech!”

“Ummm,” gulped Gareth. He briefly thanked our friends and family, then we attempted to scurry away, but the guests were still looking at us expectantly.

Rhiannon bellowed from the back row, “How about we hear from the bride?”

The gin had impaired the part of my brain that makes one think before speaking. “Yeah!” I blurted. “Thanks, David and Mary, for putting on a great party. Especially Mary, who ran ’round organizing the whole thing while David played golf and me and Gareth sat on our arses!”

Silence fell and a dozen snowy-haired Friends of the In-Laws pondered, How did nice young Gareth end up with this uncouth flabby-armed Australian?

But my joy was more than just alcohol talking. On Saturday night, surrounded by friends and family and semi-strangers, it finally really felt like we were married. As much fun as eloping had been, celebrating with a room full of sweaty folk was extra special. There were Gareth’s school buddies catching up over a smoke. There were aunties and cousins and golfing buddies. There were small children who quite literally crapped their pants from excitement. There were Jane and Rory, without whom I’d never have met Gareth. There were my kind and generous in-laws. There was my wonderful, delirious sister gulping down the helium from all the balloons and asking, “Does my voice sound funny? Does it? Does it?”

As our guests trickled home I grabbed my husband and we had our belated First Dance on the abandoned dance floor. I’d never felt so happy and hopeful. And now I see that this lard-busting journey hasn’t been so much about busting the lard as about busting the fears and insecurities and learning to like myself … learning to like life, really.

Two weddings down, one to go.

I bought my copy of
Grazia
first thing Tuesday morning but couldn’t bear to open it. The potential for public awfulness was just too much!

But curiosity got the better of me around five o’clock. I sat on my Reebok step waiting for BodyPump to start, flipping through the pages and muttering, “Oh no! Oh yes! How awful! How cool!”

There it was on page 36, the story of my amazing weight loss, followed by a feature on ultraskinny jeans that I wouldn’t even get my ankle into.

It was like reading about a stranger. How could this be me? Had I really been all those different shapes and sizes?

The photographs were a visual history of my attempts to disguise my blubber over the past decade. Hiding behind the wedding bouquet in Las Vegas. Hiding behind the cake at my twenty-first birthday party. Hiding behind a brick wall at university. I’m still trying to hide in the latest photo, with my dark jeans and ultraforgiving wrap top. But at least now I only need clothes for camouflage, not brick walls.

It’s been an emotionally turbulent week. I can best describe it using the Seven Stages of Finding Your Face in a Glossy Magazine:

1. Relief upon discovering the picture didn’t turn out too bad after all. In fact I thought I looked rather pretty and slim. They’d chosen the Standing Up Pose that I’d done right at the start. See, I know how to best position my bulk!

2. Professional Glee at seeing my words printed in a magazine!

3. Shameless Showing Off. I presented Rhiannon and Gareth with autographed copies. I posted three to the Mothership and e-mailed a scanned version in case the wait would be too much for her. Or me.

4. Bashful Pride when the Mothership sent a text upon reading the article: U R 1 FOXY LADY!

5. Overanalysis. Once the novelty factor had worn off and I’d read the copy a thousand times, all that remained was to stare at my photo and play Spot the Flaw. Necklace crooked. Arms wobbly. Bra grossly unsupportive. When you’re a few pages away from Sienna bloody Miller, you can’t help compare and contrast.

There was also a story about some
Grazia
readers who’d won tickets to an exclusive party attended by famous racing drivers. They were all tanned and slender with flimsy little dresses that folk with stomach rolls and jelly arms can only dream about. They were meant to be Real Readers. And so was I! How could we belong in the same pages? Naturally, this sent me spiraling into…

6. Mortification. What if somebody I knew read the story? What would they think of my secret lardy past? What if they read all my self-indulgent rantings on the Internet? What would they think of me then? Thankfully, by then Tuesday had rolled around again, so it was on to…

7. Acceptance. The next issue of
Grazia
will come out tomorrow without me in it. I’ll soon be wrapping fish and chips and being crapped on by budgies across Britain.

I’ve totally gotten away with that
Grazia
episode! If anyone saw it, they’ve been kind enough not to say anything. So I think it’s safe to carry on sending my ramblings into the void.

I had a moment of clarity in my RPM class today. I was trying to ignore how the bike seat was bruising my girly bits so my thoughts drifted to my shiny red mug in the magazine. Why didn’t I want anyone to see that article? Why am I still afraid to talk about my weight loss and my writing?

It seems that despite all this weight I’ve lost, I still have my head buried in a big greasy bucket of Fat Girl beliefs.

Some examples:

• I am inferior to anyone thinner than me.

• Any success I have is undeserved, or at best a really big fluke.

• No matter how much weight I lose, I’ll still look like a Big Girl to most people.

• Nobody wants to hear about my weight loss success. They’ll just think, Why’d you get so bloody fat in the first place?

• And if I was to celebrate my achievements, people might think I’m a raging egomaniac.

• And therefore would no longer like me.

• Therefore it is better to keep quiet and be mediocre.

I’m beginning to realize that this is pure bullshit. It’s like saying to the world, “Here, folks! Let me save you the energy of making assumptions about me, I’ve already done it for you!” It’s also arrogant to assume that my perfectly intelligent and compassionate friends and acquaintances would think that way.

The reality is, the only person making these assumptions is me. Why do I still insist on viewing the world through the eyes of the Fat Girl? I know there is more to me than my weight, but I’m reluctant to let go of my favorite excuse. When I blame my fat, I don’t feel rejection or failure or disappointment. I don’t let unpleasant feelings get right through to the core, they just bounce off the blubber.

During the shoot I felt so envious of the photographer and the makeup artist; how they were so confident and comfortable in their own skin. The makeup artist was relaxed and chatty as she dabbed away at my mug, knowing exactly what colors she wanted to use and how to fix my hair. The photographer loped casually around the room, arranging the lighting and peering through view-finders.

What’s their secret? I thought. Where do I get me some of that?

But looking at my photograph, I can see it in my eyes and smile, lurking just below the surface. Happiness. Confidence. Ambition. I just need to find the balls to admit that it’s there, and decide what to do with it.

“So do you want beans in a tin, haggis in a tin, or beef tongue in a tin?”

We were at the supermarket getting camping provisions. Gareth has been obsessed with the great outdoors lately. First he said he needed a new sleeping bag because his old one smelled like “man fumes.” But he ended up buying two. And a tent. And a camp stove. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to spend a night with the mountains and midges at Glen Etive.

It wasn’t until we were at the supermarket that I began to get excited about our expedition. I wanted to buy one of those dinky disposable barbecues so we could grill vegetarian sausages into charcoaled stumps. I wanted to toast marshmallows over a roaring fire. I wanted to roast potatoes in the coals. Food food food. Food makes everything more interesting!

Only a few days earlier I’d been thinking, There’s absolutely nothing happening this week. No magazine shoots, no weddings; just a Perfect Empty Week. I’ll be able to achieve seven days of Perfect Eating. Woohoo! But this was instantly forgotten when the camping trip came up, and now I was giddy with its feasting potential.

I had another epiphany right there in the supermarket aisle—there is really no such thing as a Perfect Empty Week. For the past four and a half years I’ve been holding onto a misguided hope that there would come a day when I’d finally triumph and achieve perfection. But unless I revert to my old hermit life, there will always be something getting in the way, whether it’s a spontaneous camping trip, workplace cakes, or a quick drink with friends.

That horrible phrase Lifestyle Change is really true. This is not going to end when I get to my goal weight. I will have to keep reading labels. I will have to keep thinking about what I eat. I will have to assess each situation individually and try to make the healthiest choice. All these little events that crop up will keep on cropping up. They’re just life happening, not opportunities for wild, abandoned eating.

We ended up in the canned food aisle, deciding on a Tin of Something since we were only away overnight. Good Lord, you can buy some awful shit in a tin. Gareth chose a vegetable balti curry. I almost went for the Weight Watchers Ravioli, but what self-respecting ravioli would be seen in a tin? After reading some labels and tossing aside the trans-fatty candidates, I settled on a hearty beef stew. Then we bought apples, tea, and shortbread.

My beef stew looked a lot like dog food and didn’t taste much better. But I felt good about my choices as we sat under the stars in front of our campfire. I’ll never be perfect, but I don’t have to be out of control either. I’m going to find that middle ground.