The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (37 page)

I’d always pictured the perfect ending. Just as I thought there’d be a grand epiphany for me to start losing weight, I thought there’d be an equally spectacular moment when I finished. Sunbeams would stream through the window as I stepped on the scale, and the magic number would appear just as the last sliver of excess fat fell from my body. I’d be presented with a bouquet and tiara and then I’d tearfully declare my mission complete.

I returned to Scotland after Wedding Part III all fired up to secure my happy ending. I’d gained four pounds on the trip, taking me back up to 193 pounds, so I had 14 pounds left to lose.

I was consumed by the need to finish the job properly. I couldn’t fight the flab for six long years only to let it just fizzle out. And what about the hundreds of people around the world who’d faithfully tuned in to my adventures? Didn’t I owe them all a grand finale?

The pounds came off painfully slowly. I was thoroughly fed up with calorie counting and weekly weigh-ins, and longed for the day when I could hurl the scale off a cliff and just live like a normal healthy person. I daydreamed about being a grizzly bear in hibernation. I’d only need one winter! I’d live off my body fat, snooze away the last 25 pounds, then emerge from my cave in the springtime, all slender and complete.

By August 2006, I’d dropped eighteen more pounds and finally reached the magical milestone of 175 pounds lost. I’d shed half my body weight. My inner statistician rejoiced at the beautiful symmetry of it all, and when I took some progress photos in my new size 14 jeans, I was proud of what I saw. I felt confident, sexy, and content. I felt done.

But how could I possibly be done? I was still fat in the eyes of the Body Mass Index chart. Surely my successes didn’t really count until I reached that number? I’d made a public commitment way back in 2001, so I couldn’t give up so close to the end. I was Dietgirl, darn it. I was supposed to be a weight loss superhero!

For the next few months I was obsessed with reaching that mystical goal weight of 165 pounds. But the harder I tried, the more the scale refused to budge, and I began to see numbers in my sleep. They frolicked hand in hand through meadows, laughing at my inability to catch them. I grew panicky and impatient, and instead of keeping faith in my tried-and-true formula of sensible eating and exercise, I scoured my old diet books in the hope of finding a better way. In a fit of lunacy I even went back to Weight Watchers for a month, until I overheard a woman complaining she’d gained weight because she’d worn heavier socks than usual.

Finally in January 2007, on the sixth anniversary of my lard-busting adventures, I stopped and asked myself, What the hell am I doing? Haven’t I learned anything? Why am I torturing myself?

For six years I’d battled to achieve a balanced approach but now I’d fallen back into my old, obsessive ways. And what for? I was fit and healthy. I liked my body. I liked being me. And that was what I’d wanted more than anything when I’d stood under the clothesline all those years ago. But all those positives were being trampled by my goal weight fixation.

I decided to try a radical experiment and just stop. No more number crunching, no more ritual weigh-ins, and no deadlines. Obsessing was getting me nowhere, so I resolved to just let go and see where my instincts took me.

Why hadn’t I tried this tactic before?

I’d always been slightly suspicious of my achievements. Despite losing a mighty 175 pounds, it somehow felt like a hefty stroke of luck. Me, a success story? I worried that I was one bar of chocolate away from being 350 pounds again. How could this person doing all the exercise be me? Am I really someone who chooses brown rice more often than cake?

Even though I hadn’t followed a diet for years, I’d been clinging to the dieter’s mind-set, taking comfort from the rules and rituals and boundaries. What would I do if I weren’t obsessing? Would my healthy habits come undone without the fear of a weekly weigh-in? What if it’s all been a six-year fluke?

But letting go turned out to be liberating and empowering. Instead of worrying about weight loss, I simply did the things I’d do if I were already at my Happy Ending weight.

I focused on my fitness because getting sweaty had always made me feel sound and strong. I developed a thirst for new activities, and each one indulged a different side of my personality, from the serenity of yoga and Pilates to the grueling pleasures of canoeing and cycling. I explored my aggressive streak with kickboxing classes. I laced up my boxing gloves, thought of everyone who’d ever annoyed me and just let fly. After all those years of kicking thin air at BodyCombat, it was thrilling to finally connect with something. I loved the sound of my foot smacking the pad, pow pow pow!

I also took up hill walking with Gareth. I grumbled with every step, as I’d done on Mount Ainslie, but secretly reveled in the ache and burn of my leg muscles as we made our ascent. Every time I reached the top, I thought of the Old Shauna hiding in the house with the blinds drawn, so disconnected from her body and surroundings. I longed to drag her into the wilderness so she could know this beautiful silence and feel the cold air on her skin.

I even tackled my lifelong fear of the pool and signed up for swimming lessons. I was nauseous with panic beforehand, so pale and wobbly in my new swimsuit. But my teacher led me into the water with the soothing, encouraging tones she normally reserved for hysterical toddlers. Soon she had me thrashing up and down the pool in a messy front crawl, too busy concentrating to be self-conscious. I felt strong as I pulled my body along, yet peaceful and serene as the water enveloped me. Afterward I relished the chlorine sting in my eyes and proudly crossed item number one off my To Do When I’m Skinny list.

Recently a friend and I were preening in front of the mirror as we got ready for a night out on the town.

“God, I’m so fat,” she muttered. “Look at my gut. It’s huge!”

I frowned at my own reflection, trying to select a fault to contribute to the conversation.

In the old days I’d have blurted automatically, “That’s nothing, look at my hefty arse! And watch I don’t slap you with my arm flab!” But now I realized I had nothing to say. I no longer saw my body as a collection of flaws. My body was something to savor and celebrate. I looked in the mirror and saw sparkling eyes and glossy lips curved into a confident smile. Instead of the old shapeless sacks, I’d poured myself into a figure-hugging dress that showcased my nippy waist and rounded hips. Everytime I put on high heels and jewelry and lipstick and perfume, it felt like I was singing to the world about the joy I’d found within.

So I had no desire to put myself down, not even in jest for sisterly solidarity. I realized that you have to be your own superhero. I’d always been desperate for approval and validation from others, but now I know that the real pleasure comes from impressing yourself. Now, after a lifetime of self-loathing, you could drop me on a runway with a pack of supermodels and I’d still be happy. They’ve got their look and I’ve got mine.

Way back at the start of my journey I was in deep denial that I was seriously overweight. Now I know the situation has reversed—I’ve been in denial that I’m healthy and slim. But over the past few months, just as in the beginning, all the evidence has come at me in little bursts of awareness. How I’m optimistic by default. How I exercise purely for the joy of it, not to make my body more pleasant to the masses. How my eating is instinctive and balanced but with room for guilt-free indulgence. How they have no trouble finding a vein when I donate blood. How I can fit into size 10 skirts at H&M. How I can walk past a bakery without being restrained on a leash. How instead of thinking, These are things I must do to lose weight; I now truly believe, This is just how I live my life.

I decided it was time to revisit my To Do When I’m Skinny list. With a flourish and a red marker I ticked off each item, savoring the thick lines slashing through what I’d thought were impossible dreams. I felt a surge of pride, realizing that I hadn’t waited for official Skinniness to achieve them.

And now there were only two things remaining.

5. Buy some sexy leather trousers.

What the hell was I thinking there? I must have been going through some sort of Jim Morrison phase. I’m sure you’ll forgive me for abandoning that one.

Then my heart leapt into my throat as I read the very last item.

6. Have a full body massage.

Rhiannon and I headed into the English countryside for a girly spa weekend. I’d booked my massage for the very last day, giving me plenty of time to work myself up into a traditional Fat Girl Freak-Out. When my massage therapist finally collected me, I felt like a bathrobed lamb being led to the slaughter.

She told me to undress and make myself comfortable. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. Back when I made my list, I was ashamed to hang my knickers on the clothesline, let alone parade them in front of a stranger. But here I was, six years later, in a soft-lit room, completely naked except for my brand new size 12 knickers.

I lay down on the massage table and put my face over the hole. Her hands were warm and tender but my body was knotted tight. It felt strange and shocking to be touched with such firmness and purpose.

But soon I could feel myself letting go, as if I was melting into the table. I’d never felt so aware of my body, the space I filled and the shape I made. I imagined I was floating above, following the path of her touch. I felt her fingertips press into the strong curve of my shoulders, then down to my arms with their firm biceps and wobbly undersides. Then her palms were on my hips and waist, tracing over the stretch marks that used to repulse me so much. Now they seemed like battle scars, tiny silver souvenirs. She moved on to my legs with their crazy blend of firm and dimpled flesh. She finished with my feet, once cracked and dried from supporting so much weight, but now soft and slender with painted toes.

I cried for the entire fifty-five minutes. My weight loss has been so slow—spread over two continents and six years—that I’d never quite grasped the enormity of the transformation. But today I finally felt the full scale of all this change. Six years ago I couldn’t bear to look at myself in a mirror, but now I felt proud. Every lump and bump of my body belonged to me and told the story of where I’d been. The emotions finally swam to the surface and poured out of my skin. So I cried, great honking sobs of joy and relief and release.

And that’s when I knew I’d found my Perfect Ending. I actually found it a long time ago, but it’s taken me a while to see it. I always thought I needed that number on the scale to prove that I’d earned this happiness, but from the moment I looked in the mirror and began to appreciate the view, I was already winning the prize.

I don’t know where the scale will end up, but after 333 weeks and a lifetime of angst, I’m not going to waste another minute worrying about it. My journey was never about what I weighed or the size of my jeans. The true reward is finding peace and acceptance and embracing my own skin, with all its quirks and charms.

So this is how it ends, my friends. There’s no scale or tiara. It’s just me here on the massage table, stripped down to my knickers and dripping tears and snot onto the floor.

It’s time to make a new list. To Do Now that I’m Happy. It’s time to find out what’s next.

Warmest thanks to Jeanette Perez and all at Avon and Transworld UK. Thanks also to my friends, family, and Dietgirl readers for your kindness and support.

SHAUNA REID
grew up in Australia. Her writing has been featured in
Grazia, Cosmopolitan
, and
Elle (UK).
She has been blogging at dietgirl.org since 2001.

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“Dietgirl isn’t your typical weight-loss memoir—it’s a whole lot funnier, thanks to Reid’s terrific wit and sharp observations.” —Wendy McClure, author of
I’m Not the New Me

“The satisfaction you get from reading it is not only in its humor and honesty, but learning that belief in yourself is all you need to turn your world around.” —
Sunday World
(Ireland)

“A moving, heartfelt journey.” —Susan Blech, author of
Confessions of a Carb Queen

“Honest and smart, funny and insightful… Shauna is spirited and kind—the sort of superhero we all want in our corner.” —Erin J. Shea, author of
Tales from the Scale

Cover image © nes/Shutterstock

This book is a work of nonfiction based on the life, experiences, and recollections of the author. In some cases names of people have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.

THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF DIETGIRL.
Copyright © 2008 by Shauna Reid. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Corgi, a division of Transworld Publishers.

FIRST
A
VON EDITION PUBLISHED
2009

EPub Edition © MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780062194084

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reid, Shauna.

The amazing advantures of dietgirl / Shauna Reid. —1st ed.