The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (22 page)

After two solid months I think it’s safe to say I’ve acquired a boyfriend. Jane even has a nickname for us… SHAG. SHauna And Gareth, geddit?

I can’t believe I’m part of an acronym! I hadn’t been looking for love. Surely that sort of thing wouldn’t happen until I was a size 12, or a 14 at the earliest? I was perfectly content flying solo. But as I keep discovering, life has a habit of wandering off in crazy directions you never planned for.

So now there’s this wonderful guy who seems to want to be around me just as much as I do him. Gareth makes me laugh, he makes me tea, and the smell of his skin makes me purr. Sometimes when we’re apart my Fat Girl fears creep in, wondering how he could possibly be interested in a blob like me. Surely he’ll change his mind soon? But whenever he shows up on my doorstep or I cross the Forth Bridge, my doubts melt away. When we’re together it all makes sense, it’s as natural and easy as breathing.

I never had any great longing to be in a relationship, but now that it’s happened, it’s like someone turned up the color and the contrast on the telly. I was already enjoying the picture, but now things look even more vivid and alive.

Today marks the third anniversary of my lard-busting adventures. To celebrate, I stripped off in my room and had a good look in the mirror. I admired my collarbone and glared at my belly flab. Will I ever get there? I’m stuck halfway between loving and loathing my body. I’m proud of how far I’ve come but I’m aching for the day when I can say I’m DONE. If you’d told me in 2001 that after three years I’d still be miles from my goal, I would have hurled the scales out the window and given up before I’d even tried. Shouldn’t I have things figured out by now?

Someone who does seem to have it sussed is Gareth. I’ve always liked to observe the habits of skinny people, and he’s been a fascinating case:

• He never has seconds. He dishes out his portion then puts the leftovers straight into a container.

• He’s surgically attached to his water bottle and guzzles regularly throughout the day.

• Since he’s surviving on the dregs of his Ph.D. grant, he only buys what food he needs and makes simple meals packed with fresh vegetables. He uses up everything in the fridge before it turns into moldy pulp.

• Most astoundingly, he made apple crumble and ice cream six weeks ago, and the same tub of ice cream is still in the freezer! He hasn’t touched it, because I’ve been checking the levels as part of my research. He hasn’t scoffed the rest of it straight from the tub in front of the telly, like any normal person would do. Or maybe that’s just me.

At first I thought, What a freak! He’s not eating enough! But then I realized I’d been comparing him to me, who dreams of bacon and sees snacking as a leisure activity. He’s not a saint—he loves crisps or a biscuit with his cuppa—but he has modest portions and eats slowly. He doesn’t feel the need to demolish everything in sight.

I demanded to know how a Scottish guy could be so sensible about food. That’s not natural! It turns out Gareth has lost a lot of weight himself—forty pounds, in fact! He went through a slothful period of beer and curry a few years ago, and when his belly spilled over his trousers, he decided to take action.

I grilled him for answers. What’s your secret? How did you do it? But it was infuriatingly simple. He cut out the crap and bought a bicycle. At first he could barely huff along a flat road, but after a year of steady effort he was powering up mountains and the beer gut was gone. He’s kept it off for ages now and says he just tries to be healthy the majority of the time, so he doesn’t have to worry about a few indulgences.

He makes it sound so easy; like he just jumped on a bike and pedaled away from his paunch! If he wasn’t so modest about it I’d probably punch him. I know I’m just jealous of his ability to keep things simple. He saw his weight as a practical problem, not an emotional catastrophe. Maybe if I had his sensible, engineering brain I wouldn’t be dragging my weight into a fourth year!

Oh well. It’s nice to have found weight loss inspiration right under my nose. He knows I’m trying to lose weight and has been very supportive and understanding. But I still can’t bring myself to tell him just how big I used to be.

I’ve never had a vegetarian boyfriend before and my digestive system is struggling to adjust. Gareth came over last night and I cooked up a delicious spicy dahl. As soon as we’d finished, I felt the lentils preparing to wreak havoc. I’d yet to fart in front of him; and vice versa. It seemed far too early in the relationship for such familiarity.

“Quick, hand us your plate and I’ll take it down to the kitchen,” I said.

“Oh no, let me do that!” He jumped off the bed. “You did all the cooking, after all!”

“No! You’re the guest. Stay where you are!”

After a brief tug-of-war I triumphed and scurried down the stairs. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty, as I couldn’t help releasing a most unsexy trumpeting sound.

I giggled as I returned to my room. And there was Gareth, his denim-clad butt poised over the window ledge with a guilty look on his face.

“You’re back!” he said.

“Were you just farting out the window?”

“Maybe!”

“You’re such a gentleman to direct them outside!”

“It’s your cooking!” He blushed furiously as I slumped on the floor with laughter. “It’s delicious but lethal!”

“Don’t worry, I just let one rip in the kitchen.”

Somehow that’s taken us to a whole new level of intimacy. I almost did the same with my BodyPump classmates tonight. Heed my warning, people: don’t squat too deeply if you’ve just had lentils for dinner.

Dear Neglected Diary,

You know that old saying, “mind over matter”? I’ve really stopped minding my matter lately. The mind keeps trying to persuade me that my expanding matter doesn’t matter. I can feel my jeans getting tighter but my mind shrugs it off: “They must have shrunk in the wash!” But they haven’t been washed for weeks.

I’m such a slob. A tired, tubby, chocolate-scoffing, scale-avoiding slob. Do you want to hear all my excuses?

First there’s work. This is our mighty Year of Travel: so far we’ve planned a Scottish jaunt with the Mothership in April, a three-week tour of Russia and Scandinavia in June, plus a fortnight’s backpacking around the Baltic States in September. I can’t believe I’m going to Russia! I’ve been obsessed with the place since we studied the revolutions in high school. Sometimes we’ll be eating dinner or waiting for a bus and Rhiannon and I will look at each other and scream, “
Russiaaaa!
” But in order to pay for it all we’re doing extra weekend shifts at Geriatric Rescue. We’ve just finished an epic sixteen working days in a row, during which time our precious weekly routine fell apart and we resorted to take-aways or toast for dinner.

Secondly, there’s the lovely Gareth. We’re ships in the night at the moment, with my work schedule and his frantic dash to the thesis finish line. He’s stressed and I’m tired, so when we manage to meet we open a bottle of wine, bitch about our days, then fall asleep in front of the ten o’clock news.

Finally there’s complacency. Sometimes I forget that I need to shift a few more pounds, especially with Gareth telling me I’m foxy all the time. Who cares that my knickers are still a size 16 when there’s a lovely bloke trying to get into them?

But the fat won’t let me forget it’s still around. When I woke this morning I was suddenly hyperaware of my flesh. It felt alive, like it had doubled in size overnight and was hogging the whole bed.

Gareth opened one eye and mumbled, “Are you OK?” but I turned away from him, trying to crunch my body up into the smallest possible space.

Eventually he persuaded me to come down for breakfast. There were only two pieces of bread left and I insisted he eat them.

“Why?”

I pointed to my stomach and shrugged. “Well, come on!”

He shook his head, bewildered. “Why should you say something like that?”

I burst into tears. I didn’t know why I’d said it. I hadn’t even thought such negative things for months, let alone actually said them aloud. I guess I feel like things are getting out of control, and you know I’m not good with that. I’ve been living in a bizarre state of bliss, stress, and fatigue, and I’ve allowed bad habits to creep back—taking the lift instead of the stairs, neglecting mundane tasks like laundry, skipping my gym classes, stopping for junk food on the way home from work.

I’ve got to get back on track and find a way to cope with all the variables in my life. I don’t like being an anxious grump, running around my room hiding chocolate wrappers every time Gareth comes over.

I finally made it back to the gym tonight. It was supposed to be yesterday but I wanted to have a Last Supper (two Topic bars and a bag of sweet chili crisps) before I resumed the fight.

Miraculously, I’ve only gained two pounds since November. But that’s probably because I’ve lost all my precious muscles. I had to lighten all my weights at BodyPump and I was soaked with sweat after just the warm-up!

As I squatted and lunged I tried to remember how good it feels to take care of my body. I’d had muesli for breakfast and a salad sandwich for lunch and now I was back at the gym. You’ve fallen off the wagon so many times before, I told myself. You know how to get back on track!

But that would be much easier if I could stop thinking about muffins. Banana muffins, blueberry muffins. Or chocolate chip. Or chocolate chocolate chip. Surely muesli and aching muscles were more satisfying than muffins? But I could almost taste them. I could feel the stray chocolate chips clinging to the roof of my mouth. All I needed was a cool glass of milk to hose the crumbs off my teeth.

How did I get back to this place where I’m constantly thinking about food? What happened to the part of my brain that makes me stop and think before I eat? But I’ve made it through today, so I’ll just try and do it again tomorrow.

I’ve lost those two pounds again; it feels rather accidental. But I’m setting myself small challenges, so it feels like I’m heading somewhere positive. This week’s task was simply Drink Two Liters of Water per Day. Not that I think I can flush out the flab, but it’s good exercise running to the loo 11 times a day.

I think I’m getting a bit obsessed, though. I read that you can tell your body is properly hydrated if your urine is a “pale straw color with no discernible smell.” So I’ve been doing this mad dance of pee, wipe, jump up, spin around and peer into the bowl to examine my handiwork. I even considered finding a piece of actual straw to get a more accurate color comparison. I have not, however, gone so far as to get down on my knees and sniff at the bowl.

“So how’s the Body looking these days?” asked the Mothership.

“Oh, it’s looking all right!”

“So do you feel good about yourself?”

“Indeed I do.”

“So do you feel … sexy?”

“What?”

“I said, do … you … feel … sexy?”

“I’m not going to talk about that with you!”

“Aww c’mon, why not?” she insisted. “I was sexy once, you know!”

As much as I enjoy our rambling long distance phone calls, I draw the line at discussing my sex life with the Mothership.

So do I feel sexy?

I’ve certainly always been a hot-blooded creature. Extra pounds have been no barrier to an active sex life, although much of it took place in my imagination. It just felt safer there, under the covers in the darkness with my trusty friend Mr. Shakey. I could block out the belly rolls and dimpled thighs and let my thoughts run wild. Instead of criticism or rejection, I only heard the steady buzz of two AA batteries.

But falling in love has made sex scary. The problem isn’t desire—just his laugh or the arch of his eyebrow makes me hot—but the way I feel about my body. Although I can look in the mirror these days and appreciate my curves, I’d hardly say I was ready for public exhibition. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet! I was going to lose all my pounds, shed my body issues, and only then would I become a sultry sexpot and consider falling in love.

Most times I can just close my eyes and surrender to all that lust and longing, but other times it feels like there’s huge neon arrows floating in the air, pointing out my flaws. HEY GARETH, CHECK OUT THE ARM FLAB! or DANGER! THESE THIGHS COULD KILL!

I’ve always hated moving my body. I remember nearly crying at a piano recital when I was ten years old; I was so paranoid that my arms were jiggling as my fingers roamed the keyboard. I’ve only just learned to walk past a bunch of strangers without worrying they’re laughing at my wobbly bottom. So moving my body while naked is a whole new level of terror. So many positions, so many unflattering ways to arrange my flab! Every time he closes his eyes I pray it’s because he’s overcome by passion, not because he’s avoiding the sight of my bouncing boobs.