The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Better living through The Baby-Sitters Club

The thing I miss least about being a kid is all that longing to be someone else. Oh to be anyone but grotty swotty ginger-haired me!

Like many younguns, I found my escape in books, particularly The Baby-sitters Club series. I didn't want to join the Babysitters Club so much as I wanted to shed my own skin and be one of 'em. I deliberated over whom I aspired to be; which one I most resembled. Kind of like the shrieks of some women in the late 90s: OMG I'm totally a Carrie! No I'm the Carrie! You're the Miranda!  Except less fecking annoying.

When I was ten I wanted to be Stacey. She was so cool, hailing from New York City and all. She also had diabetes. Every time I was busting for the loo I'd think, Dude I must be getting the diabetes like STACEY!

Then I had a Dawn phase. She had blonde hair cascading right down to her bum. I went for a haircut and the lady wanted to give me a bob. I said "sure!" then instantly died inside. CRAP, I was sposed to be growing my hair like Dawn's!

And of course there was my favourite, Claudia. Artist and master accessoriser. We had nothing in common but the desire to stash candy under our beds.

I thought long and hard about this stuff, I tell you. Here is a handy chart to summarise my pre-teen ponderings: (click pic to view full size)

The only BSC character I actually had anything in common with was Associate Member Mallory Pike - she had red hair, was insecure about her appearance and wanted to be a writer. But she was also very annoying. And she liked to read horse stories. Horse stories! I did not want to align myself with that.

In my research I found out that after I bailed out of the series, Mallory got an Australian boyfriend named... BEN HOBART. I will be bwahahaha-ing over that morsel for months.

Radio sucks without Jillian Michaels

To quote the great Hall and Oates, baby come back!

Jillian Michaels has abruptly disappeared from the radio waves and I'm bereft. On Sunday 21th July she gave no indication that the show was to be her last. If I'd known I'd have listened solemnly by candlelight while doing crunches and/or eating her favourite organic peanut butter cups... but nothing! She didn't even say goodbye!

Her final message on the KFI AM 640 website says, "I'm going to be taking a break from radio" which I naively thought meant a summer break. But Jen reports that the guy taking over her time slot said she was too busy to do the show. According to her official website the radio show is "on hiatus". Wah!

I always found it was amazing that Jillian found time for a radio show amidst all her filming and books and DVDs and Wii Fit thingies. It must take a lot of work to prepare for two hours of radio every week. Maybe she finally got in trouble for slagging off The Biggest Loser? Or maybe she got tired of answering the same questions every bloody week... how many times did she have to tell people how to lose the vanity pounds?

But I miss her. Jillian seems to be a love/hate figure but as I've not really seen her in action on The Biggest Loser I only know her through the radio show and one brief magical meeting at BlogHer 2007. She was funny, compassionate, honest, imperfect and completely lacking in bullshit. That's the charm of radio - you can show more dimensions to your character that a heavily edited and scripted television show would never allow.

And what of the lovely Janice, the show's producer? Does she still have a job or did she get sent back to Canada?

It's a sad day. Jillian will still be on the telly for you Americans but I know of fans in Britain, Australia, Finland and beyond who rely on the radio for their fix. I should start a petition. I haven't been compelled to protest since 2002 when I campaigned to get Everybody Loves Raymond taken off the air (91 signatures thank you very much) but this seems like an equally serious political cause to get behind!

We the undersigned hereby kindly request that Ms Jillian Michaels please get thee back on the radio...

Happy Snaps

I was thinking about happiness after rediscovering a ranty pants entry from 2006:

For me happiness is sifting through the shitty bits of life and looking for the good things to latch onto. And always making sure you have something to look forward to, whether that's a weekly choccie bar, an episode of The Avengers or an island holiday. Anything will do...

... I have to work as hard at staying happy as I do at getting to the gym or making sure my guts don't explode out of my trousers. It's a habit that I had to learn. You just have to work on it, every single day.

The only thing more annoying than a smug, happy person is when the smug, happy person is yourself.

Begrudgingly I must agree with Me of 2006. My brain finds it hard to hold on to optimism and cheeriness unless I consciously work at 'em.

My personal formula for happiness:

1. Making time for small, everyday feelgood stuff (e.g.: kickboxing, recent gardening addiction)
2. Having an overall bigass goal to sink my teeth into. A purpose!

Without the above I get all reclusive and maudlin. I used to blame this tendency on my weight, but now I know that I can be happy or miserable at any size!

While I was back in Oz in April, I found some old photos from 2001 - the first year of lardbusting. I was amazed at how cheery I looked. But I remembered the moments the pics were taken and realised why I felt so bloody brilliant back then and why I hadn't been feeling so good these past few months. Back then I was living the formula, baby... big goals; simple pleasures.

NB: The captions on these pics say 2000 but it should be 2001. I can't find the originals now, d'oh!

In this pic I was dead pleased with myself as I was down 40 pounds and for the first time in years I'd managed to keep up with my friends on a walk to this park. All the leaves were broon and Harry the Dog was being his usual demented self.

I think I was another ten pounds down here and taking a progress photo. The dopey grin was coz I fitted into a new size 24 jumper. I was pretty freakin' determined.

And six months later, this is when I got my hair chopped off and felt rather foxy. I'd also been swimming and went to a pub, tackling two big fat girl fears. I'd finally realised that I didn't have to let my weight hold me back. That was a gobsmacking revelation. I was pretty much delirious back then!

It's now actually a month since I started this entry and I can't really remember why I started it and now it's nearly midnight (curfew fail!). Sorry this is not much of a weight loss blog in the traditional sense these days; it's more about happiness gain. I'm latching on to the good things and trying to savour them right as they're happening. Yeehah.

Why don't you love yours?

Channel 4 has a new series called The Sculpture Diaries, in which art critic Waldemar Januszczak is determined to convince us that sculpture is the bee's knees of art forms. The first episode looked at the female form. He spoke with Alison Lapper, a British artist who was born without arms and shortened legs, the result of a medical condition called phocomelia. A statue of Alison, Alison Lapper Pregnant by Mark Quinn, occupied the fourth plinth at Trafalgar Square during 2005-2007.

This is my clumsy attempt to transcribe a part of Alison's interview that I really loved:

"... So many people, not just women, [say] 'How can you love your body?' I'm like, Well, why don't you love yours?

I found that very sad, that there are so many people out there, because of the media and all the rubbish that gets thrown at us, [thinking] that we should all be like stick insects with lollipop heads. No thank you."

My Day In Elle

When it comes to confidence it's all about context. For a long while now I've claimed to be totally cool with all my wobbly bits, as I stomped up hills or paddled canoes or dashed to the hardware shop in a tracksuit encrusted with paint and yesterday's Weetbix. But back in November I had a real test of those convictions: a photo shoot for ELLE magazine!

I was so excited when they asked me to write about how I came to a place of bodily peace, lurve and understanding. But when it came to the accompanying photo shoot, you might say I had an old-fashioned Fat Girl Freakout. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I'd written 1500... so wasn't a picture and a half enough?

"I'm not Elleworthy," is what I whimpered to everyone who said I was being ridiculous. I thought they'd have to amend the slogan on the spine: The World's Biggest Selling Fashion Magazine: Now Contains Morons!

I'd had my photo taken before under less daunting circumstances: just me in my own clothes with freelance stylists and photographers. This time it was in London in a posh studio with Real Magazine People, and they were supplying the clothes! I couldn't sleep for a week beforehand. Despite giving them my measurements I feared they'd not find anything to fit me. I had visions of seams bursting; of buttons flying off and blinding nubile assistants.

I woke at 6AM on the day of the shoot to wash my hair. I dried it at 7AM. At 8AM I became convinced it looked greasy.

Shauna: Does my hair look greasy? I think it looks greasy.
Rhiannon: It doesn't look greasy.
S: But I think it does, I used too much of your hair stuff. It's more powerful than my hair stuff.
R: Is it?
S: Why didn't I use my own? Why did I risk New Hair Stuff today of all days?
R: It doesn't look greasy!
S: I think I better wash it again. Do you think I should wash it again?
R:   . . .
S: I don't know. I can't decide.
R: Well you better hurry up and decide. You only have two hours.
S: Oh my god what do I doooo?

Not only does my nervousness cause loss of appetite, there's also severe indecision and paranoia. In the end I listened to the voice of reason that is my sister and did not re-wash my locks.

We met the lovely Sam and Anna from my publisher outside the studio and together we entered the temple o' glamour. It was all high ceilings and huge windows and yawning white spaces. We sat on a plush couch and were offered refreshments, but I declined because my teeth were chattering so wildly that I feared I might bite a hunk out of a teacup.

The Elle People trickled in, and they were very nice and chatty. I began to relax. Then the hair and makeup artist got to work. She did a great job at disguising all those sleepless nights! Then she bouffed up my hair and pulled fancy moves with the straighteners. All I could do was gawk in amazement. Make up artist? Make up magician more like! Woohoo!

Next I met Bonnie the Stylist and she was gorgeous. She took me off to a dressing room with a rack of clothes and a neat row of swanky looking shoes all waiting to be caressed by my size eight hoof. She explained we'd be doing a series of portraits with a soft, elegant look. I nearly snorted because I saw myself as more suited to a rustic farm girl look.

She pulled a shirt off the rack and it looked impossibly dainty and pretty. Thankfully it fitted. The trousers did not. I couldn't get them past my knees and I mumbled, Sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry.

I was so irritated that I'd said that out loud. What happened to the Happy Just Being Me stuff? I felt crushed and pathetic, but Bonnie was like a reassuring old Aunt trapped in the body of an elegant, tiny young woman. She told me not to worry about sizes and labels, and besides, she had plenty more trousers to try on. Soon I was clothed and climbing into a pair of high heels.

Dudes. Nobody warned me about high heels. I mean really high ones. I started to walk back into the studio expecting my legs to just, you know... walk? But instead I staggered like I'd been thrown out of a moving car. How do people wear those things all day? I was mortified by that entrance and the fact that I was clearly the elephant in the room... yet all this fuss was due to My Amazing Weight Loss?

It was one of those moments when I could stand outside myself and listen to the wild screaming match between my Old Thinking and New Thinking. Who will be the victor today? I hope you can understand how everything I'd learned over the past seven years could temporarily desert me. It was the context - a room full of glossy magazine people, cameras, bright lights, high-heeled clomping. I'd never felt like such a big fat fish out of water. My mind raced as I took my place on the wee set, Who have I been kidding? I should lose another ten kilos. Maybe twenty. Why did I eat so many bloody bagels in New York?

But then thankfully the New Thinking took over. The moment the photographer smiled and lifted the camera to her eye, I felt a massive rush of adrenaline and glee. I'm in London! In a studio! With fancy hair! And crazy shoes! Gettin' me photie taken! For ELLE! This isn't awful, it's pretty much the coolest thing ever.

I remembered my favourite Flight of the Conchords episode with Jemaine's heartfelt speech about racism: "I'm a person. You're a person. That person over there is a person. And every person... deserves to be treated like a person."  All the people in the room were persons, and they were treating me like a person. So I should remember to treat myself like a person, and not a lardy freak!

The camera was hooked up to a computer so the photos instantly popped up onscreen. That could have been daunting, especially when people were clustered around it with serious expressions, pointing to blown-up eyebrows, teeth and jawlines. But somehow once we were in the swing of things I could look at the images with a pleasant objectivity. It was fun doing all the poses too. At first I couldn't stop laughing, so there were dozens of giant gummy grin shots. Then the photographer said, Look sad! So I looked out the window and saw an old lady shuffling towards a mailbox. I pictured a Royal Mail van burning around the corner and mowing her down. I think I even summoned a wee tear. Then she said, Pretend your secret crush has just walked into the room. Oooh. Cue demure blush. At one point I had to toss my hair around, like I'd just stepped out of the salon. Fun and games!

We had a lunch break. There was table full of freshly-cooked gourmet treats but I picked at a tiny wedge of quiche. Not because I'd gone all Starving Model but I didn't want to get anything stuck in my fangs! I thought about models and how its no wonder they snort things and live on cigarettes and have tortured love lives. I can't imagine anything worse than your career being based entirely on the way you look. How do they not explode from the constant scrutiny?

There was a basket of miniature bars of Green and Blacks chocolate. In all the flavours! OH I trembled with joy, or it may have been high heel instability. I grabbed one, clopped back to the dressing room and nestled it beside my Spare Bra. I had to bring two along - one black, one flesh coloured.

The rest of the shoot passed without incident, except for when my arms got STUCK inside a shirt! It was outfit change no. 5 methinks. The top was carefully placed over my head and outstretched arms, but when they pulled downward they couldn't get very far. I felt like a right goose, trapped in designer cotton with my arms glued to my ears, but at least I laughed instead of apologising!

Afterwards, I changed into my civvies and was just about to head out when I remember my choccie. They were packing up the clothes in the dressing room. The stylist's glamourous assistant smiled and scooped up the goods from the table.

"Here's your bra and your chocolate!" she said.

She had the chocolate bar in one hand and my giant, ultra supportive bra in the other. She could have worn one cup as a hat, I swear. It was hilarious.

. . .

So the story is in this month's issue of Elle, but it's only this month's issue for another half hour as the new issue comes out on the 30th. How's that for timely blogging? Anyway, I've done a dodgy scan if you fancy  a peek. Gareth and I keep cackling over one frame in particular because it's like the opening credits of Kath & Kim:

There's always a joker in the pack.
Bwaaaaaaahhahahaa!
(apologies if you've never seen K&K!)


(click for larger)
Full story: page 1, page 2

Chop Chop

On Saturday night I was sitting next to Gareth, poking and prodding my belly and arms with my thumbs.

"I hate being bigger than you," I grumbled.

"Bigger than me?"

"Yeah. I seem bigger today. Taller. Wider. Blobbier all of sudden. Like I am lording over you."

"Like Kermit and Robin?"

"YEAH that's it. Precisely!"

Then on Sunday I was making excuses.

"Haven't got time to do weights today" I said to myself, "Gotta watch the New York Marathon."

Yes, too busy to exercise because I'm too busy sitting on my arse watching other people exercise on the telly. Similar to the entire month of June, when I snapped and foamed at anyone suggesting I go out for a walk. "I'm too busy writing a book about how much I love exercise to do actual exercise!"

But that bloody Paula Radcliffe put me to shame. She popped out a baby just six months ago and there she was leading the race. So I scraped myself off the couch around mile ten and went off to do my weights. I arrived back, muscles buzzing, just in time to see her dazzling victory.

Afterwards I was preening in the mirror, flexing biceps and purring, etc etc. How the bloody hell does that work? They were the same arms as the night before, but now they seemed rather svelte and cool.

So personally, skinniness seems to be just a state of mind. Not much to do with actual state of the body, and greatly influenced by endorphins :)

. . .

Last night I went back to KICKBOXING! Woohoo! I'd done just one class back in January as part of my New Year's Resolutions but completely knackered my dodgy knee again. But this time I wore a knee support, modified moves that I knew would hurt instead of charging ahead and pretending otherwise. I had a bloody brilliant time. Oooh the pain! The violence! The good feeling! Rawk.

This time I was much less wimpy while holding the pads, too. I actually held them up steadily instead of throwing my hands over my head and cowering in fear. I was a bit slow due to the usual Left and Right Confusion - I took too long to make the "L" sign behind the pad so I got kicked in the wrist. Hehehe.

Today my back and arms and abs are sooo sore but the knee feels okay! Touch wood. I will need to be careful but hope to carry on. As much as I try to get excited about gym cardio, the kicking and punching REALLY does it for me. It's something to look forward to and relish, as opposed to merely tolerate.

I also spied some new spinning bikes at the gym, looks like they've started spinning classes. WOOHOO! The Great Indoors suddenly looks quite appealing this winter.

How DietGirl Became Not-On-A-Diet-Girl

You may have noticed that I've not really updated the weight stats on my sidebar in a long long time. I keep meaning to explain why, but all I had to show you is fifteen abandoned drafts. The truth is, everything has changed this year; my attitude to this diet stuff. I needed to pull back from the scales and think long and hard about things. There's been so many incidents that screamed to me that after six and a bit years, I had to change my approach to my health and weight.

It wasn't until the lovely Sarah invited me to write a guest post for Elastic Waist that I actually sat down and put the massive changes in my head down on paper. The post is up today. Thanks all you lovely EW folks for having me over.

Update: I've archived the full post below for posterity.

Loose Skin: DG by Request

So enquiring minds want to know about Loose Skin. What does one look like naked after losing half their body weight? Does my stomach hang down to my knees? Do I resemble a human shar-pei? Will you resemble a human shar-pei if you lose weight?

I completely understand why this issue causes so much worry. At the end of 2000 when I was trying to work up the nerve to Do Something, part of me was reluctant to even start for fear I'd end up looking like my furry friend on the left there.

Of course now I can only answer from my own experience, and I am happy to report I don't look like a roly-poly-dog.

Three Times A Lady

Thanks everyone who kindly left Entry Requests in my last post. I initially wrote that line as a joke but later thought I quite like the idea of you guys bossing me about. And I'd like to be helpful. Maybe it could be a weekly feature? I remember when I was starting out I had so many burning questions and just wanted some honest answers and encouragement, dammit. So leave a comment or send an email if there's anything on your mind - food, exercise, what's with the Freddo obsession, whatever :) And of course I shall link back to the Question Asker's blog, if they have one.

I'll start with the Loose Skin Conundrum as it's such a FAQ. I've touched on it before but I'm getting together some more thoughts and information.

. . .

It's now September and if my shaky maths serves me correctly this means TWO THIRDS of 2007 is gone! But I've knocked off a New Years Resolution ahead of schedule - Try three new sporty activities. First we had kickboxing in January and canoeing in April and now finally... kayaking!

Yesterday I did a wee taster lesson and it was pretty cool. The most traumatic part of the whole experience was donning the wetsuit, surely the least flattering garment on earth. And even more so when you put it on inside out by mistake, and the inside of the suit is bright yellow with black sleeves, so you look like a bloated neoprene bumble bee. I'm just glad my friend pointed this out before we left the change rooms.

I quite enjoyed paddling around the loch in my sexy yellow boat, even when I kept running into the banks and/or spinning round in circles. I like how I don't feel panicky anymore doing sporty things, just willing to have a go and not feeling like my self-esteem is in danger of being demolished at any moment.

There was one Fat Girl Freakout though; albeit a quiet one. There were five of us in the class - me, Gareth, two of our friends Dave and Lynne and their 8-year-old son Alexander. We had to paddle close together so our kayaks were in a row, then hold on to each others boats so we formed a sort of kayak raft. Then we had to take turns jumping out and walking across the raft then back again. One by one they wobbled over, laughing and struggling to keep their balance.

As I watched them clamber over me I couldn't help crunching numbers. Dave and Lynne are a lot shorter than me and a good 20-30 kilos lighter. Alexander would be no more that 20 kilos himself, and that svelte bastard Gareth is about 5 kilos lighter than me too. So I when it was my turn I froze in my kayak thinking stubbornly, "No bloody way."

It's been so long since I've thought about my weight. As in, you know, my heaviness. I haven't felt conscious of being at all weighty. I wasn't scared of falling or drowning or whatnot, but I did feel my Impending Humiliation Detector going off.

Gareth said, "C'mon Marsho!" and the instructor said, "You've come all the way from New Zealand and you're not going to have a go?" and I just said quietly, "Not today thanks."

Blah. Sometimes you feel like you've come so far then sometimes you feel the opposite, and those moments can happen ridiculously close together.

After the kayaking lesson we got the canoe out again for some capsizing practice! Dave, Gareth and I are going to try some bigger water soon and it's really very highly unlikely we'd ever get chucked out, but Dave likes to err on the side of caution. So the three of us spent about an hour throwing each other overboard and snorting up vile loch water and flipping the boat over and trying to haul ourselves back in. It was such a hoot, especially when I accidentally kicked Gareth underwater and he yelped in shock and said, "I thought it was f*cking Jaws!"

I feel like I've found real joy with exercise this year. Real joy in just living in this body, in general. I'm spending far less time in the gym but I'm so much fitter. Yesterday I felt such strength in my arms and shoulders as I pulled myself back into the canoe from deep water. I also felt goofy and messy and drenched and scared but uninhibited. Today my shins are covered in bruises and it feels like they're the bruises I was too tentative and self-conscious to accumulate when I was a kid.

Hail To The Queen

Very quickly and shoddily written first impressions from Chicago!

Chicago - rockin'

Jetlag - turns me into a babbling moron :)

Deep Dish Pizza, slice of, eaten at midnight - will take approximately seven weeks to digest

Meg - hilarious, wonderful, even-better-in-person got me smashed on a margarita!

Jen - warm, funny, oozes intelligence and a great gal for a good chinwag :)

PastaQueen - tall, slinky, gorgeous complexion, witty... she's not The Queen for nufin, people!

Pamela - We meet at last! She is a lovely, lovely woman and I can't wait to chat to her more. I also met her wee son and her Scottish husband and I almost burst into tears o' joy at hearing his accent. Mmm, Scottish accent.

Kate - Another chick who just radiates so much intelligence that it makes you swoon. I was glad to chat to her for a few wee minutes :)

Weetabix and Sarah - I managed not to squeal like a fangirl and even tho I only got to talk to them briefly they were incredibly charming. I hope to stalk them further today!

Wendy - Oh man. Mah hero! She did a great job on the Bodies panel yesterday. I hope I get to chat to her again, and I hope I don't make a dick of myself. I stood up in the panel yesterday and sprouted some incoherent babble and did you know what I thought? "Aww man. I can't believe I sound so stupid in front of WENDY."

Hehe.

Sorry this entry is devoid of all style, wit, substance, editing, etc etc but it's breakfast time and I don't see the point of being at a blogging conference and spending your whole time behind a computer. That's what you do back home in your jammies! Now is the time for pressing the flesh. And eating the free bagels.

A quick word about the Bodies panel yesterday - I felt quite gutted by some things I heard; the thoughts we have about ourselves. I just wanted to crash tackle some people to the floor with a bear hug. Because I used to feel like that and I remember it all too well. And though I will never be a You Go Girlfriend Love Your Body type of person, I have to say how amazing it feels just to enjoying occupying my skin, every lump and bump. I just want to eat up the world with a spoon, the same way I used to do with the Nutella. I wanted to tell people that it is possible to get a different place, even though it's a very loooong and wacky road to get there.

Twin Peaks

I went to Marks and Spencer for yet another bra fitting today. Out of all the bits of my body radically transformed by this epic lard busting journey, it's the boobs that have changed the most. I started with a 50 inch under-bust measurement and now it's a 32 or 34 in whatever cup size the boobs happen to FEEL like fitting into on a particular day. I swear I just get the scaffolding right then POW! They've shrunk some more. Could you please just STAY WHERE YOU ARE, ladies?

I had a very nice Bra Lady today, short and round with enormous boobs that I kept brushing by accident as she helped me into the various garments. She was very patient and kind as I told her I'd lost some more weight and needed yet another new bra. She made me try on FIFTEEN BRAS, people. I never knew there were so many kinds. But she was determined to wrestle the ladies into submission, even though I knew the very first one was going to be the best one.

She kept scurrying back and forth to fetch more bras so I took advantage of being alone with 360-degree full length mirrors. I like just having a good long look at myself. I did a lot of flexing and posing and sucking in my stomach and doing tricep kickbacks so I could see the muscle pop out. And you know what I thought? I likes what I see. I felt proud. I felt strong. I felt foxy. I had never felt so content to be occupying this body of mine. Dare I say I felt... totally done.

Anyway finally Bra Lady agreed with me that the first bra was the best. Then she asked me just how much weight I'd lost and I said "12 and a half stone". So she said "OH MY GOD 12 and a half STONE!?" and I said yes and explained that this was about my 75th bra fitting in the past 6.5 years and she said all sorts of nice things. I thanked her as she handed me the Chosen Bra and guess what she said?

"That should see you through the next couple of stone!"

As I walked away I snorted with laughter but it wasn't until I got to the checkout that I thought, HEY!  The next couple of stone!? Does she think I still need to lose 2 stone? 28 pounds? 13 kilograms?

All the satisfaction and bravado I've been feeling for MONTHS just sort of wilted right there and the ye olde self-doubt rushed in. Do I still need to lose two more stone? Am I hideous? Have I been deluding myself? Are the exercise endorphins giving me false happiness? Am I just settling? Should I not be satisfied with a size 14? Are all these people who say "you look great" really saying "I mean, compared to BEFORE!" Is it wrong for me to think this body is just fine and dandy as it is right now?

I walked into about six different shops and looked at myself, in as many different angles and lighting as possible. I checked in shop windows and car windows and the public loos as well. Just to make sure I really was satisfied.

Affirmative, captain!

I came home and told Gareth all about it. I didn't punch him on the arm, for I wasn't angry, just bemused and a little wounded. It reminded me again that when it comes to lard busting you have to make sure you're impressing yourself. You'll never have a body that everyone in the world wide world is going to be in love with.

And it's funny how no matter cool and confident you think you've become, there's still a few wee chinks in your armour.

I See Red

Ellen and Kek both kindly nominated me for a Thinking Blogger Award which was lovely and surprising, as I haven't been feeling particularly thoughtful lately!

I regretted that stupid Shoe post the minute I posted it, thinking everyone would think I was a horrible angry, violent person who assaults her husband and has no sympathy for the retail workers of the world. It seemed like one hundred torturous years before anyone posted a comment. I said to Gareth, "Do you hear that silence? They all think I'm horrible". Gareth said, "Maybe they're still ASLEEP!"

There are so many frontiers on which I no longer give a shit what people think of me. Like this morning at the gym I was clearly the tallest and blobbiest in the room. In the old days I would have run for the door. But now I didn't care if they thought I was fat, I just hoped they thought I was strong. All my weights were four times heavier than theirs so... rah!

But when it comes to expressing emotions, sometimes I still worry. In particular, anger. Maybe it's because in the old days I always played the UN Peacekeeper, running around trying to keep people happy and calm, striving to diffuse conflict before it happened. I had opinions but I kept them to myself. This started long before I got fat, but it's why I began this blog in the first place, so I could have a faceless place to vent and get upset about my weight without having to bother Real Life people.

It's been 6.5 years now, and this blog is no longer anonymous and you're not strangers. You're friends, family and treasured acquaintances. So I guess there's still a tiny, insecure part of me that worries I am one blog entry away from alienating you all with my Crazy Emotions, eg. my Footwear Freak-out. Honest guv, it was a wee tap on his arm! I'm a pacifist!

When Crankybee and Beck commented that they'd have got angry too, I felt a bit better. I briefly wondered if I was becoming too British and polite? But I just know if I'd gone postal at the shoe shop, I'd have bad shoe karma for the rest of my life. They'd keep my picture behind the counter and hide all the size 8's every time I walked in.

So after nearly 30 years of swallowing my anger I guess I have to figure out how things are going to be. I want to speak up for myself and not be a spineless gimp. I also know that you can't please everyone. I have a brain and I am entitled to an opinion, but it still scares me. What if after all this time there was an obnoxious jerk hiding under my fat?

But just like it's not healthy to bury anger in chocolate, it's probably not the best idea to punch your husband.

Anyway, here are my 5 Bloggers Wot Make Me Think. And quite often cry!

1. I Am That Girl Now
2. Fatslayer
3. Body of Work
4. Susan Wagner (I love the Figure Matters stuff)
5. When I Grow Up

This Thinking Bloggers meme has been going around for awhile so if any of my listed legendary bloggers would like to pass on the baton, you can read all about it here. Thanks again, Ellen and Keksterooni! :)

If You're Happy And You Know It

Sometimes I've been suspicious of happiness. For awhile now I've felt like I was finally at ease with my body, but part of me wouldn't trust that it was real. Anxiety was my default state for so long that it was hard to believe I wasn't deluding myself.

The Mothership and I had one of those honest, difficult conversations on the weekend that start with tears and honking into tissues, but end with hanging up all light and peaceful. We talked about The Past which is something I've been avoiding. When I moved away from Australia I just convinced myself I was moving away from all sorts of things.

She asked about my earliest memories and I told her about one time when I was five years old and starting a new school. She held my hand as we walked up the front path that was flanked by bottlebrush shrubs. My stomach was in knots and my only thought was, "Everybody is going to hate me because I'm fat."

And that's how I've always thought. It didn't stop until two years ago when I did that cracking 5K race, when I finally realised I respected my body for what it could do, instead of being consumed by what it looked like. Since then I've been moving the ol' bod around with ever-shrinking amounts of self-consciousness, without feeling like there were neon signs floating above my head screaming, HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT THIS LARD ARSE.

But like I said, sometimes I was suspicious. I wondered if I was only happy in certain contexts. Like the safety of a marriage. Or the security of an oft-shitty Scottish climate, where I can hide my wobbly bits.

So I've been running through a list of places and situations that used to petrify me, and testing my resolve. How would I feel if I faced them again? Here's a few -

• THE BEACH - Swimsuits, ghostly skin, etc etc. I'm cool. I will never don a bikini but as long as I've got a big hat and SPF 457 I'd be happy. I don't feel the urge to compare myself to more slender chicks anymore. That could be inner peace or just surrendering to old age :P
  
  
• BAKERIES - I'd now feel free to buy whatever the hell I wanted and not fret that folk in the queue were thinking, "She doesn't need that scone". If I wanted ten donuts I'd buy ten donuts, instead of buying four here and three at the place down the street and another three in the next town to disguise my gluttony.
  
  
• PUBLIC SPEAKING - If I had to yap in front of a group of people, I would be shitscared about saying something stupid, as opposed to worrying that my gesticulations were making my belly wobble. I think doing that Sky News thing last year sort of kicked the last of that self-consciousness out of me.
  
  
• POSH SHOPS - Actually I have tested this one. There are still about 10 kazillion boutiques with clothes I couldn't fit a toe into, but I no longer skulk past their windows feeling inferior. I go inside and poke through the racks, just to see what it feels like. I'm also lost my irrational fear of department stores. Sometimes I swan about in Harvey Nicks in Edinburgh. I usually end up in the food hall, buying a can of tuna or something.
  
  
• SPONTANEOUS PHOTOGRAPHY - the lovely Mary posted a photo on Health Nuts of her doing some indoor rockclimbing. She looks totally foxy and dead sporty. I thought, "How would I feel if someone took a snap of me climbing up a wall?". I'd no doubt be red-faced and sweaty and my flab would be dangling at some unflattering angle. But when I see shit pictures of myself these days I groan or LAUGH, instead of destroying the camera with a sledgehammer. I think I look alright. Sometimes the camera catches that, sometimes it suggests the opposite; and that's okay.
  
  
• AUSTRALIA - If we moved back, how would I handle scorching summers, barbeques, swimming pools? Now that my thighs don't bleed if I wear a skirt, I think I'd quite enjoy it. I'd be a helluva lot more worried about getting sunburned than the state of my flab, to be honest :)

I'm in a reflective mood lately so sorry if this entry is rather random and incoherent. But I am happy to conclude that I am genuinely happy with my body. I would pass all my tests. I spent about 22 years in a constant state of paranoia and anxiety which made all those little everyday scenarios so exhausting. Now I think I could put myself in any situation and I'd still be comfortable being me. Even if I was thundering down a catwalk with size zero supermodels. That's their look, and I've got mine. I just wish I could go back to that five-year-old me and say, "Chin up, ginger! 24 years from now you'll think you're great!"

Be Your Own Cheer Squad

I was reading Pasta Queen's excellent "Ask A Loser" entry yesterday and one of her commenters posted a link to a blog called The Skinny Website, wherein an intellectual discussion was taking place about a photograph of Star Jones and her Hideous Arm Flab.

I have no idea who the bloody hell Star Jones is, but Wikipedia tells me she's an American lass on the telly who was once rather large but lost 100lb. It doesn't really matter who she is because this entry is about the arm flab, or rather people's reaction to it.

A few choice (unedited) comments from the Skinny blog:

"ew she is sooooo fugly!! the hanging skin is really discusting"

"she is the example of why people shouldn't get very fat in the first place (put down the cake star). you will never get your old body back without seriuos surgery, that flabby skin is just NASTY"

"Why on earth would she wear a dress like that with her arms flapping in breeze? Disgusting. What’s the point of losing all that weight... when she looks so gross with all the left-over, floppy skin?"

The purpose of the site is to discuss the rise and fall of celebrity weights, and that's fine by me. It's not something I want to be involved with, but it's a big ol' internet with plenty of room for everyone and all their niche interests. And it appears there's many folks wanting to weigh in on burning issues such as, Does Victoria Beckham look skinnier this week, does Geri Halliwell have nice legs or not, and does Rhianna look nice in her new bikini?

No matter how gaunt or gigantic the celeb happens to be, some commenter will say she's too fat, another will say she's too skinny, or her hair is shite or her thighs are too big for her torso or she's just plain fugly. You can't please anyone.

What is my point here? I do have one, I swear. I was looking at the photo of Star Jones' arm flab and all the horrified comments and cacked myself laughing.

"If that's what they think of the Star Arms," I thought, "What would they think of mine?"

You may recall I spent a good few years being completely paranoid about my arms. In the early days I referred to them as giant pillows spewing out of my shoulder sockets. Then they were known as the Boeing 747 arms. Then I was hysterical when I could only find a sleeveless wedding dress in 2005 and even more hysterical when my giant arms were displayed to the nation in Grazia magazine.

But then last year I granted myself the Right to Bare Arms. Five years of weight training had bossed them into far better shape than I ever imagined possible. This year they've got even better. Actually to be honest, the real turning point was when I was standing in the change rooms at Zara in a sleeveless dress, whinging about my mega arms and my sister Rhiannon screamed at me, "Shauna. Get over your fucking arms!"

So I am at peace with them now, you see? I am actually proud of them, how they stayed faithfully by my side, adapting and changing despite those years of abuse.

But back to Star Jones. I realised that although I may be happy with my arms and all their imperfections, there are giant packs of bitches out there that would find them horrific. They would be hacking at them with knives. They would cross the road if they saw me sleeveless on the street.

It drove home to me, yet again, that you have to be your own cheer squad. You need to be your own biggest fan. You have to set your own standards and work hard to impress yourself. It is pointless comparing you and your body and your abilities to someone else's. Someone is always going to be thinner/prettier/fitter. Someone is always going to look at you and think you're hideous. It makes much more sense to compare yourself now to where you've been or where you want to go next.

If I'd seen that Star Jones Arm Flab pic three years ago I would have had the same first thought as I did yesterday, "If that's what they think of the Star Arms, what would they think of mine?". But instead of laughing about it I would have seriously bawled my eyes out. And put on three jackets and Groucho glasses before I dared venture into public.

But these days I have finally reached a point where I honestly do not give a toss about what anyone thinks about my body except for me. I'm happy with how it looks and what it can do in all its dimpled imperfect glory. All the healthy eating and trips to the gym are for my own selfish enjoyment, not to make my body less unpleasant for the masses.

And if anyone started poking fun at my arms now, I would happily tell them to rack off... then flap my big arms and fly far, far away!

Bigger

Today I'm dreaming of puddings. Specifically, that pudding I made at Christmas with the sticky toffee sauce. I took a photo of it at the time and right now it's dished up as my desktop wallpaper (click the pic for closeup). I can see the dense crumbs, I can even make out individual chunks of carrot. There's a pool of toffee sauce and melted ice cream and I wish I could dive right in. You can even see the wee flecks of vanilla in the ice cream! Just staring at the picture is almost as satisfying as the real thing.

Aye, right!

. . .

Someone arrived here today from Google with a very precise search string: Dietgirl, the Amazing Adventures of. Like it was in a catalogue or something! For some demented reason, that comma made my day.

There are a lot of new people coming by lately so why not say hello? I don't bite! I am not that hungry.

. . .

The Mothership sent me a card in the post this week. Inside was an old photo she'd found, taken the day I left Australia. On 27 March 2003 I was about 110 kilos (250lb) and a size 20/22.

I gawked at that photo in complete disbelief, barely recognising myself. Which is strange because at the time I'd felt so tiny, having spend the previous two years busting down from 350lb, as you know.

I remember that final morning in Oz - frantically stuffing things into my suitcase, sneaking online one last time to type goodbye to friends, and The Mothership fretting we'd get SARS in Singapore or shot down over Iraq. Now I look at my eternally chubby cheeks in the photo and think, Dude, if only you knew all the crazy shit that's going to happen once you get on that plane. Woohoo!

Sometimes I have trouble remembering how things used to be. When I came to the UK it was almost like wiping the slate clean. The first two years of lard busting had changed me, but the real changes began once we arrived in Edinburgh. I really had to leave the fat girl insecurities and fears at the airport, coz we had to find a job and somewhere to live quick smart. There was no time to be shy and scared of strangers.

These days I am so used to feeling comfortable in my own skin that I almost forget that it used to be very different, and that it was a real stinking struggle to reach this point.

. . .

I was getting a haircut the other day and my beloved hairdresser was chatting away about Dr Gillian McKeith's new show, in which she gets the fatties to live in her house for eight weeks so she can torture them at closer proximity and examine their poos at any hour she chooses. My hairdresser found out about my weight loss so she often talks about That Sort Of Thing with me.

Another stylist overheard us and asked what she was on about. My gal explained, "Well, Shauna used to be... bigger."

I cracked up laughing but then the inevitable questions came. How much bigger? She's lost 12 stone. No way! I know, you'd never know would you? It's amazing! How did you do it!?

"I dunno really," I mumbled, "I ate less and did a lot of exercise!"

You know, I'm bloody proud of myself for turning my life around and I've never been at all ashamed or contemptuous of my former heavier self. Sometimes I do wonder why on earth I made my past so bloody public. It's really unsettling to have someone staring at you, knowing they're trying to picture an extra 70 kilos on your frame.

Just as when you're morbidly obese you want people to see you as more than your fat, when you're smaller you want people to see you for more than the fat that used to be there.

I know people wouldn't really do that, but it's more of a reminder to myself that there's more to me -- to all of us -- than the size of our pants. Past or present!

O Radiant Coupon

I was sitting on the couch yesterday morning with a cup of tea, unwashed and resplendent in baggy tracksuit pants and an old grey XXL hoodie.

Suddenly Gareth peered at me in a thoughtful manner and said, "You have a real glow today."

"Get out!" I snorted. He isn't normally so... poetic.

"No really, you're looking good! Your coupon is radiant!"

Scottish word of the day, folks: COUPON. It's your face. You've got to pronounce like the Scots do; it's not like those things you clip out of the newspapers for discounts. It sounds like coo'pn.

Anyway, I was chuffed that Gareth said I had a radiant coupon because I have been feeling rather radiant on the inside and it is nice that someone thinks it shows on the outside. I feel calm and focused; quietly determined and productive. I am faithfully following my exercise plan and feel stronger and fitter already. My eating has been the height of wholesomeness. So there.

Yesterday I rode a new beast at the gym called an Arc Trainer. Is anyone familiar with these? I thought it was going to be like a normal old cross-trainer machine but my thighs were burning! The resistance seemed much more gruelling. It almost felt like trudging up a hill and skiing at the same time. Normally I avoid cross trainers because they irritate my knee, but this one didn't seem to be a problem. Score!

And finally, has anyone in the UK seen that godawful new Weight Watchers ad? They have all these people talking about an unseen woman and how FABULOUS she is now that she's lost the pork with the Points. Her husband, her neice, etc. But then they show her beautician, who is wielding a wax strip as she says, "It takes half the time to do her legs now."

ARRRRRGH!

I have to admit, I now shave my legs in half the time it took in 2001. But still, I wonder how many people will see that ad and spring up from the couch, "Righto, that's it! If I can get my legs waxed in half the time then I shall join the Twin Dubyas NOW!". I just hope they realise that just coz your legs are smaller doesn't mean the Waxtress will charge you any less.

Water Log

The scales went down a couple of pounds this week. I'm back on track with food and exercise. Hurrah!  But I won't rejoice too much until I am back in the 70s. Bear with me!

. . .

Before I crack on with these swimming lessons, I feel I must explain why I have such Big Issues with the wet stuff. I worry people may be thinking, What's the big bloody deal? It's a hole in the ground filled with water. Just get back in there!

So here is some context for my hysteria.

Swimming has always been the personification of Suffering and Humiliation. It's all my fat girl fears and insecurities tied up in a neat little package. Just the merest whiff of lycra and decades of traumatic memories come flooding back!

It's hard to avoid the water growing up in Australia. Kids + scorching summers = pools. My problems really began in primary school, where it seemed we did nothing but swim. We had swimming lessons every Monday during February and March, then every day for the last two school weeks of December. So I'd start building up my anxiety around October every year.

I can still remember the feeling of dread as the schoolbus headed for the pool, the smell of zinc cream making me nauseous. It's not that I was afraid of the water - I loved the actual feeling of being in there. And it's not that I couldn't swim - I was extremely slow but I could stay afloat. I just had no confidence. I can't remember a time when I didn't feel hyper-aware of my body and not think that I was fat and hideous. Looking back at old photos, I don't think I actually was particularly fat or hideous in primary school, but at the time the thought of wrapping my pudgy bod in a swimsuit was a nightmare. I felt so exposed.

My heart would race every minute of the lessons, wondering what they'd make us do next. I didn't want to jump into the pool because I thought I'd make a bigger splash than my friends. I didn't want to stand on the blocks because it felt like the eyes of everyone in the pool --- even those 50 metres away in the shallow end, even those UNDERWATER -- were zoomed in on my freakishness. I was pretty neurotic for a nine-year-old.

Because I was so wound up with fear and self-consciousness, I was a rubbish swimmer. I couldn't dive for shit, for instance. I remember different teachers trying to teach me and I just couldn't grasp the concept. I'd bellyflop every time. The worst teaching "method" was when I had to stand on the block and my teacher would wrap his hands around my ankles then sort of fling me in, forcing me into the correct hands-first feet-last position. It was mortifying. Over twenty years later I still can't stand by the edge of a pool without feeling like there's a big pair of hands clamped around my ankles.

And then there was the Character Building incident when I joined the local swimming club and had to be fished out of the water by the lifeguard in my freestyle race because I just couldn't make it.

And then there was that time when my teacher made me jump off the big diving board. I didn't wanna jump off the big diving board! It wasn't coz I was scared of heights. Again, it was coz I didn't want to elevate my fat body to where everyone would stare at me. And it wasn't my imagination either. Because, when my teacher made me climb that ladder and I stood trembling at the edge of the board, everyone was staring at me. Particularly when I froze there for so long, staring down into the blue abyss, that the pool owner called out over the booming loudspeaker, C'mon Shauna, if you jump off your mum will buy you a packet of chips!

Cue raucous laughter from the crowd.

I distinctly remember glaring down at them and thinking, "Oh great. Now if I jump off everyone's going to think I only did it FOR THE CHIPS, since I'm such a fatty boombah!"

In the end I jumped. I don't remember if I got the chips, but I've never trod the boards since!

The worst part of that story that my swimming teacher just so happened to be MY MOTHER. She taught at my school at the time. I periodically remind her of this incident and the resulting emotional scars, but I have to say that over twenty years later I am finally letting go and can almost see why everyone else thinks it was so bloody funny.

By the time I got to high school, my hatred of swimming was cemented. I tried to avoid swimming carnivals and pool parties for the next six years, dreaming up all manner of elaborate excuses. I got brave one time after graduation when I was on holiday with my school mates. We were staying a hotel with a rooftop pool and spa. They spent a whole hour trying to persuade me to come for a dip, and I only relented because by that time the sun had set so I'd be less visible!

I remember my size 16 swimsuit, navy and white checks. It was at least two sizes too small, so tight that the squares were stretched and distorted across my enormous butt like chessboard roadkill. But I also remember almost crying from the pure bloody joy of being in the water after so many years. I'd missed that soothing coolness. I momentarily forgot about my fat and my Burning Hatred of Swimming and just relished the moment.

But after that came university, and three busy years of accumulating a size 26 physique.

Finally in 2001 when the Lard Busting began, I made a couple of attempts at returning to the water. The first time was hilarious because I realised I'd forgotten how to swim properly. I couldn't remember how to do the breathing so I just splashed around for awhile, again surpised at how much I loved being in the water.

We went back a few weeks later, and I'm not sure I ever wrote about it as I was so embarrassed. The pool car park was extremely busy when we arrived. All these kiddies with floaties and noodles and kickboards were streaming out of cars. Tall sporty types with swimming caps strolled purposefully to the entrance. I completely freaked out and told my sister there was no way I going inside, not with this body in these size 24 old lady bathers. I got back in the car and bawled all the way home.

Since then there's only been the Blue Lagoon and a brief dip at the hotel pool in Lisbon this year. But as I said recently, it's high time to kiss these old hangups goodbye. I'll be thirty next year, so it's sad to still be clinging to the fears of a nine-year-old. I've had a good start by conquering my fears of running and cycling, but I know the biggest challenge is the pool.

Thank you if you made it this far! I just had to let it all out and have a good laugh at myself. Next entry I'll let you how I got on with my first lesson.

The Wiggle

I lost a pound this week. A pound! I know it's just a wee pound, but a pound off when I'd been in London? Bonus. Normally I come back with a few extras after each visit, so to actually lose one just made my day.

This month continues to be a challenging bastard. Greasy food abounds. First there was the Wickerman Festival, then London, now this weekend we're off up north again to do some exploring while it's still summer. We're staying in B&Bs which of course means Full Scottish Breakfasts so I will have to tread carefully.

. . .

Have you ever had a moment where your body takes you by surprise?

Last week I was in Edinburgh, walking down Princes Street quite happily when I caught my reflection in a shop window. I was utterly gobsmacked by my butt in motion, and not in a good way.

It just seemed to have a life of its own. Wobbly. Wriggly. Wild. Like two animated watermelons wrestling in a sack.

I admit to some lower body paranoia lately, since I've been unable to do LB  weights or significant cardio for three months while I'm trying to heal my knee injury. Before that I'd been so pleased with how my butt and traditionally ginormous thighs were finally shrinking - anyone that's done running and/or spinning for a sustained period will attest to how dramatically it can shape these areas. As the months have worn on I just feel like it's all slipping away into a blubbery mess. So seeing my jolly rear end in the window just seemed to confirm my fears.

But I pressed on, as I had a train to catch. That was when a young man approached me. You cannot walk down Princes Street without being accosted. I'd already given 10p to a beggar, signed an Oxfam petition and declined to take a survey. The young man had a bagful of books. I think he was one of those Hare Krishnas. I'd been suckered into buying their goods before, never again!

"Why hello there Miss, where are you off to today?"

"Ahhblahmmmffhga, mmmmblahh," I replied. You know, when you wave your hand dismissively and keep walking straight ahead while you do that polite mumbling thing, trying convey your lack of interest without apeparing to be too rude, because even when someone's annoying you, you don't want to them to think you're an asshole.

"Hey," he skipped alongside me, "Are you going somewhere interesting? You must be going somewhere interesting."

"Not really!"

"Well you look like you're going somewhere interesting..." he yelled after me as I folded into the crowd, "... by the way you're walking! There's a real wiggle in your walk!"

And that was when I went to the train station and bought the bag of Hula Hoops mentioned in the last entry. Wiggle in my walk? I fumed as I munched, That bastard!

I ranted to Gareth about it when I got home, declaring that my Lower Body Paranoia had been confirmed by both a shop window AND a Hare Krishna.

But Gareth thought it sounded complimentary. We had a bit of a semantic debate. Apparently WIGGLE is nice; if he'd said there was a WOBBLE in my walk I'd have reason to worry. Well I dunno, there's only three letters difference into those words, and the same amount of syllables.

Either way, I thought it rather serendipitious that a flyer from a local gym had arrived in the mail that day with a bargain special offer. I'd never renewed my membership at the council gym since I can't do any of the classes right now and the gym bit is always packed with stinky blokes. So the next day I went and signed up at this teeny tiny ladies only gym. Not much in the way of classes but decent cardio equipment and weights. I've missed having a gym to go to for a change of scenery, it's been just me and Cathe for the past few months. Hopefully I can start building up my fitness again and get working on that gelatinous butt. Woohoo!

Hope everyone has a lovely weekend!

Grin and Bare

So it's summertime up here and that means... Bare Arms!

Why are we so obsessed about arms? I get more reader emails asking about the state of my arms than any other body part.

Unveiling my arms to the world has caused me great trauma for over fifteen years. They've gone from chubby, to chunky, to two gigantic overstuffed pillows, then down to gigantic with a hint of bicep, to their current state of Really Quite Toned with some irritating flibflab underneath. But no matter what their condition, I've still managed to freak out about them.

When I was in Lisbon back in March, I tried on a sleeveless dress in Zara. Perhaps being in a foreign country made me feel reckless. I mean sleeveless! Dress! In Zara? Zara is the domain of the skinny people, and furthermore I don't do dresses, especially not sleeveless ones. My wedding dress was sleeveless out of sheer desperation.

So I managed to stuff myself into the Zara frock, and called my sister over to inspect. I did a wee twirl and she expressed her approval.

Then I peered more closely in the mirror. "Uh oh. No. I can't buy this."

"Why not?"

"My arms! Look at my GIGANTOR ARMS!"

"You don't have giantor arms."

"I can't wear this in public!"

My sister narrowed her eyes and spoke slowly and clearly. "Shauna. Get over your fucking arms!"

So I bought the frock. She was right, I do need to get over my arms. I'm still trying to work up the nerve (and suitable weather) to ponce it around in public.

Living in Britain has been a joy because for most of the year, you can completely forget you even have arms. Safely disguised beneath shirts and sweaters and coats, no one has to know the true picture, not even yourself. So it was a surprise to me this season to cast off all my layers and discover my arms are in quite good shape. I've worked hard on my upper body this year, and I'm really happy with the definition in my shoulders and biceps and whatever that area is called sorta above the bicep. Yes, they are still big arms and there is that sort of "hangy bit" on the underside of my arm, but it's not loose skin so much as fat that has yet to shift. For someone who used to be over 350lb, I am well pleased.

It's hard to know how to reply to these Arm Emails. What I think are great arms may look like horrible arms to you. Example: for the first time ever, I'm wearing little cap-sleeved t-shirts out in public. While I'm not in a hurry to flag down taxis or gesticulate wildly, I'm happy to flash that much arm. Yet I swear, and I may well be paranoid, I reckon I've caught people looking at them and thinking, Ew, them's some hefty limbs!

All I can tell ya is, don't worry about your arms. Just treat them well and lift some heavy objects as soon as you can, and they'll be alright. I have spent too many summers sweating in long-sleeved tops due to Arm Paranoia, thinking they deserved to be hidden unless they were perfectly toned and willowy. Well, screw that! Sure, I have some flab and stretchmarks but I also have some nice muscles.

Here's an example of wildly differing opinions of what makes a Nice Arm.

In London last week my sister and I had a session with an image consultant, in an attempt to rectify my wardrobe ineptitude. I'll write more on this later, but basically a very lovely woman helps you discover what colours and clothes suit your body shape and personality. It was fantastic, but we had to strip down to our bras and undies! I was not expecting this, as illustrated by my tatty bra and size 20 undies that came over my navel - Gareth says they're so big they should be sent to Dafur to be used as emergency refugee accommodation.

But we had to strip to have our measurements taken, proportions calculated, and just a proper good look at our true body shapes. I momentarily forgot my resolve to Get Over My Arms, flipped into Fat Girl Panic, and raved on about how my weight loss has left me with hideous limbs. The Styles Woman looked at me for a long moment, then replied in her typical warm and kindly manner, "Have you thought of perhaps doing a few exercises for them? That might tone them up."

I gave a strangled half-sob half-cackle and said, "I have been exercising them! For five years! This is as good as it gets!"

A couple of days later I had my long-awaited NHS physiotherapy appointment, finally having my dodgy shoulder and neck assessed. This guy thinks it's a nerve thing as opposed to a muscular thing, with my dodgy posture being the culprit. I got more exercises to do and it's feeling a bit better already. Anyway, as I left he told me to keep up the upper body weights. "You have good biceps but you just need a little more work on shoulders to help your posture."

Well of course I ignored his but and just heard the good biceps! How nice of someone to even notice their existence, in spite of the flab beneath!

So in the space of two days my arms had been seen both as Flabby Horror Story and Vaguely Sporty. These episodes just proved to me again that my arm paranoia is ridiculous. Who's to say what's a good arm and what ain't? So I can just chuckle at the Style Woman's well-meaning suggestion, and instead be rapt that the Physio dude noticed that I actually have been working out, dammit.

I Want Something's Flesh!

Do you think I need some red meat?

Saturday night I had a dream, in which I arrived home from work, starving as usual. I went to the fridge looking for the half hamburger I'd put there for safekeeping. I love cold burgers. If I go to a takeaway in Oz or an overpriced gourmet burger joint in Britain, I like to take half my burger home in a doggy bag, just so I can eat it the next day. A night in the fridge gives the bun and the salad and the meat time to mingle so deliciously...

But alas! My dream burger was not in the fridge!

I stormed into the living room where my father and his Third Wife sat. "Alright you two, what have you done with my burger?"

"What burger?" said my father. Third Wife said nothing as she doesn't speak English.

"The burger I had in the fridge! For me to eat when I got home from work! That I had been looking forward to ALL DAY LONG!"

"Oh that burger. I threw it in the bin, I didn't think you'd want it."

"WELL I DID."

"Oh."

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"

I woke up angry, and craving burgers.

Sunday night I dreamed I was in Goulburn visiting the Mothership and she went downtown to get us takeaway for dinner. She came back with a fat parcel of chips under her arm.

"Sooo, where are you hiding my hamburger?"

"I didn't know you wanted one!"

"You asked me what I wanted, and I said I wanted a burger. I said please!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes I'm sure!"

"Oh. Well I have some steamed fish in the kitchen."

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"

Again I woke up mad as hell and craving meat.

Two burger dreams is coincidence, but if I have a third then it's a definite pattern! I see a visit to Wannaburger in my near future.

. . .

I hope I didn't offend any Maintainers with my last post! I do realise that the journey doesn't end at goal, that maintenance is extremely difficult, and most of all that I won't be cast out of the fatblogosphere when I reach my goal weight. I just had a funny image in my head of being physically removed - my slightly lighter body being hoisted out of town by chanting crowds with flaming torches. Ceremonially banished!

I neglected to mention the biggest reason for my not racing to the so-called finish line - Because I am happy. I look in the mirror and I like what I see. There's no loathing anymore, just quiet pride and acceptance. I feel strong, fit and healthy.

Maybe because I used to be so flamingly huge my expectations are lower. Maybe if someone else occupied my body they'd feel far from satisified. But I like what I see now and sometimes it's hard to muster any urgency to lose another 6.9 kilos just because the charts say I need to. Some might call that complacency or laziness, and you might take one look at me and say, "But you're still a pork!". Yet I believe losing these remaining kilos (and possibly dropping another size) is a purely cosmetic thing.

To be happy to just be myself, after sooo many wasted years of gloom, feels like I've already won the prize.

But dudes! Never fear. I will still finish the task on paper. Just so I can say I did it. Just so for once in my life, I can finish something I started.

I am motivated. I am pumping myself up for action as we speak, Lleyton Hewitt style. C'MONNNNNNN!

. . .

All that said, I've been more focused on improving my fitness and muscles than making the numbers go down. I just completed my most BLOODY BRILLIANT week of exercise all year. I had made a lofty NY resolution to do 3 x cardio, 3 x strength plus abs and flexibility each week, but this is the first week I've actually done it all properly, without shortcuts. There was even extra cardio. I feel all stretched out, sporty and smug.

Wednesday is Rest Day, so tonight I'll sit on my arse and watch The Hairy Bikers. Woohoo!

. . .

Wednesday is also Weigh Day - I maintained this week, which follows my paltry 0.5lb loss the week before. This Dress Rehearsal for Maintenance is getting tiresome! :P