The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Twas The Night Before Christmas Party

Time for the Annual Christmas Party Eve Clothes Shopping Rant! 

I was going to wear the same skanky purple Going Out Top I've worn for all occasions this past year but it's so grandmotherly and sensible I thought I'd hunt down something groovier. Admittedly hitting the shops the night before the party was a crap strategy; all the ho ho ho and jingle jangling in the shopping centre made me cranky after ten minutes and I soon gave up.

This year's gripe: why the bloody hell why are they putting elastic on the bottom of Going Out Tops?

I thought I'd hit the jackpot with a slinky gold number. I pulled it over my head and felt a rush of hope as it draped over my sturdy shoulders, hugged the boobs and flattered the belly. But then it went quite literally pear-shaped because the top kept on going, all the way to mid-thigh, engulfing my butt... then finished with an elasticated hem. It strangled my thighs like a lasso, making the top billow out between boob and thigh so I resembled a shimmering, arseless Christmas bauble.

Why would I want a lasso round my thighs? I know where my thighs are!

. . .

A lovely former colleague visited us today along with her five-month-old twin girls. I held one for two minutes and didn't break it.

"Are you sniffing her head?" Linda asked.

"Yes! It smells like babies."

"What did you think it would smell like? Coffee?"

For the first time in my life I felt a very faint twinge that babies might not be the most revolting idea in the world. Very very faint, mind you.

I raised the possibility with Gareth this evening.

"Nah," he said. "Too much work."

"But we could raise them under a fascist regime like The Mothership did. It would be the total opposite of too much work. Teach them to do dishes and weed gardens as soon as they can lift their own heads. You'll never do chores again!"

"You can't do fascist regimes with kids these days! They just get resentful and steal all your money then stab you in your sleep."

. . .

Hello to anyone who found their way here from People magazine! Just to explain in case you came looking for super duper speedy weight loss tips, there was a wee typo in their review of the Dietgirl book - the lard-busting took around 333 weeks, not 33. Hehe.

Death to Tapered Jeans

Jeans of Yesteryear meet Jeans of Today:

The difference didn't look half as dramatic as I'd thought when I compared them on the hanger, but I reckon some of that has to do with the new ones being a generous bootleg cut and the old ones being of the FUGLY AS SIN tapered-leg variety. Who invented the tapered leg and why haven't they been drowned in a bucket yet? One pair is size 26, the other size 14 but they're the exact same size round the ankles.

Can I have a seven-years-too-late rant about these godawful jeans? Thanks very bloody much, Fat Jeans Designer, for the ankle-strangling design that made me feel like a beach ball on legs. Thanks very much for the ridiculously long and saggy crotch - as though you thought I'd want room to carry an emergency picnic.

(Do plus size jeans come in more flattering shapes these days? Is the taper dead and buried?)

During my lard-busting I couldn't wait for the day when I could stroll into a shop and waltz away with a pair of jeans without elastic or trauma. Of course now I realise that jeans shopping is a bastard no matter what your size. A friend persuaded me to try on skinny jeans recently. HA! Despite going a size bigger I couldn't get them past mid-calf. I'm grateful for all the wide-leg styles out at the moment, because the wider thighs fit like regular on me, hehe.

(This post was inspired by Mrs Lard playing Russian dolls with her array of old jeans)

UPDATE: The taper is alive and well, my friends. Be afraid!

Ye Olde Fat Shoppe

Like many I have traumatic tales of shopping for plus size clothes. The frustration, the frumpiness, the flammable fabrics. Then recently at the Yorkshire Air Museum I spotted this advertisement from a WWII newspaper and realised we have come a long way. If a 1940s larger lass heard me moaning about my tapered jeans and shirts with beards she'd be rolling her eyes, "You think you've got it bad, missy? Why, back in MY day all I had was a Charmingly Colourful OUTSIZE FROCK!"

Gracefully draped style, designed to give soft slimming lines to the full figure. In brightly coloured screen print effect Rayon Crepe in various shades. 46, 48 & 50 ins. hips.

It looks like the basic idea was that one drew attention away from the hips with gigantic shoulders, upon which one could have landed a Lancaster Bomber.

The model doesn't seem particularly outsized. I guess it's only been in recent times that we've progressed to actual plus size people modelling plus size clothing, so it might have been too radical to sketch a proper plus size chick. Or maybe they had to ration their pencil strokes since there was a WAR on, don't you know.

They also very thoughtfully catered beyond 50 inches: Others equally attractive in Prints up to 54 ins. Also Rayon Frocks, 46 to 60 ins.

What do you think of the plus size clothes of today? Are they getting any better? I must admit I had a few "Back In My Day" moments when I first arrived in the UK in 2003 - I nearly wept in an Evans store when I saw jeans without stupid sequins and costume jewellery that actually got around my wrists and fingers. And then I found Monsoon stocking up to size 22, so I could buy things off the same rack as my slip of a sister (except I didn't coz it was so bloody expensive). I found three different shops with non-frumpy Going Out Tops. I was excited by the options, but part of me wanted to shout at the younguns, YOU KIDS! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE! I didn't have no fancy wrap dress! All I had were black trousers and man shirts!

But five years on, from what I've read in emails and blogs, it seems that overall both the clothes and the shopping experience are still prone to extreme suckiness. It's not all Charmingly Colourful Rayon but there is still some ways to go - as best illustrated by Katy's horrific experience in New York.

. . .

I had eggs for breakfast on Saturday, of the Green & Blacks miniature soft-centred persuasion. Very tasty and no doubt top quality fuel for the eight-mile training walk that followed... but nothing can beat gnashing the ears off a good old Aussie Red Tulip bunny. Will somebody scoff one on my behalf and recount every filthy detail in the comments!? Happy Easter, comrades.   

One Size Fits All

I was in TK Maxx the other day. I know some people worship the place, but how come every time I rifle through those bulging racks it's all lime green capris and Michael Jackson leather jackets? I was, however, very tempted by the glorious range of exercise gear. Check out these Sauna Exercise Suits.

It says on the box:

"Shed water weight effortlessly! Wear it while you work, play or exercise. Body heat is sealed in to help muscles stay warm and keep you in top condition. Easy to carry and store. Hand washable. Elasticized - One size fits all."

Elastic at the waist AND neck... now that is sexy. Kind of wish I'd bought one now; I feel all desperate and lardy after two weeks without exercise.

I went to the doctor yesterday and I've got some antibiotics. Or andybiodics, which is how Dr G alleges I pronounce it. The ear pain has subsided but I still can't hear a bloody thing. 

My doctor has a set of scales sitting right beside the desk. Why do doctors always have to put the scales, right there? I still have a residual fear that no matter how ill or injured I feel, they're going to oh so casually ask me about my weight. I don't see a doctor very often, but the last few times - shoulder injury, dodgy knee, Sinus of Doom - I held my breath waiting for them to say, "I'll just get you to hop on the scales." Even yesterday when she stuck the ear-thingy into my ear and declared it severely inflamed I sighed with relief.

When I was seriously obese I avoided doctors because of that fear of not being taken seriously; that any ailment would be blamed on my size. And you know what? Part of me actually believed that was true. Part of me didn't want to bother the busy doctors with my bulky presence. The only time I saw a doctor was in 1999, at The Mothership's insistence, when she figured out about the depression. I was desperate to reach out but somehow felt it was my own lardy fault that I felt so shit; that somehow I deserved it.

I remember the doctor didn't mention my weight. She just said she'd help me get help. I felt relieved, but I also like I'd gotten away with something.

She sent me off for some blood tests too, since I'd been feeling so run down. And this is the only real Fat Girl Horror Story I have. I was such a hermit at my largest, so I never had an opportunity to break chairs or to be yelled at by a carful of teenagers. All I have is a trip to a nurse for blood tests and they couldn't find a vein. They wrapped my arm in the extra large cuff and had me squeeze my fist harder and harder. Then they tried the other arm. On and on it went for half an hour. The nurses frowned and clucked and said don't worry dear, but I almost felt too numb to feel the humiliation. There was numbness and this low, rumbling anger directed at myself.

They told me to come back tomorrow to try again, and to have a really hot shower beforehand. And they managed to find the tiniest wee speck of blue that time. The tests came back perfectly healthy. I was always good on paper: perfect blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar. No bad knees.

I'm really wandering all over the place tonight, aren't I? I guess it still scares me how much I used to hate myself. I read lots of fat chicks on the internet, all loud and proud and confident and and unapologetic and I feel jealous and ashamed that I wasn't like that. I just hid from the world and wished I could rip my flesh off. But maybe half the reason I keep writing is just in case there is anyone out there that ever felt like I did. To show that is possible to crawl away from that feeling, even if it takes an age. Even if you still second guess yourself at the doctor's surgery and sometimes find it hard to believe the feelgood is for real.

Helicopter Arms

Geekgasms ahoy! Thanks to my pal Claire I've found a new obsession - MapMyWalk.com. I can plot all my routes on the map thingy, log training walks and other activities, then calculate distances and calories burned. There's calendars and graphs and I can track all sorts of wacky information like daily mood, weather and quality of sleep. I can enter all my SHOES and keep track of how many miles each pair plods. I already use a blog and a spreadsheet and WLR and a paper diary, but really... you can never have too many statistics.

I also like to stalk websites written by redheads, because it's nice to read about accomplished redheads making their way in the world. If you believed what you saw on the television, all we do is go around stabbing people or generally being calculating and eeeevil. My current favourite is What I Wore Today by Kasmira in Cincinnati. As the name suggests, she writes about what she wears. She has a brilliant sense of style and colour, not to mention lovely legs. I bet if you handed her a piece of string, a paper clip and a banana peel she could fashion some killer accessories in a jiffy. Ginger power!

I also love how she looks so comfy and relaxed in her clothes, like she has fun getting dressed every day. I want to be like that! I want to have more fun with clothes and this new body of mine. It's not even new anymore - I've been a size 14 for almost two years now. But I'm not always the best at judging how much space I take up. I absentmindedly take 16s and 18s into change rooms; I still have a tendency to walk with my arms flying out like a helicopter, as if they're resting against a much wider body. A journalist asked me recently, "Do you go WILD with new clothes now?" and I said, "What do you mean?" and she said, "Isn't that what people do when they lose a crazy amount of weight?" and I thought, Ohh! Why haven't I done that?

I've been more advanced this past year, trying a few frocks and stuff but it's all a bit dull. I'll get dressed up for a night out but feel like a dowdy granny as soon as I meet my pals, who always seem colourful and adventurous. How do they do that? My most exciting purchase has been my boots which have a current cost per wear of £50, coz I'm too chicken/lazy to think of something to wear with them. I feel like an imposter when I'm clip-clopping around, like someone is going to yell, "HEY lardy, who do you think you are in them boots?"

Are there any other losers out there who struggle to dress their new bods? Or are you all going for gold doon the shops?

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

Rise and Shine

How did it get to be Annual Office Christmas Party Freak Out Day again so soon? [see 2005, 2006]

This is my fifth Scottish Christmas, and the first one I've not been working at the same place. I miss my old colleagues rather pathetically, but I think I'll have a good time with the new mob. They're all girls, so I might need to curb my swearing.

And behold - a Christmas miracle - for the first time ever, I've not spent this Night Before Party running up and down Princes Street in a frenzy, trying to find something to wear! This year I had actual options! Already there! In my wardrobe! With accessories!

So I've got some nice dark jeans from Topshop, that I laugh maniacally when I put on because I just can't believe I fit into them. And a nice slinky green top that my sister found for me and I immediately dismissed. "Can't wear that! It's satiny! It's shiny! That neckline will make me look boxy!" but I tried it on and was proved wrong.

I still... STILL... after all this time, have all these notions of what I am allowed to wear, where I am permitted to shop; forbidden fabrics. I was always told if you lost a shitload of weight you would try on clothes in a frenzy, bursting into tears at your newfound svelteness. But I still break into a sweat at the sight of a coathanger.

. . .

I did an aerobics class at 6AM today. I should have noticed immediately that all was not right when I saw the pink dumbells. Then the instructor looked at me funny when I told her I couldn't start until I squooshed on some deoderant, because I'd just got out of bed and was worried I was whiffy. Then as we began some lunges, I realised I was wearing my pyjamas. Then there was a very elderly man in front of me, wearing a straw boater hat and using his cane as a support as he cranked out some surprisingly deep squats.

And then the alarm started shrieking, and I realised that I'd been attending the aerobics class OF DREAMLAND, and once again I'd hit snooze instead of vaulting out bed for morning exercise. Arrgh!

I did manage it on Monday though! An hour of yoga. I was going to do weights but my stomach was just not up to it. I don't mind morning cardio but weights is just something I prefer when the sun goes down. The yoga was bloody awful! My body creaked and whined through the whole program, but that may have more to do with lack of recent yoga than the morning thing. Mary told me to give a proper go for a month, so I will, because it was nice to feel smug all day long.

. . .

You people are a hoot! I'm loving these Scavenger Hunt entries... I bow down to your hilariousness and creativity. There have been some brilliant interpretations of Elvis - canine and supine. And an edible bald man. And plain yogurt + toga = Greek Yogurt! See, you don't need to scavenge the real thing... imagination rules! You don't even need a camera, as illustrated by Donna. I'm not the bossy type, I promise :)

Bootylicious

I got the knee-high boots!

Well I don't got them yet, exactly (me good English speak). But they've been ordered!

Remember I mentioned Duo Boots a wee while ago, purveyors of boots for all sizes? I went to their new Fitting Room in Edinburgh on the weekend. The shop is a nice oasis from the bustling high street. It's bright and airy with all the shoes and boots along the walls. Immediately you are greeted by a Boot Wench (not official job title) who sits you down on a fancy couch and measures your gargantuan calves at their widest point. Then you tell her which styles you like and she traipses up and down the stairs fetching boxes.

They even treat you tenderly if you're a Boot Amateur. I stuck my foot in, yoinked at the zip and wailed, "It doesn't fit! I can't belieeeeve I'm too big for your boots!" But the Boot Wench explained patiently that if I just stretched out my leg, even braced it against her if I needed to, then it would zip up just fine. OH.

I'll never be a Girl Whose Legs Get Checked Out kind of girl. I've got big legs and they don't ever seem to get smaller, just more... solid (trouser shopping is a nightmare). But I have to admit when I saw my sturdy calves wrapped in black leather I grinned and I grinned and I grinned. Oh baby. My posture changed instantly. I just felt... mrrrowr. It was like until that moment it never really occurred to me that I AM WOMAN!

Lately I've worried a little that I might be alienating you all with my random blogging - up and down like a yoyo, with moments of great lunacy and cheese. But would you mind if I be a cheesy loon just one more time? Don't run away!

Anyway. There I was gawking and grinning in the mirror with my hand on my hip and my hip at a jaunty, hello boys angle when I had a sudden flashback.

I was nineteen and I was at Big W in Bathurst. Big W is like a poor man's Target, if you're not from Australia. I was in my second year of university and I'd outgrown all my shirts. It had taken me months to admit it - I'd started wearing the shirt unbuttoned with a t-shirt underneath, but then I couldn't get my arms into the sleeves. It was a Thursday night, late-night shopping so there'd be less witnesses. My friends were all out at the university bar, I'd made yet another bullshit excuse for not tagging along. I was in the men's section looking at flannel shirts, trying to find the one with the most X's on the label. I remember putting on a red shirt and thinking I looked like a giant lumberjack. But I didn't feel upset or angry or even, gee whizz I wish I could wear something smaller and sexier. I just felt numb and empty and quietly matter-of-fact that this was my life and this was what I had to wear and that was the way it was going to be. I bought the shirt then stopped at the supermarket for a 4 litre tub of Home Brand Ice Cream (student budget).

And now eleven years later here I was with impossible leather boots and a sudden desire to luxuriate in having this body; to dress it up nicely, instead of just pretending it didn't exist.

The Boot Wench ordered my boots in brown (the ginger's friend). They normally only take a week but mine were completely out of stock so it will be 4-6 weeks. Wah! I guess they have to hunt down some more cows to stitch together to get around my mega pins. In the meantime I want to try on every skirt and frock in the universe.

The best part of the Boot Experience was watching all the other chicks trying on boots. Duo don't just do boots for big calves, they do narrow ones too. Basically the shop was filled with boot refugees of all shapes and sizes. All the sneakered masses who'd been cruelly turned away by so-called Normal Retailers for having legs too skinny, wide or muscley. I could have sat there all day watching them zip up their boots and squeaking with joy. The air was filled with elated murmurs, I've never fit into boots in my life. I can't believe it. Look at meeee. Holy shit I'm so hott! One petite woman posed triumphantly in front of the mirror, winked, slapped her own arse and said, "YEE HAH!"

Who knew there were so many variations of lady legs out there, so many that had never known the soft caress of dead bovine. As someone who postponed her boot debut for so many years, I say to everyone out there... don't wait! Whether it's boots or lacy knickers or va-va-voom frock. Let's rock what we got, right now.

The Great Wall

I've spent the past two evenings stripping ancient wallpaper in our hallway and it's been quite exhilarating. I know I'm nearly 30 and definitely old enough to legitimately do such things to a dwelling, but DIY still feels like reckless vandalism. I kept waiting for the Mothership to jump out of the cupboard and say, "What do you think you're doing, young lady!?"

All those hours of steaming and scraping gave me a lot of time to ponder in a Calorie Flabshaw sort of way how wallpaper stripping is a great metaphor for weight loss. I reckon you can turn almost anything into a crappy lard-busting metaphor - chickens, bananas, sunglasses, making risotto (feel free to raise a challenge) - but wallpaper removal is particularly good and cheesy.

Why Stripping Wallpaper Is Like Weight Loss

• If you want good results, you're going to have to get hot and sweaty
• You start out thinking you'll blast it off quickly and neatly but it ends up taking a bazillion times longer
• At first it's almost fun... but soon novelty is replaced by NEVER-ENDING TEDIUM and you realise you're going to have do the same thing over and over and over and OVER again
• When things get dull, you look for shortcuts and/or alternative methods until you eventually admit that only time and hard work will do
• Sometimes you scrape away for ages and ages and the wallpaper won't budge, then just when you least expect it a great big chunk comes off at once!
• Things can look grim and messy when you're in the middle of it but if you persist it will come together eventually

At least I hope that one is true. Hmm...

. . .

In other news, I'm daydreaming about boots. Knee high ones to wear with frocks and skirts. I've never worn 'em before and I vow at the start of every Scottish winter, "THIS YEAR SHALL BE THE YEAR OF BOOTS!" But every year I talk myself out it, saying I needed to get smaller legs first. Just one more year! Then you will be Boot Worthy!

Well this will be my FIFTH Scottish winter and I say to hell with all that postponing. My legs are plenty bootworthy right now. They always have been, darnit. They are sturdy legs, and I'll no doubt need wide fit ones from Duo or similar to accomodate my calves. But they're strong and healthy, they've faithfully lugged me around through thick and less thick and I'm over this Waiting For A Skinny Day mentality. I'll save my pennies and hopefully I'll be clomping around town by Christmas. Woohoo!

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.

Crabbit

Petty anger is the worst form of anger. I've talked a bit this year about dealing with stress, as in mega angst and catastrophe, and learning to feel those feelings instead of stuffing your face. But sometimes I think the minor, everyday annoyances are the hardest to cope with.

I bought some sandals on the weekend, and was overjoyed to have solved my endless Summer Shoe Dilemma. I took them home and put them on while watching the qualifying for the Italian MotoGP. Just as it finished I looked down to see one of the sandal straps wasn't stitched properly and was all loose.

Nae bother, I thought, I'll just take them back on Monday. So I rocked up to the shop early yesterday morning and to find they were opening late due to an obscure local holiday. The sign said they were closing at 5PM, so I made a point of downing tools early and rushing up there. I arrived at 4.47PM and  they had already locked the doors. The sales chicks were still swanning around and I kinda waved at them but they just shrugged and pointed at the tills, as if to say, "Sorry, we're done baby."

I just kind of lost the plot right there, coz I say 13 minutes to the hour means you should still be bloody open for business! When I worked at KFC in high school, some drunken moron would always come in at 10.55PM demanding a Fillet burger and I would make his stinking fillet burger, even though I'd much rather finish cleaning chicken grease off some impossible surface so I could go home. BUT NO, I would make the burger because I was dedicated to the Colonel's cause. I would pick the most withered, dried-up piece of bird and give him less than the regulation 14 grams of lettuce, while sighing heavily and rolling my teenage eyes, BUT I STILL DID IT!

Kids these days. No work ethic.

Anyway I was full of pathetic rage for wasting about an hour of my day stomping back and forth to this shoe shop and as the venom surged through my veins can you imagine what my first thought was?

Chocolate. STAT!

But luckily Gareth was nearby, so instead I ranted and raved about this retail outrage then punched him on the arm about twenty-seven times. They were very gentle blows, and his arms are strong, so I think he was okay with being my punching bag (we shall see).

By the time I was done the town clock was bonging the hour, so I bellowed, "OH HARK! What could that be? Why it's... five oh f*cking clock!"

It felt good to let it all out. And this morning I did some weights and my arms and legs are still trembling as I write this, so I am back on track and all is good with the world again. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Frump-o-Rama

I am feeling reasonably foxy these days. Let's not even mention the stinking scale, because everything else is trundling along. Inches melting, muscles appearing, fitness increasing, skin a-glowing, blah blah blah.

So with this in mind I went for a wander round the shops the other day. Just to check out the new summer stock, I said. But really more to check out myself in a range of different mirrors. Mwahaha.

It started out well -- I tried on a nice flippy skirt (size 12!) and some nice linen trousers (size 12! (only if I sucked in my guts!)). But when I tried to find a top it all became completely rubbish.

I don't know what it's like anywhere else in the world right now, but over here it's all these voluminous, floaty, 60s-inspired smocks. The fashion mags are crowing how they hide a multitude of sins -- perfect for summer holidays as you can stuff your gob without worrying about a bloated tummy. Hurrah!

Well they just ain't working for me. First there's these dinky little puff sleeves which hit my arms at the most unflattering point, so they look all strung up and strangled like a leg of lamb. Then the fabric just spews down straight from the shoulders, or somewhat less ghastly from under the bust, completely covering the waist and hips.

Perhaps this flattering for some body shapes but it is completely hideous on me. I've always had wide shoulders, but if I wear more fitted tops that come in at the waist, everything more or less balances out with my hips. But this smock-o-rama shite hides my decent bits and points red flaming arrows to my worst. I look either 8 months pregnant or like a big brute of a rugby player, all lardy shoulders and meaty thighs.

And I'm sure the lurid 60s patterns look beguiling and Twiggy-esque on less sturdy lasses, but on me it just adds to the over all dumpy old granny effect. It's worse than the dreaded Peasant Hooker Shit debacle of 2002.

YOOHOO, fitted tops! Are you out there? Somewhere? Anywhere? Make yourselves known, or I shall have to waddle the streets looking like this:

The onslaught of spring also brings the annual shoe dilemma. I seek pretty summer shoes that can be walked in for miles and miles. I need decent support and a good sole due to honking huge feet and a dodgy knee. Last year I found a nice pair of mules that felt dead comfy in the shop, but I think I need a shoe that is actually strapped to my foot. All those slip-on-y shoes that you have to kind of work to keep on your foot end up killing me. Ballet flats don't work either, I need a wee heel otherwise I look like a drag queen.

Does such a shoe exist? Supportive yet stylish? Or should I just go straight out and buy some orthopedic clonkers that will work a treat with my matronly smock? Bah.

Rack Em Up

This weekend I went shopping with my sister. This was once a very traumatic exercise - Rhi would rummage through the rails and I'd go sit outside with the abandoned husbands, all teary and hating the world because I couldn't even fit a toe into anything. The more kind and sweet my sister would be, the more I'd want to throw myself onto the escalators. At least now when I am sitting outside the shop it's just because I've just bloody had enough of stinking shopping; not because I'm too large for the frocks.

So I tried on lots of clothes in lots of different shops, just like so many of you suggested. I've spent so much time getting philosophical about what it's meant to shift all this blubber, but now I'm determined to enjoy the fun and frivolous rewards. So I wriggled into skirts and dresses and coats and tops and dacks in all manner of styles and colours. Many of which were in a size 12 (US 10), thank you very much! Woo! And there were belts and shoes and stupid sunglasses too. But I'm a bit broke at the moment so I just bought a smaller bra, because the old cups are starting to runneth under. Sigh.

It was good fun trying things on, even those new season frocks with the lurid Pucci-esque prints. But I must admit my favourite part of the shopping expedition is still the bit where you stop for lunch.

. .

The one and only Mary has started up a forum thingy called Health Nuts, where health nuts far and wide can gather in one place and have a good natter about health. And nuts. Mary says it's not meant to be replace our individual blogs but rather add to the community. So if you fancy getting chatty with like-minded souls why not sign up? This is completely free and non-commercial so I am not being a hypocrite, by the way :)

You can start up a topic on anything you like. So far people are talking about brekkie ideas and what to do with chickpeas. I am thinking of starting up a topic to ask the burning question, Does anyone else SMILE at their computers when they write a smiley face in a blog comment? I feel dorky enough as it is typing smiley faces, but yesterday caught my reflection and realised I smile at the screen as I do it. More like a grimace actually. Like I am trying to force that good feeling down to the phone line to you. I am being sincere and encouraging. FEEL IT!

Plankety-Planks

I have gone plank mental lately! I used to hate the plank, but now I lurve the plank. Embracing my inner sulky six-year-old, I hated planks purely because I couldn't do them. WAH.

We did a lot of planks in my old pilates class and I truly stank. My arms would give out and I'd dive to the carpet. But for the past few weeks I've been tacking on this wee six-minute plank segment every couple of days. On-your-elbows planks, straight arm planks and reverse planks that you seem to hold forever. In my case it was about five seconds. But suddenly on Friday, I could doooo the bastard planks! I kept up with Cathe and held 'em all for the entire time. I even chucked in some side planks at the end for added torture.

I'm a big fan of weight training but I'm trying to do more stuff with my own bodyweight. After all, it's a heavy ol' body! There's plenty there to resist without always needing to drag out the dumbbells. I like the look of this crazy 7-Minute Weight Loss Circuit, as Marla has been doing of late. The Mountain Climbers and lunges would be too dodgy for my knee but there's some good ideas there.

. . .

When I started my lard-busting caper in 2001, one of my motivations to get smaller was to one day possess a decent wardrobe, free of polyester and appliqued kittens. But despite dropping many sizes I have yet to get adventurous. I've been awed by blogging comrades like Kathryn, Phil and YP who've swathed their saucy slenderised selves in all manner of foxy frocks. I just can't seem to get the nerve to do this myself. All I've done for the past six years is buy jeans and plain tops in the next size down. Just look at my progress pictures; I just keep downsizing the same bloody uniform!

Laziness and tight-waddery are a factor, but cluelessness has much to do with it. I went straight from being a little kid when your Mum picks your clothes to being a Large Adult with no choice but the trusty Uniform. Now that I'm finally spoiled for choice I'm not good with the choosing.

All I know is that I want to feel more girly, while I am still actually reasonably girly. I am nearly 30 years old and have never worn a dress aside from my weddings. I am so entrenched in my jeans-and-top uniform that my mother-in-law was worried that I'd get married in them. Ha! So the other day I went KA-RAZY and bought a frock. It's a bit plain but I figure I have to start somewhere, eh? (Here's a pic but my camera's colour has gone wonky. Stupid shoes for demo purposes only. And transparent legs = four years in Scotland!)

I think I am ready to have some fun with clothes. It's just fabric after all; it can't bite you. I am a sucker for 10 Years Younger and all those makeover programmes; I wonder what it would be like to wear knee-high boots or crazy jewelery or a colourful belt. I've never owned a belt. I always had my guts to hold my trousers up, after all!

Maybe this summer I will go radical and buy some clothes with actual colour! Maybe a pattern! Maybe a skirt or two! All the possibilities make me nauseous, but I don't see the point in busting all this blubber if I'm not going to enjoy it.

. . .

I am cuckoo for tofu lately. Never used to like the stuff, unless it was microscopic cubes floating in a bowl of miso soup. But we needed some protein variation in our pseudo-veggie household so I thought I'd give it a go. I consulted the trusty Leith's Vegetarian Bible (tip top wedding pressie from Sandra!) and found a stir-fry recipe.

You chop the tofu into cubes and marinate it for twenty minutes in soy sauce, garlic, lime juice with a dash of honey and sesame oil. Then you drain it, reserving the juicy goodness. You put the cubes on a tray then zap 'em in a hot oven for 20 minutes til they're nice and golden.

I just stir-fried a bunch of green things from the fridge (broccoli, snow peas [mange tout to the brits], green beans, swiss chard [or some leafy thing, never can tell what's what], green pepper [capsicum to the Aussies]) with a handful of frozen edamame and the leftover saucy stuff. Then plonked the crispy tofu on top to serve.

It was very green, but bloody beautiful and wholesome to the MAX! Total tofu convert now. Tofurkey for Xmas 2007!

The Magic Knickers

So I bought these crazy Spanx magic undies a few months ago. Sara Blakely, the blonde vixen who invented them, was a finalist on Richard Branson's reality show Rebel Billionaire last year. I was cheering for her just because I thought that a woman who was selling undies that made your tummy look flatter couldn't be evil.

What can I say Sara? They ain't working for me baby! I think maybe if I was already a slender whippet like yourself, the magic undies would be useful to smooth down an ever-so-slightly swollen belly after a bowl of lentil soup. But for someone with actual roaming blubber? It ain't pretty. All they do is redistribute the bulk.

It was easy enough to wrestle into the garment and the crotchlessness would be a handy feature one needed to pee on a night out on the town. However, the undies don't make me look skinnier. They just make me look freaky. My arse goes entirely flat, my hips get squished into my waist, and my belly seems to ooze upward and nudge the bottom of my bra. Needless to say the Spanx have been returned to the back of the undie drawer.

There is no real point to this entry except to say tomorrow is the work Christmas party and there is nothing I can do between now and then to restrain my flesh. Hehe. Last year I vowed that this year I would be super-organised for the party and not be looking for an outfit the day before. This time I looked months in advance but couldn't bloody find anything really cool and/or affordable. At least my top is purple instead of POO BROWN this time round.

Rah rah rah. I've been a bit blah these past few days but now is the time to relaaaax and enjoy this festive season and forget about my wobbly guts. I want to have some FUN, dammit.

And I hope you're all having fun too.

The Search for Lycra

Edinburgh has many shops that claim to be Purveyors of Sporting Goods, but not many of them contain items suited for actual sporting purposes. There's football strips (soccer shirts) galore, endless tracksuits in unnatural fibres plus all manner of shiny white trainers. The sort of things people wear when sitting on their arses to watch other people do sporty things. Or this sort of thing:

Granted, it's the end of August and so it was quite possibly THE WORST time of year for me to go  looking for swimwear. But I swear, it's not just pool gear! You rarely see actual rackets or balls or bats or goggles in these so-called sporty shops. Last year I was desperate for a new pair of cross-trainer shoes for the gym, and every sales assistant I asked didn't know what a cross trainer was, or why a running shoe wasn't the same thing. Instead they offered me the latest trendy white trainer, saying there was a variety of coloured stripes to choose from. I ended up lugging back a new pair from our honeymoon in San Francisco. Americans! You know your sporty shoes.

Since then I have found some great specialist shops like Run And Become, but I had no idea where to go for a cossie. I tried three big department stores, but only found flimsy bikinis that are fine if you're just planning to lay very still for two weeks on a Spanish sunlounge with a Jilly Cooper novel. But no good if you actually need to MOVE.

By the time I'd been to seven different shops I was getting cranky. All I wanted was a plain, utilitarian swimsuit suitable for actual swimming. It made me think of Gareth's fantasy of living in a communist country so he'd never have to worry about what to wear. He could just rock up to the People's Warehouse once a year and say, "One set of Clothes please, size Medium". He'd be quite happy to don the same sombre uniform every day. I imagine the People's Swimsuit would look a lot like this:

My last resort was Marks and Spencer. That's where I'd bought my last swimsuit way back in 2003, a boring old size 20 tank, so I could go wallow in the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. I've since become such a penny-pinching Scot that I considered dusting them off for my Learn To Swim campaign. After all, I'd only worn them once!

But that was many kilos ago. Now the shoulder straps slip down and there's massive gaps at the hip/thigh intersection where blubber used to be. And the fabric stretches comically across the blank space between boobs and pubes, where my tummy rolls once protruded much further. I wondered in a particularly frugal moment, Maybe I could get them taken in? But what tailor would touch such a skanky, faintly sulphurous garment?

Hello, my name is Pumpkin Head!

So I pressed on with the search.

Most of the summer stock was gone at M&S. There were a few stray bikinis with loud patterns, like they'd been used to mop up parrot roadkill. I found a single one-piece and tried it on out of desperation. What the bloody hell was I thinking? THE HORROR! Check out this picture - see how that models boobs just sit up perkily, beaming out at the world? When I put on that suit, there was a an unflattering flattening effect. My boobs were reduced to two wee deflated balloons, making  my stomach look enormous by contrast.

The only good thing about that moment was that I could laugh at my ridiculous reflection, as opposed to bawling. I've finally matured enough to realise that some styles just don't suit ya, so there's no need to plunge into weeks of self-loathing.

In the end I turned to my old friend The Internet. There's some brilliant online retailers in the UK. I ended up getting this plain and sporty number from Wiggle. I ordered it at lunchtime yesterday and it arrived this morning! Ziiing! The size 14 fit like a charm. I wished I'd asked the internet in the first place and saved the trauma. The internet always knows best.

So now I've got the gear I've got no excuses. We're away for the next couple of days but I've spoken to the Swimming Teacher Lady and she is going to get back to me with a time and date for Lesson One. Eeeeeeek!

Honorably Discharged

Well that was a slightly longer break than expected! The Mothership ended up staying an extra day, then last night I was too busy moping around watching Wimbledon to do much bloggin'.

It was great to see Mum again. It had only been eight months since I was in Australia, and she never feels that far away with the phone and emails, but it's always nice to get face time. It's also kind of weird, seeing a body attached to all that voice and text. She did her usual disconcerting thing of just STARING at times, as if she couldn't quite believe we were in the same room.

She also insisted that I was much slimmer than October, and her fella chimed in too and said I must have lost a stack more weight.

"Not really," I replied. "Maybe five more kilos if I'm lucky".

It's probably closer to eight or nine kilos, but the visible difference is most likely due to how bloated I was the last time they saw me, when I'd been eating my way around Australia for three weeks straight.

But still. It was lovely of them to say so. Even though it reminded me that my loss since then averages out to like, one kilo per month. Good lord, it's taking eons!

. . .

I'm pretty happy with my eating while Mum was here, a few too many chocolate biscuits but och well. I have reserved three fun size Cherry Ripes from the bag she'd brought over, which I will only allow myself to ration out once I'm in the 70s! And (un)fortunately she couldn't find any small bars of Cadbury's Triple Decker (milk/white/mint) so I haven't had to try and stay away from that.

I'm back on track now, so woohoo!

. . .

Dudes! I made my book writin' deadline this month. 2002 is done! Well, the very shitey first draft of it, anyway. So it's onto 2003 for July. Baby steps...

. . .

I've been discharged by the Neck Physio. I'm a little sad because he's a nice bloke and I enjoyed the painful manipulations on a perverse level! Yesterday he did some bizarre maneuvers on my back to banish a mighty muscle spasm and it was excruciating! But it's all feeling so much better now. He says my posture has improved and I am no longer bobbing around like an emu. So now it's up to me to keep managing things. Rest, exercises, stretches, heat, etc etc.

Meanwhile the knee WAS feeling so much better, until I stupidly did my Cathe Gym Style Chest & Triceps DVD last week. You start off with a drop set of push-ups, a set of 16 then a short break, then 14, 12, 10, 8... etc etc, until you're down to one excruciating 4-count push up. 72 in total.

I could only do the first two on my toes before flopping to the floor like a theatrical footballer, so I did the rest on my knees. Didn't even occur to me until I'd finished the set that perhaps that wasn't the best idea. The Knee Physio had told me right at the start to avoid kneeling but with the other 457 things I have to remember to do or not to do with all my stupid various hurty body bits, I FORGOT. Then walking round the cobbled, hilly streets of Edinburgh's old town on Tuesday didn't seem to help either. ARRRGH. So I've been resting and icing to calm it all down again. Methinks I will do the pushups by rolling out on my Swiss ball, or skip them altogether for a wee while.

. . .

Trousers! Pants! Slacks, if you're an old fuddy duddy! Whatever you call them, they're those things you put on your legs so the world doesn't have to see what you look like in your undies. I sent Mum a last-minute text asking could she look for some pants for me in Oz since the ones I bought in October are getting too big. Why pay £20 ($50 AU) at H&M in Scotland if she can pay $20 (£8) at Katies or Sussan or similar in Oz?

The Mothership came up with the goods. Three pairs, each on sale for $15. They are far too tight to be worn in public but with a few more kilos off I'll be in business.... SIZE TWELVE, baby! (US 10) When was the last time I could get into a size 12? When I bloody was twelve!

Bon weekend, lovelies.

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.

Back To The Fat

Finiiiiiished!

Ha ha! Not really. This hefty blockbuster is just five years of Dietgirl ramblings, printed for a handsome fee by Blogbinders. Still, even a giant print-out of blog archives is a cool thing to hold in your hands!

Yesterday I finished my rough outline/plan of the book, so I'm onto the gruelling task of reading through 424 pages with my pencil handy, making notes and sorting the wheat from the chaff. It's great to have so much source material but it's going to take awhile. Luckily it's fun! Especially when you read things you'd totally forgotten about, like that my resting heart rate was 100 beats per minute at the start of 2001. ONE HUNDRED?!? How the hell was I not dead?

. . .

Aside from starting The Book Project, my biggest achievement this weekend was to hem some trousers. The bastards have been mocking me with their lengthy legs for almost six months! They're wide-legged ones, only £15 from H&M. I'd bought two pair since they look far more expensive than they were. The only problem is that they were designed for Scandinavian giraffe women. I'm 5'8" and don't normally need to hem things, but these pants were three inches too long.

You'd think being such lovely dacks that I'd have hemmed them right away, ready for winter. But nooo. At first they were unwearably tight so I chucked them in the cupboard. Once they fit, I wore my gym pants and trainers on the train then changed into the trousers at work, where my boots were juuust tall enough to make them wearable, if I was careful not to tread on the hem walking up stairs. But then last week I forgot to change and wore them home with my trainers, and being Scotland there was a torrential downpour, so they absorbed about a litre of water and mud as I tripped through the puddles.

On Sunday I took advantage of my burst of productivity and finally said RIGHTO! Time for action! It took me about three hours to hem the two pairs. I thought it would be quick and easy, since I am a highly qualified seamstress and all (where qualified = earning my Sewing badge at Brownies circa 1986). The reality was multiple stabbings, ironed fingers and accidentally sewing one trouser leg to the other.

Och well. Now I can wear these dacks without risk of injury. But since I waited so many months they're now on the verge of baggy. So hopefully I have learned my lesson - procrastination does not pay, kids!

. . .

Hang on! This is meant to be a fat fighting blog, isn't it? I should update you on the fat. I've been doing great! Where great = Monday to Thursday, that is.

The weekends have been shoddy. No wild bingeing, just still too much food. I didn't need two portions of trifle at Chez In-Laws on Sunday night, but down they went. Jelly creamy goodness. Sometimes I fantasise about plunging into a giant bowl of trifle. How nice would that feel? Slipping past the cool cream and custard, wriggling through the fruit and jelly, with no risk of head injury due to the soft boozy sponge cake at the bottom. Oh baby...

My sister and I were having an email Bitch Session and seems she is having the same Weekend Issues. Being Chicks of Action, we've been brainstorming the problem together. One idea we've copied from the lovely Renee - we're going to be e-mail buddies. Each morning we'll be writing each other with our eating and exercise, talk about plans for the day and any Upcoming Challenges. We already email daily, and were good at lard busting when we lived together, so now we're going to try it long distance. I really need to add another layer of Accountability, and there's no bullshitting with me and my sister. Wish us luck, comrades!

Movement at the Station

Howdy troops! Thanks for your comments on the last entry. I wasn't contemplating blogicide, especially not for this blog that I always enjoy writing. It was just one of those blue periods that crop up now and then.

Have you heard about Blog Depression? Perhaps you're suffering yourself, or know someone who could be? This pamphlet may help, and is also the most hilarious thing I've seen on the internets for a very long time. Please, pretty please, have a read. You will never take yourself, or blogging, seriously ever again :)

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I wrote something new for Cooking With Ginger, and guess what - I enjoyed doing it! It only took two hours to write, instead of my usual two weeks. Consider this progress, or a reflection of the crappy photos contained therein.  Anyway, So I Married A Vegetarian talks about my flesh-filled past and has an easy, delicious and healthy recipe for a Spinach and Pumpkin Frittata.

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The scales finally moved today! 2.3 kilos gone (5lb)! As I whined last week, I'd been maintaining since February 1. So this lonely big loss more than makes up for that, and averages out quite noicely over the past month! Just goes to show, it pays not to panic when nothing's happening, and instead to stay focused on all the good things you're doing. I didn't do anything radically different this week, just kept on keeping on with the exercise and good eatin', while minimising the avocado toast. Mwahaha.

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At lunchtime today I made the swiftest jeans purchase in the history of Jeans Purchasing. Five minutes round trip! I'd been bitching about my baggy jeans for weeks, and even the Scottish Companion conceded they were taking on that Shat Your Nappy look. I bought them in Australia last October, a size 14 for a bargain $30 (£13). I arrived back to the UK all excited about the size 14, so I rushed to the shops to try on UK jeans and trousers. Imagine my hysterics when I discovered that over here the size 14 would go no further than mid-thigh. I tried three different shops but had the same result. Bastards.

Fast forward five months to today. I'd been eyeing off some jeans in Monsoon for awhile, as they seemed to be the only ones on the high street that fit my criteria - dark denim, bootleg, not too stretchy, no light streaks down the front that make my thighs look huge, and no cat whiskers in the crotch that may as well be neon-signs screaming CHECK OUT MY FAT GUT. I'd never tried them on, just admired them from afar, biding my time.

This morning I caught sight of my saggy-arsed reflection and decided it was D-Day. I waltzed into the shop and grabbed the 14 jeans (US 12). And a size 16 and 18 too, in case Consolation Prizes were required. Then it was into the change rooms, dacks off, jeans on... they fit! Not too tight in the thighs, yet enough snugness to accommodate a little more weight loss. Plus nicely fitting in the bum. Wheeee!

I was dressed again and at the checkout in two minutes, credit card outstretched. Does anyone else do this? As soon as I find something that fits, I am out of there in a flash, coughing up my cash before the garment has a chance to un-fit.

The only downer is that the jeans cost £40, which isn't bad until you realise that's $94 back in my homeland! Oh, and because I ate homemade bean burrittos for dinner tonight, they probably won't fit me tomorrow. Holy bloat, Batman!