The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Ego DOMS

The Mothership has returned to her native planet and I'm feeling a little bereft. I miss our walks and long chats and her rosy pink cheeks after a half pint of Gareth's home-brewed stout. Sniff.

Last week I was suffering from total Ego DOMS, as contracted at Pilates class. We were doing stability ball bridges. Our instructor had us try a variation with no hands on the floor:

Credit: 101 Exercises

I immediately lost my balance and plonked to the ground. Ego damaged, I desperately wanted to show her that I could do it and wasn't a useless fatty*. So I got into bridge again, found my abs and got dead stable. I never knew I could be so strong and still... the hamstrings and abs were singing! I counted 2.5 minutes and the instructor was still down the front of the room assisting someone. Then she said "Okay, let's move on!" and I got all huffy as she'd not witnessed my amazing balancing glory! Then I just cracked up laughing at the ridiculous need for approval. I paid for it with three days of mega DOMS of the abs where laughter felt like being stabbed.

* One side-effect of regained poundage has been the occasional return of paranoia that instructors will think larger = rubbish. But at least these days when that kind of defensiveness pops up, I can observe it in a bemused I see what're you doing there kind of way, then move on. And channel it into a good abdominal workout!

Cycling Tips

If you're reading this on Sunday, I'm in merry old England slowly pootling along on the Cycletta bike ride. I'm writing this on Thursday but I think we can safely insert - freakout, nausea, buttock-clenching fear - right here as per every adventure I've written about over the past decade.

I'll be riding with my friend Gillian who sent me this hilarious video of cycling tips. Can't wait to work "about as clever as giving a balloon to a hedgehog" into a conversation!

Paranoia for Pudding

We'd just finished dessert (yogurt and fruit) but my stomach was still grumbling as I made us a cup of tea.

"Man... I could really go a teacake right now"

"What's a teacake?" asked Gareth.

"Kind of like a hot cross bun, but flatter and less spicy with lots of fruit."

"But you just had fruit."

I slowly set the teaspoon on the counter and turned to glare. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"What do you mean, what's that supposed to mean?"

"I know that tone! It's the you've only just eaten and now you want MORE? tone!"

"There was no such tone!"

"You used the Mothership tone of implied gluttony!"

"I've only met your Mum three times, how could I know her tones?"

"Her tones are powerful and easily absorbed."

"You're so paranoid about food!"

"I thought you were having a go at me," I sniffed. "You weren't having a go at me?"

"Nooo!" he laughed.

"Oh." I resumed stirring the tea and pondered. "Hang on! Was your emphasis on the HAD? Like you were saying, but you only just HAD fruit; why would you want to consume even MORE fruit? Wouldn't you rather chocolate or sardines or something non-fruity?"

"Exactly!"

"Well. That's alright then!"

"Or biscuits. Have we got any biscuits?"

After the happy ending

I wrote this guest post for Refuse To Regain as part of the Dietgirl Virtual Book Tour. I've archived it here as I know lots of people stalk their way through the archives and it's a very important entry, explaining where I'm at now in terms of my maintenance struggles adventures! Be sure to stop by at Refuse To Regain - it's a fabulous blog and resource for maintainers.

My first year of maintenance was easy. I think I cruised through on euphoria alone. Every day in my new body was an adventure - I rejoiced in my new clothes, new fitness and new ability to fit inside bathtubs.

Later that year I finished writing a book that charted my six-year, 175-pound weight loss journey. I was still giddy with excitement as I churned out the Epilogue. My body is something to savor and celebrate, I wrote. Every time I put on lipstick and high heels it feels like I'm singing to world about the joy I've found within.

The second year was a different story. Everything was messy and unpredictable. I was simultaneously renovating our apartment, starting a demanding new job and promoting my book in the UK and Ireland. I also took on big fitness challenges, such as training for kickboxing grades and a marathon walk. As the year dragged on there were personal issues and a serious financial scare, then we sold our apartment and moved house.

As a result my maintenance efforts were chaotic. I'd alternate weeks of intense exercise with weeks of nothing at all. I'd buy takeout too often then go crazy with healthy cooking to compensate. I wrestled the same ten pounds all year long, pinging up and down the scale. Instead of high heels and celebrations, it was more brooding on the couch in my sweatpants.

Meanwhile, my inbox was flooded with messages from people who'd read my book. You're such an inspiration! You're living the happy ending! You must be so proud! I didn't feel proud or inspiring. Sure I've lost a few pounds but look at me now! I'm barely holding it together! If those kind readers knew how much I struggled, they'd demand a refund! I felt like a fraud as I answered their email questions about my exercise program, instead of actually doing my exercise program. I made jokes about my woes on my blog, not wanting to alienate readers new and old with too much doom and gloom. But the negativity crept in. I spoke about maintenance with words like "struggle" and "battle" and "never-ending stinkfest".

There were times when I could have cheerfully burned my book. I bugged the heck out of myself with my optimism and irritating self acceptance. I was just plain jealous of Book Shauna, to be honest. I could barely believe that was me who'd lost all that weight and stuck at it for so many years. How did I start wanting change more than chocolate? That determined girl seemed like a stranger and I worried I'd never find her again.

The third year of maintenance was rapidly approaching and I was desperate to make it different. It was a lot like the start of my weight loss mission - I thought someone else must have the secret. I started reading blogs written by fellow maintainers, such as this one. I stalked through their archives, looking for magic solutions. But instead of magic, I read about hard work and persistence; the ability to learn from mistakes and pick yourself back up after a crappy day. Or even a crappy month or year.

I finally had my DUH moment. Maintenance was really no different from weight loss. Sometimes it is fabulous and sometimes it sucks. And that's okay.

I think part of me thought that writing THE END on my manuscript would mean The End of the struggle and The End of learning stuff. Surely after six ridiculous years of lard-busting I'd have figured out my Issues for good? But life doesn't stop when you close a book. The story plows on, the character keeps evolving. Holding on to that happy ending is hard work.

A few months on I'm starting to feel more at peace with the realities of maintenance. I'm starting to live and breathe that happy ending again, albeit without the delirium of the first year. Life is still stupidly busy, but I remembered the best thing I learned in the weight loss phase - the journey is easier when you make it enjoyable. Last year I was falling back into the arms of my old dieter's mindset - all or nothing thinking, expecting perfection, dwelling on mistakes and not savouring the good stuff. But now I want to celebrate how far I've come, instead of feeling overwhelmed by it or taking it for granted. Maintenance doesn't seem like such a drag when I take time out to find the joy in the little things. The peacefulness of a Pilates stretch. The gleeful clobbering of my kickboxing class. The wholesome smugness of a healthy day's eating. I'm ready to dust off those high heels and lipsticks.

Paddle Your Own

Woohoo! I did another New Activity yesterday... CANOEING!

On the weekend we stayed with some friends and their three crazy kids. We all went to a nice wee loch suitable for unskilled morons, nothing to be scared of. But as soon as the canoe came off the car roof and I got strapped into a lifejacket I froze.

It was only for a second but it was there, automatic and insistent, that old voice in my ear. You're fat and you're crap and you're going to suck at this.

I looked at the little kiddies kayaking and the old dudes fishing; so many potential witnesses to my incompetence. I started stammering my excuses but Gareth is used to the Fat Girl Freakouts now. He said very kindly and firmly, "You're going to be fine."

And of course I bloody was. Canoeing RULES. And I did not suck. First I went out with Dave and he explained the strokes and I made an arse of my left and right as usual. But then I got the hang of it and went out again with Gareth. And then I got in the back seat and learned how to steer. Which was difficult but still enjoyable. I paddled and paddled til my shoulders ached and today I can yell out like Ringo Starr at the end of Helter Skelter, I've got blisters on my fingers! I feel rather proud of them.

Today I am still on some sort of bizarre post-canoe high. I loved being out on the water, stabbing away at it with my paddle. It was so serene and almost hyponotic. Maybe I'll go all Ray Mears now and cruise down some rivers, or carve my own boat out of a tree trunk with my bare teeth. I just know that I want to do it again. Agaaaaaain!

Now I just have to think of something for New Activity #3.

Nutrition Nerds Unite!

Ooh I just had a great brekkie. It was my usual combination of oats (uncooked), pumpkin and sunflower seeds, Yeo Valley yogurt and chopped banana, except this time I chucked some blueberries in as well, since the little blue bastards were actually on sale this week instead of costing approximately £1 per berry! I stirred all this stuff until it became one chunky, vomitous clump then chomped away quite happily with the occassional blueberry pleasantly exploding with superhealthy antioxidant goodness. Sweeeeeeeeeeet.

...

That blueberry link was from the World's Healthiest Foods site, which aside from Krista's Weights page is probably the best site I've ever found for lard-busting advice and ideas. While I may eaten whole jars of Nutella with a spoon in the past, these days I am a nutrition nerd and love learning about vitamins and essential fatty acids and so-called superfoods. This site is an invaluable tool if you want to learn more about the benefits of eating healthy whole, REAL foods instead of your crazy-processed LF FF NF Cheezy Stikz or Diet Lite Choco-Crunch or Reduced Carb Pasta or whatnot.

The site has an exhaustive A - Z list of the World's Healthiest Foods, with detailed nutritional info per serving. Not just about calories, but vitamins and minerals. For example take kale, the under-appreciated leafy green. It's got vitamin A, vitamin C, fibre, calcium, potassium, iron, folate and magnesium... and bazillions of other healthy shit. Ooh, geekgasm! There are also recipes, menu plans and best of all the Food Advisor quiz, where you can answer a few questions about what you eat and it tells you where your diet may be lacking (eg. possible vitamin deficiencies) and what percentage of foods you are eating from the WHF list.

I took the test again today and this week I am eating 88% WHF, no doubt boosted by all the goddamn birdseed I eat. This is good, but it also suggested  I need to eat more foods containing Vitamin B12, D and E. So I just click on the little link and it tells me a bunch of suitable foods. Easy peasy. Improving my diet  looks as simple as adding an egg and perhaps a serve of meat. Plus I ain't eating enough greens. If you have five minutes to take the test, it's really worth it. Be brutally honest in your answers because it really helps you to see areas you could improve on.

I am sorry if the above has bored your pants off, but if you're a fellow nutrition nerd you may just get a nice warm feeling in your naughty areas by spending some quality time on that site.

. . .

One year ago I wrote about buying my first pair of running shoes. You can relive the grand melodrama here, but basically it took me three attempts and a few tears before I actually got inside the store. Why? Because I was bloody intimidated by the idea of running, thinking I didn't belong and my lardy arse would be laughed out of the shop. The saleslady was actually very helpful and patient, but I was so flustered that I ended up grabbing a random pair coz I was freaking out and not wanting her to watch me run up and down the shop again. Big mistake.

It wasn't until April this year that I actually started training properly. Initially things were okay but always felt some discomfort with the shoes. I chalked it up to them not being worn in yet, but after about six weeks my right knee was causing serious pain. When I finally sat down and tried to figure out the cause, I realised that my shoes really did not fit me properly. They were just totally bloody wrong for my feet. The toes on my right foot would shove up against the front of the shoe when I ran. My feet oozed over the sides of the shoe as they weren't wide enough. In fact, the sides of the shoe were starting to split.

But I didn't have the time or funds for a new pair of shoes, so after couple weeks of no running and copious leg exercises, I did the 5k race in the shitty shoes. Weeks of EVIL eeeeeevil knee pain followed. I couldn't run at all, I had to drop all my weights for squats and lunges. Stairs were a nightmare. So I ended up going to the physio, and after six weeks of exercises and RPM, my knee finally felt okay again. So last Friday I finally went back to the running store!

What a difference from a year ago. This time I charged right into the shop and felt comfortable, like I had every right to be there. Gone was the nausea and trembling fear, huzzah! I spoke to the same chick as last time and explained I'd bought these shoes from her but I'd done so far too quickly and didn't get the right ones, because I'd been an absolute beginner and quite scared by the idea of buying running shoes. She gave me a puzzled look, as if I'd told her I was scared of kittens or chocolate bars. Who'd be afraid of that?

But anyway. I showed her my old shoes and she agreed that while they were the right style (some motion control) they were totally wrong fit for my feet. They were way too small and narrow. So she started dragging out a bazillion boxes of shoes. She said it would be a lot of trial and error as I belonged to "quite a specific niche" of the shoe market. My feet are very wide, I overpronate and my right foot is bigger than the left. I tried over a bloody dozen pairs. The more popular breeds were too narrow or didn't feel like they were giving me any support. I tried some mens shoes but they felt too heavy. Arrgh. Too narrow! Too soft! Too heavy! It was like Goldilocks and the Three Bazillion Shoes.

The same thing happened last year, and I'd sat there surrounded by shoe boxes trying not to hyperventilate. But this time I was calm and patient. I'd lace up each different pair then run up and down the shop without having to be asked, letting her watch my ass blobbing along. I was so focused on finding The Right Pair that I did not give a shit what my thighs looked like, nor did I freak out at all the skinny chicks cluttering up my path as they shopped for tiny running shorts. I just ran around them! I was not going to waste my time or money with crappy shoes.

I ended up with Brooks Addiction 6, whatever that means. All I know is my big fat foot finally feels nestled and nutured. I've done two runs this week and walked round in them heaps and they fit like a dream. No blisters, no toenail grating. When I put these on I am amazed at what a dimwit I'd been to put up with the old pair. I still feel the odd twinge in the knee, so for now I am just taking it easy, running on grass and avoiding hills for the moment. I'll see how it goes.

The point of all this is just to show you what damage you can do by Thinking Like A Fat Chick. A year ago I thought I didn't bloody deserve decent shoes. I was wasting the saleslady's time. People Like Me did not belong in running stores. So I grabbed a random pair just to get out of there.

What bullshit! Just because you're not bloody Beethoven doesn't mean you're not allowed to buy a piano. Just because you're not Michael Schumacher doesn't mean you shouldn't drive a car. THEREFORE, just because you're not Paula Radcliffe doesn't mean you don't deserve shoes that don't fit. My misguided fatty fat fat self-beliefs ended up contributing to a really shitty injury and expensive physio. I am not saying my knee problems were entirely caused by ill-fitting shoes - my pain really kicked in after I accidentally ran 20 minutes too long coz I didn't read Julia's instructions properly - but they were certainly a major problem.

I often get emails from people asking how to get into running, so here is what I have learned in my very limited experience. We all know I am still an absolute beginner with guidance from the lovely Mistress Julia. However, please take it from someone who has hobbled round for a month, if you seriously want to make running part of your exercise regime, PLEASE take the time and expense to go to a proper running store and get some proper shoes. Your smelly old cross trainers will not do. Get someone to watch you trot around to see if your feet do anything wacky. This is particularly good advice if you're heavy and have not run at all before. Running is a total shock to a body that's used to just sittin' round or the occasional swish on the elliptical machine. Running is high impact stuff. If you're a total beginner, ease into it with a simple plan like Couch To 5k and stick to it precisely. Allow your fitness to build steadily - don't skip ahead or add sessions or run further until it says to. So many people start C25K then burn out after three or four weeks coz they thought they could do more but wound up injured. Be patient and give your body time to adjust. I learned the hard way (crap shoes, accidentally increasing distance) and really wish I'd listened to my body more. So be kind to your bodies, groovers.

Arrgh! I promised never to be preachy on here. Yikes! Anyway, now I will climb off the pulpit and wish you all a tops weekend!

Crotch Bib and Camping

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

"Arrrgh!"

We were going camping and were at the supermarket getting provisions. The Scottish Companion had become obsessed with the great outdoors over the past month. First he said he needed a new sleeping back coz his old one smelled like "Man Fumes". But he ended up buying two. And a tent. And a camp stove. SC works from home, so by the end of the week he is always going bonkers with cabin fever. When I get home on a Friday I just want to sit on my arse, but he is itching like mad to get out of the house. So last weekend I reluctantly agreed to go camping with him.

It wasn't til we were at the supermarket that I began to get excited. I wanted to buy one of those dinky disposable barbecues so we could grill some vegetarian sausages into charcoaled stumps. I wanted to roast marshmallows over a roaring fire. I wanted to make a damper. Food food food. Food makes everything so much more interesting.

But we ended up in the canned food aisle, deciding on a tin since we were only away for one night and had limited equipment. Good lord, you can buy some awful shit in a tin. SC chose a Vegetarian Balti Curry which looked absolutely honking. I almost went for the Weight Watchers Ravioli until I thought what sort of ravioli comes in a tin? but also ravioli is too posh for camping. After reading some labels and tossing aside trans-fatty candidates, I settled on Beef Stew. Mmm mmm.

Earlier that week I'd thought, "We're not going anywhere this week, absolutely nothing is happening! I have a perfectly empty week ahead so I'll be able to have 7 Days Of Perfect Eating. Woohoo!". Then this camping thing had come out of the blue and now I'd forgotten that and was giddy with the Eating Potential of the trip.

But I had a realisation right there in the supermarket aisle, that there is really no such thing as a Perfectly Empty Week. Something also comes up. Whether this is a spontaneous camping trip, a birthday cake at work or a quick drink with friends, there are always little situations happening that you haven't planned for. So it dawned on me yet again that that horrible phrase "Lifestyle Change" is really true. I would have to keep reading labels. I would stay hyper-aware of what I ate. I would have to assess each situation individually and make the wisest choice. All these little things that crop up will keep on cropping up, they're just life happening, NOT opportunities for wild abandoned eating.

My beef stew really looked a lot like dog food and didn't taste that much better, but it was a modest choice and was so much fun heating up on a dinky camp stove while being attacked by midges.

...

I finally figured out why models are so skinny. Coz they bloody need to be.

Before the Vegas Wedding, my  sister and I brainstormed on How To Look As Skinny As Possible in photos. Shoulders back but relaxed. Sucked-in gut. Arms held slightly away from your sides so they looker smaller don't splodge out all over the place. Body turned ever so slightly and putting one hip and leg forward. The Vegas photographer did our photos in less than ten minutes, barking out, "Stand here! Face that way! Smile! Kiss!" I totally worked it baby, moving seamlessly through the poses. So the photos turned fine, my body arranged pretty well considering my dress was so bloody tight that flesh was threatening to spill at any moment.

So I naively hoped the Grazia photo shoot would be just as rapid fire, but it actually took three hours because firstly, they weren't a production-line Las Vegas Wedding Chapel, and secondly, they needed pictures in a whole different bunch of poses. Dammit. Once the hair and makeup was done, I was leaned against the couch while the photographer did some test shots. I tried to look casual as I arranged myself according to my sisters advice. The photographer started shooting and I grinned or smiled or looked "mysterious" or "knowing" or "flirtatious" as requested. I doubted any of my expressions really varied but she said I was doing great. Woohoo! This was going to be a piece of cake.

But then I had to get on the bed. Oh dear. It was a vast four-poster with a luxurious purple satin cover. Now please do not leave comments saying I am putting myself down here, because I am going to state a fact. Anyone with a bit of extra flesh knows there are a very limited number of ways you can arrange your body in a flattering light. Standing upright is one. Actually that's about it. Once you're sitting or laying down, you don't have control and things start flipping and flopping around.

"I'm not sure this will be a flattering angle," I squeaked nervously. The photographer told me not to worry and got the makeup artist to try the pose while she adjusted the lighting. The MA, gorgeously slim, jumped onto the bed and landed delicately on her side, leaning on her elbow. her elbow. Perfect. Then it was my turn. The bed groaned as I clambered on and tried to replicate the pose.

Quite often when I'm laying in bed at night on my side, I grope my hips in the dark and feel the bone and say, "Ooh you're getting so skinny! Oh yes you are!", and ignore the fact that the sideways positions means the three-tier wedding cake of my boobs and guts all falls down and pools on the mattress. This was how it was at the shoot. I sucked in as hard as I could but my flesh combined with the folds of my clothing made it all very awkward. The photographer told me to relax but how could I relax when I had a severe case of Crotch Bib?

(This is what the Scottish Companion calls the curious phenomenon whereby when I sit down there always seems to be this huge bunch of fabric in the crotch area of my jeans and trousers when they're getting too big for me, and since I am a slobby eater I always end up dropping food there, hence Crotch Bib.)

These jeans were new and not too big, but they sat on the waist and not the hip so the fabric puddled when I lay down. Yet somehow I could feel the breeze on the top of my arsecrack. It was all going pearshaped. I fussed and clucked and tried to smooth everything down. I was beginning to see why there had been a huge rack of these jeans on sale for £20, needless to say I have not worn the ill-fitting mumsy bastards since. Every time the photographer asked me to move my hand one inch or tilt my head ten degrees, my carefully arranged clothes would go sproing! and I'd have to yank my top down over the Crotch Bib. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A similar thing happened in the next pose, the Come Hither On The Chaise Lounge.

It was such a relief to see they ended up using the flattering Upstanding pose, the very first bunch of shots we'd done. I know how to best arrange my flesh!

The article was actually like a photographic montage of How Dietgirl Has Tried To Disguise Her Body over the past decade. Hiding behind the wedding bouquet in Las Vegas. Hiding behind the cake at my 21st birthday party. Hiding behind a brick wall at university. Heh heh heh. And I was still trying to hide now, with the dark jeans and the wrap top, but it's nice to be at a point where you only need clothing for camouflage instead of brick walls.

. . .

Get a load of lovely Nicole here, she is getting hooked on a running! Hehe. You know I do read bazillions of blogs, but I read them sneakily via Bloglines so I don't often get to comment. So in case you wondered if I am big snobbypants, just know that I am actually lurking and watching you closely like some perve in a raincoat.

Buy A Copy For Yer Mum

So here is some groovy news. If you're in the UK, grab a copy of this weeks Grazia magazine - Britain's First Weekly Glossy! the one with Our Kylie on the front! - and turn to page 36. Nestled between the likes of Kate Moss and Denise Van Outen is... little ol Dietgirl!

Well, not exactly little. There is nothing to make you realise you're not wee like seeing your big red head taking up a WHOLE FREAKING PAGE of a national magazine and then flipping over to see an article on the new trend of Ultra Skinny Jeans that you wouldn't get your ankle into, let alone a whole leg.

I have swung from being mortified to gleeful to mortified for the past three months since this whole thing started. Let me fill you in! In April I got an email from this lovely chick who is the PR for the publishing house that are distributing Tales From The Scale here in the UK. Apparently Grazia had seen the book and were keen to publish an extract of my writing. 2000 words!

Thus sparked my first simultaneous Happy Dance/Fat Girl Freakout. I didn't have a freaking clue that this book would even see the light of day in the UK. I am clueless about how these things work. The freakout stemmed from Dietgirl going into print and local people finding out about me and my secret lardy life. But from a writing point of view, I was excited. It was the first time I'd been in published in print media since my groundbreaking piece as an intern at the Canberra Times: Pensioners Welcome New Motorised Shopping Carts At Local Supermarket.

A few weeks later I heard from the writer, who was a really cool woman. She had cobbled together bits of my chapters into a cohesive piece, it flowed really well. All I had to write a couple more paragraphs to fill in some gaps and it all came together nicely. It then got subbed of course, so the final thing came out a wee bit different... a little cheesy but still a nice read.

The Grazia folk mentioned from the start that they'd need photos for the piece. As you know I had already asked my Mum earlier this year to send me some Fat Pics, but I got her on the case to find some more. They also told me someone would come to Edinburgh my photo for the piece, but I was in such denial that this whole thing would actual happen that I blocked that out of my mind. It was just too hilarious that a dork like me would be in a magazine. Part of me hoped the story would get pulled by an urgent Paris Hilton scoop or plastic surgery expose. So instead of stepping up my gymming, eating more carefully, getting facials or shopping for an outfit, I did sweet bugger all! This meant when the magazines Picture Desk contacted me on a Monday to arrange a photo shoot for Saturday, all I could was FREAK OUT!

Shopping for clothes makes me nauseous at the best of times. But pacing up and down Princes Street trying to find something that would make me look nice In A Full Length Photo! In A Glossy Magazine! sent me to near hysterics. The photographer to me to a) wear something I was comfortable in b) something that showed off my figure and c) something that wasn't black. This ruled out approximately 100% of my wardrobe. A horrid feeling of panic churned in my guts as I went in and out of every clothing shop in Edinburgh only to find stuff that was too small, black or with tiny or non-existent sleeves that exacerbated my Arm Anxiety.

Ooh I wished I was a rich bastard with a personal shopper. If only my self-centred sister hadn't have decided to further her career and move away and not be here to scout for outfits! How RUDE! Normally when I shop I get bored or cranky after an hour and give up and go home, but this time there was no wriggling out of it. I scouring the ships every lunchtime and every evening for the whole week. With each day that passed I cursed my laziness and lack of interest in fashion and grooming. Why had I left this to the last minute when I'd know for two months this was on the cards? Why hadn't I bought some nice clothes as I'd shrunk? Why didn't I have a bra that held my boobs up? Why had I eaten all those cakes?

I ended up finding a top at Monsoon the day before the shoot. The sleeves were short but I was desperate. Desperate, do you hear me? And I'd found another pair of jeans for the bargain price of £20 that were darker than the ones I got from Next, which looked more dressy. Cool.

So all I had to do before the shoot started on midday on Saturday was: find accessories and a new bra. I went to catch the early train but it was delayed by almost an hour. Arrgh! When I finally arrived I barely had an hour and flitted in and out of high street stores in a mad jingle jangle of bangles and jewels trying to find something ANYTHING to go with my top. Then I had to try and stab my earlobes as I'd not worn earring since the Vegas wedding and the holes had almost closed over. Ewww! My face was glowing red from stress and sweat. The whole thing took so long that I didn't have time for a new bra.

The photo shoot went okay though, but that's another entry in itself. I will skip forward five weeks til Tuesday when the magazine came out and I sat there on my step before Body Pump class staring down at the page muttering, "Oh no! Oh yes! How awful! How cool!".

For now I will just post a wee linky here to a zip file that has the scanned articles - three jpegs, one for each page. There is all new Before Pics in the article plus finally you get that oft-promise new progress pic! And my eyes ain't blocked out this time! I will save my assortment of self-criticisms of how I look in the photo (squinty eyes! shiny cheeks! messy eyebrow! nanna arms!) for the next entry.

Click here to download (519kb, Zip file)

Please let me know in the comments if you have problems with the file!  Have to catch my train so I will correct typos later and post more about the whole thing in a day or two. Take care, groovers!

Fat Girl Freakout

Hello groovers. Happy Valentines! A big slobby kiss to you all.

So I got the wedding frock! I will stop short of describing the actual thing because I have a sneaking suspicious that the Scottish Companion knows about the site.

(Incidentally, I will have to tell him anyway, because en route to the honeymoon I'll be staying with Jillian, a kickarse chick I met through here! I am dead excited about that, but at this stage I told him we met "through my blog" but neglected to specify which one. Time to come clean, methinks.)

ANYWAY. You know what it's like when you shop when you've lost a bit of weight. Your brain struggles to catch up with how your body has changed. When I arrived in London on Friday night, my sister showed me a picture of this dress she'd found and thought could be a goer. I immediately said sulkily, "Well, it's too slinky, it's sleeveless and there's no way I can get into anything from that shop."

Sis rolled her eyes. "How about we LOOK and SEE."

"Fine, fine."

So we rocked up to the wee shop and I peeked in through the window, and declared we couldn't go in because the shop was empty THEREFORE the saleslady would annoy us and I would be humiliated IN MY UNDIES when she flung open the curtains to see the dress wedged somewhere around my gut.

"You told me the dress is also at the big department stores, why can't we go there so I can hide amongst the masses?"

"Nooo!" She insisted we were better off in the smaller, quieter shop; and we were just LOOKING anyway, there was no pressure. She marched inside and started riffling through the racks. She pulled something out and I said, "Oh, it's a skirt?" It looked to small to be a dress. But no, it was apparently a dress.

I started getting that Fat Girl Freakout feeling. Do you ever get that feeling? Where your heart starts pounding, your throat burns and tears spring to your eyes, because your Fat Girl Sense detects pending embarrassment and bludgeoning of self esteem. There was no freaking way I was even going to attempt to get into that! Especially not with that blonde skinny saleslady bouncing around the shop like a frisky puppy.

"Can we just go?" I begged. "Would it be so wrong to get married in jeans like Brittney Spears?"

But my sister was insistent. I was getting panicky. I flatly refused to try it on, instead I managed to persuade HER to try it on instead of me. "To test the sizes," I explained. The biggest size was a 16 and it looked nothing like any other 16 I'd ever seen. So my sis got into the cubicle and got into the frock. It was way too big for her.

"I think you should TRY," she said firmly, "There is no harm in TRYING!"

I made her patrol outside the cubicle and not let anyone in. I stepped into the dress. I was gobsmacked as it slid up over my hips... THEN my guts... THEN my boobs!

"Shit, I think this might work," I whispered.

"It's not working? Oh well, at least we tried."

"Noooo I said it MIGHT work!"

"WOOHOO! I knew it!" She threw back the curtain and jumped up and down grinning and zipped me up. It look a great effort, but not because I was too fat for it, just because it was a close-fitting dress. It fit just fine. It had little straps, but they were detachable and it looked better without them. It was evident I was going to need some seriously manipulative undergarments to make a better shape, but it actually looked pretty nice. It was sleeveless, but my arms didn't look too much like Boeing 747 wings. Especially after we added the sheer and totally subtle stole thingy. It flattered the arms without looking like serious camouflage.

"Quick, quick," I squealed as my sister danced around gleefully, "Help me get out of this now so we can go buy it before the dress changes its mind and won't let me fit into it anymore!"

My sister is such a gem, she really did find a great dress. I absolutely love it, and did not see anything else all day long in all of London that appealed half as much. It's a style that I've always loved, sort of warm and vintagey, but it's rather fitted and obviously sleeveless and a size 16 so there is no way in hell I would have ever even picked it up if it wasn't for her persuading. I dunno if I was happier about finding a gorgeous wedding dress or the fact that I got it from a Normal People's Shop. Ha ha!

That said, crikey people! If I eat ONE mouthful of anything remotely unhealthy between now and March 3, if I can one ounce, I could be seriously in trouble. Mwahaha! It fits perfectly well right now but one false move and POW! So if that's not incentive to keep up with the gymming then I don't know what is. Huzzah!

Running for Dummies

It took three attempts to get inside the door of the running store. The first time I sat on the bus as it sailed past, too nervous to ring the STOP bell. The second time I stood on the opposite side of the street, looking across, getting myself so worked up that I was in tears.

Why get so stressed about a pair of running shoes? It seems so ridiculous now, but I was a wreck last week. A few months back the lovely Julia from Italy (who you may recall kindly sent me a huge parcel of sporty clothes last year) wrote to me when I mentioned that I'd like to take up running. She trains people for running events and offered her help. Of course I was chuffed but got all caught up with my Russia trip.

When I got back there were no more excuses. But first, running shoes. My four-year-old cross trainers weren't going to cut it. All I had to go was go to the running store, get my hoofs fitted and I'd be all set. Instead I wasted another week trying to psych myself up for the task. My main points of concern:

1.  I would be laughed out of the shop by skinny salesmen, because why the hell would a fatty fat guts need running shoes?

Well that was really my only point of concern. I just felt I had no right to go in there. You know what it's like, people. That inferiority complex that comes from being fat. It is a paralysing, paranoid and unfounded fear that so often gets in the way of me achieving anything in life. No matter how much lard I lose, I still cannot shake this idea that there are things I am not allowed to do, places I do not belong, because of my weight.

All this was despite ample reassurance and encouragement from Julia, my sister and my boyfriend; who all insisted running was for everyone. You don't have to be some freaky athlete to run, said The Boy, They're a running shop, they're there to help. Everyone's gotta start somewhere. My fatty fat gut dollar would be just as welcome in the store as some string bean marathon dude's dollar.

Annoyed into action by everyone's logic, I made my third trip to the store last Friday afternoon. My heart was in my mouth. There was a sign on the door, We are closing at the earlier time of 5.30PM today. Sorry for any inconvenience.

It was 5.05PM. "Oh! Well," I thought breezily, my stomach sighing with relief, "May as well head home then. There's four customers in there, they'll never have time for me, tra la la la."

I was halfway up the street before I stopped and realised it was pretty dumb to leave work early and come all this way without at least going in the door.

"I'll just stand here at the back of the shop," I told my fraidy cat self. "And if anyone notices me before the shop closes, we'll take it from there."

So I slinked in, hiding behind a rack of Very Tiny Shorts while the staff sold some socks to a nubile blonde. Sadly the other people were just browsing, so before I knew it I was spotted.

"Can I help you?" asked the saleswoman.

"Oh, hello," I said meekly,  "I'm looking for some running shoes."

"Excellent," she smiled.

"I'm just starting out, you see," I said in a rush, "Well, obviously."

D'oh! Must stop feeling the need to justify my presence to skinny people. Why must I rush and establish, Yes, I'm Know I'm Fat, Beat Ya To It!

But this woman just focused on the task at hand. She asked me a bazillion questions, got me to take off my shoes and roll up my jeans (hello hairy calves!) and walk up and down the shop. She instantly spotted my wonky right foot that tends to roll inwards. She returned with a mighty stack of shoe boxes and asked even more questions as I tried them on.

All that attention made me squirm. All that attention on my body made me squirm. I am so used to being anonymous with exercise, hiding up the back of the class and muddling my way through. It felt strange to have someone treat my fitness so seriously.

"Okay, just have a wee run up and down the shop so I can see how your feet like those shoes,"

I froze. "What? Me?"

She smiled, "Don't worry, no one's looking at you."

"Oh man."

"I'll just be looking at your feet, not analysing your technique."

"I have no technique."

I remained frozen for another 30 seconds before finally doing a half-hearted little trot up the store. My face was burning red.

I must have tried on ten different pairs. I kept blurting, "These are okay, yeah, I think these'll do," anything to get her to stop paying so much attention. And wasn't the store closing soon? But she was in no hurry. I was appreciative of her friendliness and thoroughness, but it made me feel so weird.

Finally at 5.29PM we found the right pair. She wished me luck and gave me an entry form for a Win A Trip To The Chicago Marathon contest.

"Maybe just be a spectator this year," she smiled.

I felt so relieved and so stupid as I walked home. I was so proud of myself for finally making the purchase, yet felt like a dimwit for making such a big production of it. After all, the hardest task was ahead of me - to actually get my arse out there and start running.

Bend It Like

Fish is good for you, omega-3's and all that. I'm always trying to eat more fish. Sardines, tuna, salmon, unnamed white stuff in crumbs from the depths of the freezer.

But every single time I eat fish, I am always surprised that it tastes... fishy. Like my goldfishesque brain forgets every single time that it's going to taste like that. I'm expecting a certain flavour, something not as strong, more savoury. More like chicken. Why can't it taste like chicken?

Every single bloody time it's a shock to me. Does anyone else have this problem?

...

So I have started Body Balance classes again. I did one class, back in October 2000 when I first joined the gym. I was around 140 kilos at the time. I toddled up in my too-tight size 26 track pants and a baggy t-shirt. BB is has moves from yoga, tai chi, pilates and other body/mind palaver, set to music and designed for all levels of fitness. But it was too much for me. I just couldn't do any of the moves. Couldn't stretch or bend or whatever. I remember looking over at the mirrors at the side of the room. All I could see was me, a beached whale in an ocean of stick insects. I remember looking from my chins to my chest, there was just all this flesh, and whatever happened to my neck? And this great lifesaver of blubber around my middle, the thighs so wide. I stayed for the whole class but just struggled not to cry the whole time.

Afterwards I cried and cried in the car and my sister tried to confort me but I was in this horrible state. I just wanted to tear at my flesh and rip my hair out. Just confronted with my body like that, those mirrors, my inability to move - I couldn't believe this was me, this is what I had become. It was as if I hadn't noticed before.

When we got home I stared in the mirror again and I got so angry that I was just pounding my reflection with my fists and swearing and sobbing. Bloody hell. I can feel that anger again so easily, how I felt that day and so many days like it, just blind rage and disappointment and hopelessness.

After that I let my gym membership rot for a good six months, gained almost 20 kilos, before finally getting my arse into gear. It still scares me to think how much hate and anger I had, entirely directed onto myself. Eek.

Three years later back in Body Balance class, I am bloody uncoordinated as ever. But I could do all the moves, more or less. I'll get better over time. I came from the class feeling so mellow and relaxed, it was that beautiful high like after a dirty big orgasm, or a particularly good dessert. Hehe. This time I am going to stick with it, and will be able to bend like a pretzel if it kills me.

The Fat Came Back

I rocked up to the gym last night for Pump and the gym WAS CLOSED.

Not only was it closed, there was tape across the doors and a big fat security guard.

Apparently there's been a "misunderstanding" between the building owners and the gym management. From the notice on the door it seemed to me they'd neglected to pay the rent.

Recently a friend of ours was joining the gym and the 12 month membership is now a whopping $695. There's a bazillion people at that gym, why can't they play the bloody rent?

Of course my first instinct was to panic and wonder what I'd do without the gym, there's not one half as close to our house, the rest are yucky, rah rah rah. Worst of all I panicked because I took the week off last week...

(well that is a lie. I only took the week off from weights. I felt I needed a rest after a few months hard slog. So instead I did one class of each fitball, yoga and Body Jam [insane dance class])

... and was so ITCHING to get back into it and the gym was closed and would this mean the fat would come back?

I swear I could feel my body twitching to get in there. I almost cried. Yes, can you believe how things have changed around here, dear reader? I wanted to cry because I couldn't exercise. Crikey.

Anyway, we've been assured the gym will be open on Wednesday. It bloody better be! ROAR!

So what's new around here? I couldn't tell you how much I weigh, the gym scales said 112 kg at my fitness assessment last Wednesday, but they always were kinder than the WW scales. I haven't been back to WW yet. Things to do keep cropping up on Monday nights...

(Funny thing about losing weight, the more you lose the more outgoing you feel, the more you seem to get invited places, therefore the more tempations you are faced with. I had spaghetti bolognaise last night [not bad] with four small pieces of garlic bread [bad] but I can bounce back from that)

... so traipsing to the other side of the city to stand on the scale has not been a priority. But I seem to be doing okay. I had my measurments done during my fitness assessment and I'd lost another 3cm from both my upper arm and my calf. Usually you're lucky to lose half a cm in those spots, but three! It's the weights, I tells ya. My shape is changing. Also had good losses from chest, waist, hips and thigh. Woo.

My next gym challenge, should the bloody thing ever re-open, will be to try a Cycle Power class. I think that's like Spinning or something. I just need to shake things up a little. That's the key to busting your lard, folks. You have to try new things and surprise your lumpy body.

...

Things That Piss Me Off #437 - Inconsistent Clothing Sizes.

I found a nice skirt the other day and it was a size 20. It was even a little big around the waist. Woo, I said, woo, I am a size 20 at last! Soon I will be an 18 which sounds SO much better.

Then on Saturday I had a burning desire to have a pair of jeans. Why? Because my jeans are size 24 and huge. Also, I was going out on Saturday evening and was too lazy to shave my legs so I wanted jeans. I went to Grace Bros (a dept. store) and went to the BIB section (apparently stands for Big Is Beautiful... more like Big Is BloodyCrapPolyesterParadise) with my friend Jenny. This was strange for me as before I would never have let a size 8 friend know I was that big. But I don't care so much now.

Anyway, the jeans were very ordinary but they would do. But they didn't have any 20s! Bloody hell. I was sad. Jenny suggested we look at Jeans West, a "normal" shop catering mainly for slivers of teenage girls. But they had size 20 jeans. Woo. I went into the change room and went to put them on. Two minutes of intense wrestling and grunting later, they sucked at my legs like leeches. I somehow managed to pull them over my hips, then looked around for the zipper. Oh there it was. One half on one side of my big belly and the other half on the other side. This was not one of those "suck it in" jobs, nor one of those "buy it and fit into it in a month or so". It was simply TOO BLOODY SMALL and would take another year of frantic exercise to fit.

So I slinked out of the change room and felt like shit. Jenny's all, "How did you go?" and I mutter, "terrible!" and the saleslady appears from nowhere, pencil thin and chirping, "How did you go?"

"No good!" I said quietly.

"Oh that's a pity! What's was wrong with them?"

"They didn't fit!"

"Oh! Would you like to try our men's jeans? Some ladies prefer those!"

"I have too much hip and gut and butt for men's jeans."

"Oh are you sure? You'd be surprised!"

"Maybe next time!" I blurt and flee from the shop, shoving on my sunglasses just in time for me to start crying.

I dunno how you can make a tall leggy waif like my mate Jenny understand how that feels. I guess I was kidding myself that I could walk in and fit into something from a "normal" shop.

Once again it's the feeling of having worked SO HARD for a whole year now, to have changed so much mentally, and feeling like the body should have caught up by now. But it hasn't. So once again, I have to remind myself to be more patient, and to not give up. I'll get into those bloody jeans eventually.

Saggy Ass

Hurrah! Week 2 of the 11 Week Challenge is over and I lost 2.2kg, which is 4.8 lb. I have been making a pretty huge effort to be good with the food, and I've been walking up a storm. Also headed back to the gym this week, at last. Things are looking good. However I am sure the big losses of the past two weeks can be put down to my body going into shock coz I'd been pretty crap for awhile there. I expect the loss will slow down now, but hopefully I will be on track to be 110 by December 31!

This Saturday I plan to tackle a new challenge, a Body Combat class. The WW weigh-lady goes to my gym and is singing the praises of that class. It's kind of martial-artsy, taebo-ish, tai-chi-esque type thing. Hehe. I've been meaning to start that class for a few weeks now but my Saturday mornings have been consumed by moving and unpacking and cleaning, but this Saturday morning is free so I have no excuse. I always thought I'd had to wait til I was fitter, but the Fit Fairy is not going to come along and sprinkle me with Athlete's Dust while I sleep. I need to get out there and just have a go at my own slovenly pace, dying quietly up the back of the class.

I also bought a kickboard and some goggles for the pool. Since I seem to have lost the ability to swim properly, I thought I could do some kickin' laps. I thought kickboards were only for kiddies, but I saw heaps of people at the pool powering up and down with them. Plus the girls had them on The Secret Life Of Us, and I love that show, so if they do it, it must be cool, right? :P

Speaking of the pool, I realised the other day how bad my self-image and esteem still is. We were all set to go swimming late Sunday afternoon. Last time we went it was 5pm and very quiet. But this weekend my sister had to go out later so we turned up at the pool at 3pm. I got out of the car and saw all these kiddies and families going in, all skinny little things of course. I said to my sister, "I can't do this." I just froze. I couldn't walk in there and "swim" with so many people around. I felt physically sick and panicky. So after much apologising and weak explainations to my sister, we went home. Then I went and sat on my bed and had a little cry and felt like the fattest pork in the universe.

This was in spite of a positive thing the day before: I saw a friend of mine who went overseas in March 2000. I was huge then but I think I gained almost another 20 kilos (44lb) or so before I joined WW in January 2001 (yes I ate bigtime in the year 2000). So realistically, from March 2000 to now, I didn't think I was that much smaller. I didn't expect much of a reaction. She looked at me twice when we hugged hello. Then a couple of minutes later she said in her usual blunt style, "Fucking hell, you've lost a shitload of weight!"

I woo-hooed a bit and hugged her and said thanks because she was one of about 5 people who actually noticed. She said I looked fantastic and couldn't imagine how people could not possibly notice.

So that was good. Then before we went swimming I got out my new black swimmers that I only have worn once. When I put them on the arse of them was all baggy. It looked like I was a baby with a shitty nappy (diaper to you americans), that's how low they were hanging round my arse. Big chunks of fabric. They were all loose under the arms too. So either my swimmers got wildly stretched when I handwashed them, or my bod has shrunk a bit in the past 3 weeks since the last swim. I guess all that moving house and lifting stuff has shaped me a bit, but I dunno if it could have made much of a difference. Either way I was a bit annoyed coz the bastards cost me $70 and now they're unwearable! So I got these other ones mum got me, size 20. They fit! Amazing. Size 20. Then again it's swimmers and they stretch and they were probably a bit too tight across the arse, but they looked quite good. As good as it gets for 116 kilos in a swimsuit I guess.

Anyway, with all that, you'd THINK I would have been feeling all positive about myself, but nooooo. The sight of all those kids and lovely slim people at the pool made me freak. I felt disgusted for being at all happy with myself. Why? Because I've just downgraded from Super Fat Chick to Slightly Less Fat Chick. I am still a fat chick. I am stil miles and miles from ever being able to go swimming and feeling so hideously out of place. I am miles from being able to buy clothes from a "normal" shop. That realisation is hard to handle sometimes.

But I got over it. Kinda. I mean, it's something that I torture myself with time and time again. But the torture is pointless. I have to stay focuses on the goals and just try and be happy with what I've achieved so far. I'll get there eventually. Won't I?

In The Beginning

How did I get here?

The thing that I find so sad is, I wasn't really doing that badly for awhile there. I'd made another attempt at getting healthy last October. I was going to the gym plus walking the dog every second day. I had cut out so much crap from my diet. But I didn't give myself any credit for any of that. Since the scales were only showing about half kilo losses (2 pounds or so) every week, or no loss at all, I got very angry at myself.

So little by little, the bad foods started creeping back into my diet. The chocolate, the icecream, the chips. Then the trips to the gym tapered off into nothing. Before I knew it, I'd put all the weight back on, and then some.

I think I've been waiting for some sort of epiphany. But there's not been one dramatic moment, just lots of depressing realisations. On Christmas Eve I was slumped in an armchair at my mother’s house. It was a typical Australian summer afternoon, an energy-sapping 38 degrees. The ceiling fan groaned above me as I slurped away at my second bowl of ice cream. I felt listless and cranky. For the second Christmas in a row, I hadn’t called any of my high school friends to catch up while we were all home, because I didn’t want them to know how big I’d become. I knew I was pretty much settled in for the night, not having the energy to move my massive frame. My only plans for that night consisted of dinner, more dessert, then It’s A Wonderful Life on the television.

You know, I don’t think I feel so wonderful, I thought suddenly. I can’t remember the last time I felt wonderful.

I looked down at my bulky frame then looked across to my sister. I pointed to my sprawling stomach and whispered to her, Right after Christmas, I better do something about this.

So tonight we rocked up to Weight Watchers. My sister has a few pounds she'd like to shed, so she kindly tagged along with me.

I am no stranger to WW, having tried it no less than five times before. But that's a saga I'll save for another day. This time round I was terrified, because I knew how huge I was. Not just overweight anymore, but seriously obese.

The place was packed tonight. It felt like the whole city had made LOSE WEIGHT their New Years Resolution. And I quickly noticed that I was definitely the heaviest person in the room. I am getting used to that now. Urgh.

I looked at the scale they had and I knew I weighed more than it's capacity. This was my worst nightmare. I was just like those Super Fat people you see on A Current Affair, and they have to be weighed on super scales they use for cattle, or maybe at a Heavy Vehicle weighing station. I told my sister I was too big for the scale. She suggested we wait til the end to get weighed, until after the meeting was finished.

The leader was really nice. I've had my share of dull and uninspiring ones, but this lady seems great. Very motivating. I felt that it would all be okay.

Then the meeting ended and they had to keep weighing the new people, there was that many of us. I waited right til the end after my sister was weighed and I felt my stomach churning with dread. The weighing lady was smiling, told me to hop on, but I told her that I thought I was too big for the scale. She looked surprised, probably because while I look very overweight, my height kinda disguises just how very heavy I am.

So she had to get the leader to come over and they had to add a special weight to the scale to increase its capacity to 160 kilos. My face was burning with shame. I felt so hideous up there. I must have looked like hell, because the weigh lady said, "You look like you're about to crack up, don't worry, we're here to help you!"

Of course their kindness made me feel even worse and I felt the tears start to come. I can't begin to describe how humiliating it is, being so huge you're unweighable.

Finally they got it to balance, and the Leader looked at me and I started to cry. I couldn't help it. I just felt like utter shit. I hated me so much at that moment.

"I'm not going to tell you what the scale read," she said. "I will write it down and we won't worry about goal weights or anything for now. You made the big step coming here tonight and let's just take it slowly from here."

She and the weigh-lady and her assistant and my sister were all looking at me with sympathy and pity and I just felt sick inside. I know they were being kind but I didn't feel like being kind to me at that point. I was so huge she didn't even want to tell me how much I weighed. I knew I was on the verge of full-on sobbing so I went over into the corner and hid. The leader came over and gave me a hug and told me it would be okay, I would get there, blah blah blah. But all I could think about was how ugly and hideous I am, how much I have to lose, I felt so overwhelmed. I couldn't speak to her, only to say "sorry" over and over.

They were such lovely people, really. I especially liked the two weigh girls. Laughing all the time, cracking jokes, giving out little pearls of wisdom to the ladies. And young. I'd say late twenties, early thirties at the most. That's quite a pleasant change from my previous experiences, where all the people were middle-aged housewives who I couldn't relate to at all.

They kept reminding me that I'm not on my own this time. They are here to help. And I have my sister and we're going to do it together. She is a legend. Sibling support network!

But still, I cried in the car all the way home. Pretty pathetic huh? My sister kept reminding me that tonight was the toughest night, it would all be much better after this. Must be positive.

Yeah, I knew that. But I saw my weight on that card. 159.2 kilograms. That's 351 pounds. I need to lose more than half of my body to be considered healthy. I'm scared, I'm disgusted and I can't believe I let it get this far.

But I am determined not to fail this time. I don't want to feel as bad as I felt tonight ever again. So here I am telling the world all about it. Wish me luck... please?