The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Happy Snaps

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

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

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

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

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

My personal formula for happiness:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The First Taste

I'm lucky enough to have a photograph of the precise moment when I realised I was falling in lurve.

There's a bit in the Dietgirl book in which Gareth is the only non-Aussie at a tea party and bravely volunteers join in a Vegemite Taste Test (page 201, UK ed.). Our friends Jane and Rory wanted to see if I could tell the difference between Australia and New Zealand-manufactured Vegemite so they made up some sample sandwiches.

• Frame 1 - Tentative sniffing of the samples.
• Frame 2 - Shauna takes the exercise very seriously while Gareth seems nervous to dive in.
• Frame 3 - Gareth is a blur of shock and awe as he takes his first bite.
• Frame 4 - Shauna is triumphant after correctly identifying the Kiwi Vegemite, while Gareth reels from the flava.

I felt stupidly happy throughout the whole exercise, marveling at how the seating-arrangements gods had conspired to let Gareth sit next to me that afternoon when there was at least one other chair and a whole floor he could have sat on instead. I stole little glances at his lovely forearms, tried to understand his accent and wondered if it meant something that I didn't want to be anywhere else.

That was August 2003. Little did we know that just a month later Gareth would be a Vegemite addict and eat nothing but Vegemite on toast for a whole week after his PhD grant ran out. Little did we know that 18 months later we'd be married. SUCKAS!

Today is our fourth wedding anniversary and Dr G will no doubt spew at the cheese level of this post but... I still don't want to be anywhere else. And furthermore, Vegemite RULES and is an excellent source of Vitamin B. Hurrah!

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

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

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

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

You've Got To Hide Your Lard Away

I had this brainwave to make a wee photo album for my sister of all travels. We came to Scotland together in 2003 on a working holiday visa, where the idea is to work work work then see as much of Europe as you can before your visa and/or money runs out.

I poked through a gazillion folders trying to find pictures of us in front of famous landmarks but it was slim pickings, folks. Take the first ever trip we did, a long weekend in Paris. I was so excited to finally be off the couch and seeing the world, but wasn't bold enough to want photographic evidence of this newfound adventurousness. Every time I got the camera out I'd think, My hair sucks. I need a new bra. My head is enormous. My body is revolting. And it was hot and my face was red so I told myself, I'll just come back here some day when I'm smaller and better dressed.

So all I have are a few dodgy shots with my noggin lurking in a corner.

Even as I lost more weight I still kept hiding. On the rare occasions I let Rhiannon take my picture, I'd bark orders, "Make sure I'm just in the corner! Don't go below the waist! Actually, don't go below the chin!" Or I'd try to hide my body behind statues or trees or sunglasses or hats.

We went on a tour of Russia and Scandinavia in 2004 and I nearly keeled over from Photophobia. Every seven seconds in front of another church or museum someone would shout, "GROUP SHOT!" I'd fight my way to the back row and hide behind the tallest bloke. So despite having been desperate to see Russia my whole life, I only have two fuzzy, barely-recognisable pieces of photographic evidence that I ever went there.

I would love to go back in time and kick my own arse. DUDE! Why didn't you just GET IN THE STINKING PICTURES!? These were once in a lifetime experiences! Sure I looked like hell while travelling, but most people do, especially when you're on a budget.

I know I have the memories in my head, but there's something special about having a souvenir photo on your desktop or mantelpiece. I'd kill to have a decent shot of Rhiannon and I together in Red Square or Reykjavik. We worked long and hard to afford those trips so it's sad not have captured the euphoria and relief on our faces when we finally got there. But at the time it didn't feel like I'd be collecting memories, I just thought I'd be documenting FAT FAT FAT!

My favourite picture from our travels is this one from Estonia in 2004, that Rhiannon took without my knowledge. I look like a clown but I'm clearly not thinking about the fact my jeans were a snug size 18. I'm just thinking, "WOOHOO. Life is a hoot."

Every time I look at it, my resolve is strengthened to just jump into photos then laugh if they turn out dodgy. I'd rather have a dodgy photo of a happy moment than no photo at all. Half the joy is looking back and sniggering at your bad haircuts and questionable taste in fashion. I no longer say "I'll come back another day when I'm skinny", because the moment is already happening... right then and there!

So this is a call to any fellow Photophobes out there. Don't scream! Don't hide! Don't put yourself in a  corner! After all, you don't have to post the pictures on the bloody internet. They can gather dust on your hard drive, ready to make you smile and spark your memory when you're old and grey.

Freaky Friday

Thanks so much for your rockin' comments and emails, groovers! You have no bloody idea how much I appreciated every single word. I've sent my visa application back with a metric tonne of extra evidence, so now we play the waiting game. Cross your fingers and toes and eyes that they'll be satisfied this time! :)

Okay, life is generally a wee bit batshit crazy right now. I had a slight freakout in the gym this morning, swooshing away on the Arc trainer, "What am I doing here? I don't have time to be here! There's too much to do!", rah rah rah. Exercise is not having a soothing effect lately, it just seems to wind me tighter and tighter. So I am going to do more soothing stuff, like yoga and outdoor walks.

It's interesting to really listen to your body and give in to its demands, instead of trying to bully it into doing what your brain wants it to do. Which has long been my problem. The body is saying, "Dude, be gentle with me" so I am trying to listen. And it's also saying, "Don't fill me full of chocolate, dammit. You think you want it but you dinnae need it, hen."

I am so freaking proud of myself for not using food as a coping mechanism. When I got off the train in London last week having just found out about the stinking Visa Situation, my brain was screaming "CHOCCCCOLATE! GIMME CHOOCCCOLATE!". But my sister was there and we got on another train to our Indulgent Spa Hotel. We shared a Berry Cheeky Nakd Bar and I talked about my worries instead of burying them in cocoa.

Remember when Rhi and I went to Lisbon last year? I gained 6.5 pounds due to my pre-holiday, holiday and post-holiday feasting. Last year I had resigned myself that this would always be the case on holiday, there was no way I'd miss out on yummy different foods. But now I see it doesn't have to be that way. This time I was more choosy about what I ate, often sharing things with my sister so I'd get the idea of a dish without needing to eat the whole thing. I got the thrill of something new without the remorse.

I was pretty damn gobsmacked by how well I handled things, considering I was a total stressmonkey. And this week is going well too. Was gagging for a giant block of Green & Blacks for lunch yesterday but had a mega bowl of stir-fried vegies and tofu instead and it was strangely delicious. I'm not even trying to lose weight at the moment, I really don't give a shit... I'm just trying to do enough good things to make me feel healthy and happy. But I can tell from mirrors and clothes that I'm holding steady. Exxxcellent.

It's finally coming together, people, after all these years. I am learning the fine art of moderation. I am dealing with my problems instead of distracting myself with a good old binge. The urge is just not there anymore. I can tell you it really sucks to actually feel shitty feelings instead of masking them with chocolate, and I'm sure I've been a total whiny weepy biaaatch to live with. But life sometimes features raw edges and rough spots and crappy days and you just have to embrace it all. I'd much rather a little stress than return to the bad old days of sitting numbly on the couch with half a kilo of cooking chocolate.

Lumps and Bumps

Hidey ho, old chaps! I'm on the train back to bonny Scotland after my couple of days in the ye olde English countryside. I've been massaged and manicured and now I'm ready to get back to reality.

Have to admit I'm feeling a wee bit fragile right now. I don't know if many of you read my non-fat blog, but we found out on Wednesday that my permanent residency application has been denied. Basically when you marry a Brit you get a two-year temporary visa then after that time you have to prove you're still a red hot legitimate married couple so you can stay together forever and ever in your British love nest. If they don't think you've proved it, you're oot, baby!

And whaddya know? The Home Office thinks me and the good Doctor G ain't the real deal.

I have been through all the emotions over the past few days. First the knee-jerk reaction on my blog and generally feeling sick to the stomach that anyone could question our lovely wee relationship. Then anger because I know we filled out that goddamn tedious form properly and sent the correct documents. Then came a hysterical kind of bemusement because the rejection is just plain absurd and there is absolutely no logic behind it.

This was followed by my old friend PANIC, because this really could not have happened at worse bloody time. Like there is a good time for these things, but anyway. Everything is happening all at once and the pressure is a wee bit overwhelming.

You know those moments where everything builds up and you have to decide whether to sink or swim? Well, I allowed myself to splash around in the panic pool for awhile but now I've calmed down. I refuse to fall in a heap. I've got my lists and plans and thought out how to deal with everything logically. And I know me and my Scottish Companion are the real deal, thank you very much; so we will get this sorted.

. . .

The massage was nice, by the way. No paper pants, just strategically placed towels!  I was too chicken to take off my undies but there were no major Fat Girl Freakouts.

It was bizarre how knotted my body was. There were great lumps of tension in my shoulders and arms and even in the palms of my hands. When she kneaded my back it felt like there were marbles under my skin. She even said my scalp was all stiff. Urrgh. Rather painful at times but still enjoyable!

I couldn't seem to switch my brain off. This may sound bizarre but the whole thing made me extremely emotional. I kept thinking of my Skinny List and how I felt about my body way back when I wrote it in 2001. I always try and downplay how much the lard-busting process has changed me, I don't know why. Perhaps a little embarrassment that I got so big in the first place, or defensiveness coz I'm "still the same person". But with a strangers hands poking and prodding the body that I used to feel so ashamed of, I couldn't deny how much has changed. It was a strangely powerful moment, like the past six years rolled past my eyes in a Rocky-esque montage...

Shit shit shit. I dunno what's wrong with me at the moment, I keep getting teary at inappropriate moments and the dude sitting opposite is looking at me funny. So I will sign off and gawk out the window instead. And I hope this entry doesn't come across as self-pitying in any way. I am slightly scared but quietly determined. Keep calm and carry on, as they say. Hope you are all well :)

All Change

Dudes! I'm almost to scared to admit this, but I am kicking arse at the moment. Shhh. Don't tell.

Late last year I was banging on about my impatience to get to 75 kilos so I could say I was Done then just get on with the maintaining:

"... after that... I refuse to expend any more energy on numbers... Once I hit 75kg I am going to make my goals entirely about fitness, and if they result in the the scale going down that will be a happy accident... I will let it settle where it wants to and let the fit of my jeans be the measure of what shape I'm in.

I just want my goals to be completely removed from the scales. It will be about building muscle and getting stronger and leaner and healthier. I want to learn to ride my bike without wobbles and take up yoga and get to a point where I can swim laps for half an hour. I just want to get on with it, continuing my healthy lifestyle. I want to take it further and push harder... because that's how I live my life... not because I'm trying to lose weight."

Rant rant rant. I basically concluded that all that would have to wait... until I got to the elusive 75 kilos.

But then the lovely Beckie left a very thought-provoking comment which you can read here. This sentence grabbed me:

"You said you wanted to change over to just fitness goals. Is this after the finish line? Why not help it get you to the finish line?"

Oooh, indeed! Why wait for the finish line? The fitness stuff is what I like and what makes me feel challenged and productive. So when I wrote out my goals for 2007, Get To 75kg was at the top of the list but the rest of it was about shifting my lardy arse. I have changed my focus to fitness NOW instead of waiting until goal.

Even though exercise has long been a big part of my lard busting efforts, the main theme has been the weekly weigh-in and reporting the results of said weigh-in to the blog. It was starting to drive me MENTAL. I was putting all this pressure on myself to "get results" each week so I'd have some good numbers to report. I was getting impatient that it was taking so long. As much as I was enjoying my exercise, there was an underlying feeling of "wonder if this will help my weigh-in this week?". Because as much as I talked about inches lost or push-ups pushed, it somehow didn't seem quite as valid as pounds down.

Finally I asked myself, Why am I going mental over this stupid number? I was starting to see 75's in my dreams! You know, like a 7 and a 5, walking hand-in-hand through a meadow. Don't get me wrong, I can't wait to hit the number, just so I can say gleefully, "Finiiiished!". But getting impatient and stressed about it was actually counter-productive -- I seemed to be getting further AWAY from goal.

So that's why I made so many fitness goals for 2007, because the sweaty stuff makes me happy. I was really inspired by fitness bloggers like the amazing Kek and her supreme buffness. She has given me so much advice and inspiration to change my focus. All my efforts are now with improving fitness in mind, not weight loss. It's early days, but already feels much more satisfying and positive than focusing on a weekly scale result. Instead I'm obssessed with doing those stinkin' pikes or going up a level on that awful Arc trainer machine at the gym.

You have noticed the weekly exercise plans there in the sidebar. I've now followed them faithfully for a month! I've not missed a single session - no excuses, no half-arsedness! Lots of hard work and stinky gym clothes. I feel more determined and my eating is settling down into something sane and sensible. And sustainable.

I am still weighing myself daily. It was fluctuating wildly for a couple of weeks there and I was getting angsty, as though the numbers cancelled out all the goodness of my eating and fitness efforts. But now I am learning to see the scale as just another tool in my belt - a general indicator of a trend as opposed to a machine that dictates my mood for the day!

So basically what I daydreamed about doing when I hit goal, I am doing right now. Living like a boring old healthy person, getting fitter and letting the scale do what it wants. And whaddya know.... enough, simply by not focusing on getting to goal, I am actually inching closer to it! The scales are creeping down, my jeans have eased their death grip on my thighs, inches have been lost... and I feel a helluva lot more sane.

300 Weeks

In the kick ass October Rules post, Fat Blogger also mentions an old entry from April 2005 called God I Hate Being Fat. It's one of those entries that attracts a tonne of Google traffic, and over a year later the comments thread is still buzzing with people venting about how much they hate themselves and hate their fat. It really is a fascinating, heart-wrenching, horrifying but ultimately inspiring thread, in no small part to FB's encouraging comments throughout.

What struck me most were the commenters with large amounts of weight to lose, and the overwhelming sentiment that it's too hopeless, too much, too bloody impossible. It made me want bawl because I understand that feeling so well. I just wanted to write a wee something today for anyone out there who's in that position.

I remember how it feels to truly loathe yourself. I'd grab handfuls of flesh and want to hack it off with a knife. It seemed like there was no way out of this lardy prison. Even when I did finally get up the nerve to start fighting the flab in 2001, I still often felt I was in a hopeless situation. In some ways it was worse, because I now knew the cold hard statistics - 351 pounds, with at least 185 of them to lose.

I've told the story a million times before how after a month  I decided I had to start exercising. I only managed to shuffle to the end of the block before my lungs wheezed and rattled in protest. I remember thinking bitterly, What was the point of that? How is walking fifty metres ever going to add up to anything? What's the point of any of this?  It's never going to get any better.

But -- *insert soft-focus montage of the past five 3/4 years, sweat, tears, caramel shortcakes* -- as we all know, these seemingly tiny changes do add up over time. And the more little changes you make, the easier it gets, giving you the confidence to you make even more changes. And the more you do it, the more you feel good about yourself and those negative voices are hushed.

I know the numbers can be overwhelming. I know it feels like an impossible mountain to climb. But if it seems too much, don't try and fix everything all at once. Don't try some fancy diet. Just pick one thing this week. Walk to end of the street and back. Cut out the teaspoon of sugar in your tea. Just try one tiny little thing for seven days. Then when you've done that for a week, add another tiny little thing for the next.

I know this approach is not quick enough for some. Where's the gobsmacking results? Where's the meal replacement shakes and the deprivation? Where's the dramatic statistics? I'm always having people tsk-tsking at what I eat - whether it's some toast or the occasional chocolate - and saying things like, "You'll never get to goal eating that! Carbs are bad! Last year I lost 20 pounds on Trendy Diet Of The Month, why don't you do that? ".

Never mind that the person usually has put back on those 20 pounds plus more. How can you say a diet Works if you gained the blubber back? I'd rather enjoy real food and take longer to get to goal in my slow-ass bumbling way, than crash and burn on a Trendy Diet and wind up with even more pounds to lose. 

Sure it sounds BORING to take it slowly. But just add up all the time you've spent losing and regaining pounds on Trendy Diets. How many weeks or months would that be? Imagine if you'd used that same amount of time to lose half or one pound a week? Would you be heavier or lighter than you are now?

I was moaning about my own excruciatingly slow progress the other day. I've now been Busting Lard for five years and nine months, which is roughly 300 weeks (fark!). And I say roughly, coz I am shite at maths. And now for some statistics:

300 weeks
78.3 kilos (172 lb) lost
A paltry average of just over HALF A POUND (220g) per week.

But... imagine if I'd gone the other way? What if I hadn't changed anything? What if I'd maintained my addiction to ice cream and cheese n bacon rolls and family blocks of Cadbury's Black Forrest?

Right before I started the Lard Busting in 2001, I was gaining weight far more rapidly than half a pound a week. But for arguments sake, let's just say I'd gained at the same rate I've losing for the past 300 weeks - half a pound a week.

I'd now weigh 237.5 kilos. 523 pounds.

Who knows what I'd be up to now. Maybe I'd be in a golf cart, trundling off to the shops; or in a crane, being lifted out of my house by the fire brigade; or just a plain ol pine box. It's kinda scary to think about.

So if you think a pound or a half a week sounds too slow, or if you think your walking around the block or switching to wholegrain bread or doing twenty squats or increasing your veggies isn't going to amount to anything... don't worry. Be patient. Don't give up. Take all the freakin' time you need. Sure, it might take 300 weeks or more. But at least it's 300 weeks in a healthier, happier direction.

The Deep End

I'm going to take swimming lessons!

In the last two years I have re-learned to run and re-learned to ride a bike, so now it's time to face my ultimate fear and re-learn to swim.

Swimming is associated with so many traumatic memories and body image issues, not to mention the fact that I have always completely sucked at it! But I am just in a Fear Facing mood right now, so I want to conquer this one once and for all.

Also, winter is sneaking up again so I want a new exercise that will keep me motivated but won't be murder on my knees. My father-in-law contacted his friend who's a swimming teacher and she's up for teaching me, so tonight I'm going to call her and then I'll go forth and buy some swimmers and then I'll get my chalky white arse back into the drink.

Consider this my public declaration of intent. Feel free to hunt me down and thrash me with a branch if I don't follow it through.

Before long I will have the complete set of Triathlon skillz down pat! Of course, it would have to be a very special Triathlon for the Chronically Hopeless:

SWIM - Frenzied dog paddle across the council pool.
BIKE -  Ten minutes in a straight, flat line because I'm still scared of hills and corners.
RUN - Actually can we make that a walk, since my knees are cactus? A slow, shuffling walk.

Och, you gotta start somewhere.

Just to explain my current arse-kicking frame of mind. I had yet another revelation on Friday. In brief: I am chicken shit!

This was brought on by the whole Television Thing. When I was initially approached about the Sky News story I completely freaked out and said No! I had nightmare visions of my big mug on the telly and panicked. What if they made me climb into my fat jeans? What if I looked hideously fat and everyone laughed? What if what if what if?

I got off the phone and told my colleagues about it. They were amazed that I'd said no, saying it would have been a nice opportunity. But I came up with a dozen reasons why I shouldn't do it, concluding with, "I'm too fat to be on television."

An hour or so later it all sank in and I thought, "Oh god, what have I done? That would have been a fab opportunity. You. Bloody. Moron!"

In the end, thanks to the lovely Emma Robertson (journalist extraordinaire who wrote The Scotsman article last week), I managed to get back in contact with Sky on Friday morning. They wanted to do the story straight away! FARK! Thanks to my faffing about the day before, there was no time to angst over wardrobe choices. Luckily I have the best colleagues in the world. Not only did my boss let me nick off for a couple of hours, my mate Alex drove me to the shops so I could get a top that didn't have lunch stains on it, then drove me into town. What a legend. At the last minute I ran to the chemist and got some nail-polish remover and rubbed off two weeks of crusty, chipped nail polish, which was just as well since they did some close-up shots of me typing! Note to self: Be less slobby!

It was all over so quickly. I was so nervous I thought I'd throw up, but the Sky people were lovely. They just plonked me onto chair, asked me a few questions, had me do the pretend typing then I was all done! Cool.

On the way back to work I kept thinking about how much I have changed since the fat fighting started, but also how much I haven't changed. My reaction to the whole media madness last week proved how in many ways, I am still holding on to my fat. I am still letting it hold me back, even though so much of it is physically gone. I am still using it as an excuse not to push myself. I am still scared.

I don't want to be like this any more. I am tired of doubting myself and being timid. I know I have made real, albeit slow progress towards accepting that I've changed and declaring some ambitions (such as the book project). But sometimes I still feel like an Apologetic Fat Girl, afraid of making a noise and taking up space.

On Friday night I decided to write an entry for my other blog and finally "out" Dietgirl. I had a good cry as I wrote. It took me two more days to work up the nerve to post it. I barely slept all weekend, knowing I'd kept a massive external and internal transformation a total secret from some really brilliant friends around the world, for really demented reasons. But when I finally did it, it was like the last big cloud had been lifted.

So now I feel like I am finally being honest, to my friends and to myself. More accepting. No more hiding. It's time to push forward and work harder. To live a little less in my head. To stop clinging to the old excuses and not be such a chicken.

And that's when I figured I may as well learn how to swim again, while I'm on a roll!

How To Let Go

Sometimes I wonder if I am a positive person, or if I am just faking the lifestyle of a positive person. Can you consider yourself a positive person if you have to constantly remind yourself to be positive?

I've been hiding from this website because I feel like a fraud. People sometimes write to say I am honest and inspirational and determined and positive, and I feel guilty as I've not felt like any of those for a wee while.

Over the past month I tried to dilute how bad this injury crap has made me feel, so not to come across as a self-pitying whiner. But last week it all boiled over and I was not a nice person to live with. I stomped around, mentally composing entries full of anger and frustration and general woe. I stopped short of actually writing them, because after a few hours and perhaps some perspective from the Scottish Companion, I'd simmer down. I'd sniff out the positives like a truffle pig, then go back and edit out all the venom.

Then on Saturday around 3AM, I finally sat down at the keyboard and exploded! In the textual sense. About 800 words of pure rantage.

I knew I was being irrational and I knew other people had terrible diseases and all manner of proper tragedies. I knew that I had lost perspective on a trifling sporting injury. So I ranted to imaginary readers, begging them not to write and tell me to get over it or I would just cry. And as much as I'd appreciated everyone's medical advice and exercise tips of late, I wasn't looking for that today. I just needed the world to let me vent. RAH!

I'll go through the rubble of the entry and give you a quick summary.

First I wrote about how the lack of exercise was making me feel down. I'd been off "full schedule" for over a month. I missed the structure it gave to my days, I missed the sense of purpose, the sweat, the spreadsheets. Most of all I missed the happy chemicals in the brain.

Then came a dozen paragraphs re my frustration at not being able to take advantage of the good weather and ride my brand-new bike.

And how it's all my fault because I neglected the knee for almost a year.

And how I've been consumed by anger at myself for not listening to my body or my head for so long.

How I valued the opinion of others above my own my brain and pain, because I assumed they knew what was best for my body more than I did, since they were skinnier/smaller.

How I therefore started exercising again too soon and caused further damage.

How didn't take myself or the pain seriously.

Like how I never went back to the physio I saw last June, because in my fat girl paranoia I felt like I was wasting his time. After all I was just a fat chick flirting with exercise, not a legitimate sporty person. How could a big lump like me possibly have a real injury?

Hmm, what else?

How I was frustrated because I'd gained a pound. Only A Pound but that meant yet another month had ended with no progress, making three months with no significant loss.

How these last 6 kilos are proving the most difficult and stressful than any of the other 70-something already gone.

I almost edited out that sentence, as I don't want to insult people who have far more left to lose. Five years ago I would have killed to be where I am now. But as someone who has filled the shoes of Staggeringly Obese, Obese, Still Pretty Fat and Almost Healthy Weight all for extended periods of time, I can honestly say this stage is somehow the most overwhelming and frustrating of all.

Thankfully for anyone still reading, I ran out of steam after that. I hit Save Draft and headed for bed, not before seething with bitterness until about 4AM.

Saturday morning I got up and forgot about the computer. I ate banana on toast, watched the MotoGP qualifying, kissed the Scottish Companion goodbye, then hopped on a plane for London.

A ridiculous seven hours later (thanks to the joys of public transport delays), I was walking through Hyde Park. Previously I'd only been to London in the winter, so I lapped up the grassy breeze, the trees, the rollerbladers and roses; the kamikaze insects splattered on my sunglasses.

Quite simply, I could feel my body and brain finally begin to chill the fuck out.

There's something about being in the Big Bad City that always brings perspective. All those people from all over the planet, so busy busy busy getting on with all kinds of lives.

I caught the train back home yesterday, for variety. It was the most blissful four hours I've spent in ages. No computer, no phone and a quiet, near-empty carriage. Just me and the sandwiches, grapes, trashy magazines, Gareth's iPod and a tiny wee bar of Green and Blacks chocolate.

Looking out the window at the English countryside in its green and glorious Englishness, I decided it was time to give the boot to all the crazy anger and anxiety I've been dragging round for weeks.

I even sniffed out a few positives from this injury debacle:

1.  It's a learning experience. I sure as hell won't ignore my body again.

2.  It makes for a small, albeit tedious sub-plot in the Dietgirl story.

And speaking of which!

3.  The enforced rest has given me more time to write! I met my self-imposed deadline for May of completing the first draft of 2001. I cut it a wee bit fine by finishing at 11.45 PM on May 31, but I did it! Baby steps actually work!

I've also dragged out my old pedometer. Walking shall be my main exercise until the knee improves and I will obsessively count my steps, cannily satisfying my need to be obsessive about numbers.

Maybe this is what being a positive person is - the ongoing management of the way you react to life's little challenges. You can shit your pants for awhile, but then you try to sift through the shit and salvage the good stuff. I mean, surely no one is positive about everything straight away? Don't you have to mull it over awhile and then decide how you'll deal with it? Or maybe there are genuine 100% cheery optimists out there, always on duty. If so, I'd like to punch them all in the face.

Epiphany Shmiphany

Holy guacamole. Thanks for all your responses to the grand epic What Do You Do For A Living post! You all rule the school. What a great read, eh? So many inspiring, thoughtful and funny posts. And people have taken such wild and wacky paths to get to where they are. That's both reassuring and motivating!

So who's out there? You're a diverse bunch. To name a few - we have lawyers, teachers, accountants, stay-at-home-mums, administrators, students, nannies, librarians, bank tellers, PR gurus, academics, social workers, journalists, and even a former Karaoke Sound Engineer.

Why was I being so bloody nosy? I was curious about your lives and work and how you handle things. Thanks a bazillion, folks. Your answers gave some much-needed perspective!

Just so my Anonymous Colleague commenter is reassured and no one dobs me into HR - I am perfectly happy with my current job :) I've just been thinking about what I want in the loooong term.

I've particularly pondered how I continue to (mis)manage my spare time - my apparent inability to get things done and make any headway with my plans. While the Scottish Companion can work like a madman all week yet manage to work on his album in his spare time, I go to work then just faff around at home.

Yesterday I got a cracker of an email from lovely reader Ellen K, who told me how she's a web developer by day but in her spare time pursued her true lurve - woodworking! She completed a two year course and now does all sorts of cool stuff like teaching. In other words, she is just bloody doing what she loves! She made it happen. She is balancing the day job with the stuff that really floats her boat. She sent me a photo of her working on a piece and she looked so bloody happy and content, just truly in her element. Brilliant!

So when I posted those questions on Thursday I was just CRACKIN' UP, baby! My gnawing dissatisfaction bubbled to the surface and I was panicky, weepy, scared. I was positively wallowing in overwhelmedness.

Once I'd calmed the hell down, I realised with a clunk that I've been here before! I felt exactly as I had at the start of my lard-busting journey. Hopeless, powerless, desperate, cranky, trapped. Just like we all bloody know dieting is simply calories in calories out, I know writing is a matter of picking up a pen - yet I've been feeling paralysed. People gave me sound advice, told me what's worked for them - yet to me it sounded complicated and impossible. I was looking at university courses, retreats, self-help books... the equivalent of a last ditch crash diet or miracle pill. I was looking everywhere else for the answers except within.

Then I remembered something I wrote in Erin's book:

"I always thought there would be a great epiphany.  I pictured it like the opening credits of Highway To Heaven – big fluffy clouds would part, sunbeams would stream down, and perhaps Michael Landon himself would descend. As cherubs plucked at harps he would say unto me, "Now is the time, Shauna. Now you will finally go forth and lose your lard."

I'm doing the same thing now, but swap "lose your lard" for "do some goddamn writing!".

Just like with the fat, there will be no writing epiphany. There is no Great Moment - just a moment when you start doing something about it. And if you can string together lots of little moments, that's when you start to get somewhere.

Basically I need to apply the same approach as I did to the Fat Busting. Why was I successful with the Fat Busting this time when I failed so many times before?

• I had a plan.
• I was committed to changing my current habits.
• I made myself accountable.
• I made the task my number one priority.
• I broke a large and overwhelming task into wee chunks. Baby steps!
• I figured out what worked best for me.
• I had a clear belief that I could do it.
• I made a firm commitment to see it through, no matter how long it took.

I currently have: None of this. Yet I've been acting surprised that I've not produced anything!

Actual current status: No specific plan, no baby steps, no accountability, no prioritizing. No freaking self belief at all. And just like the weight loss parallel, I've been vague and secretive about my ambitions in case I fail and/or suck.

Righto. What am I doing about it?

I'm applying the Dietgirl Tactics! I am currently working on a proper plan and goals. I am going to shuffle round my writing priorities so I stop getting sidetracked. The moping stops NOW. No more being secretive in case of failure. Did that work for losing weight? Nooo. Wide-scale accountability starts now! I am going to write a book about these lard busting adventures. I don't care how long it takes and how much it sucks and if it never gets published, I just want to do it.

I will work on the self belief thing. That took a wee while to get going with the Fat Busting too, but I will get there.

Please don't think this is a fishing expedition. It's not an entry coercing people to say, "Woohoo girlfriend, you're a great writer!". Because this isn't about writing ability, it's about the ability to get off your arse and do something with that ability. And that's the ability that I've been sorely lacking!

Apologies for such a dry and humourless entry - this is really just me needing to think out loud. But it's also me thinking out loud IN PUBLIC like a weirdo raving lunatic at a bus stop, which is what made the difference with the Lard Busting.

. . .

Today I did a few things I've neglected for ages. Ginger has been updated at last with two little entries. I also tackled my email backlog. I started with some folk who wrote LAST AUGUST. I am sorry. And I know there were more emails that I lost forever because I didn't log into my old Hotmail account for too long and all my messages, (ie four years of Dietgirl correspondence) just bloody vanished. I am really really sorry if I never got back to you! I still have a few more emails to go but I am getting there.

Just so you know, please don't ever hesitate to write, whether it's to say hello or to ask for advice. I may not get back quickly, but I read every comment and every email gets a Reply To label put on it and I do listen and respond as soon as practicable. Sometimes it takes me awhile to figure out a thoughtful answer. But don't ever think no one's listening or no one understands or that your comments are unwelcome. I have lost some weight but I still struggle with the same issues all the time and can feel just as alone and frustrated at times.

Croikey, I've been writing all bloody night. If you slogged your way through this whole indulgent tosh, you have burned approximately 65.8 calories, woohoo!

Minor Identity Crisis

Dietgirl visitors were curious about the reactions I got back in Australia. I was approximately 20 kilos lighter and three sizes smaller than when I left in 2003, so it was a decent difference. Everyone was really sweet about it. I got a few "Oh my god look at YOU, you're so SKINNY!" kind of reactions which are always fun. I also got a lot of incredulous shaking of the heads and little smiles, "You're looking great, you know. Really really really great!" Which is a really polite way of saying, "Holy CRAP you were fat before. I didn't want to say anything at the time but I was worried you might explode! So what a relief to see you somewhat deflated!"

I was reunited with my precious gang of high school buddies at the Aussie wedding. It's now ten years since we left school, and we're scattered all over the countryside. It was incredible to hear what everyone's been up to, some of them have some really interesting careers. I hadn't seen many of them for five years or more so they didn't know what I really did for a living. I just sprouted some self-deprecating jokes about my glittering secretarial career. But then one of my closer friends piped up, "What about your writing? What about the Cosmo story?".

"Oh yeah," I mumbled, "That."

"You wrote a story for Cosmo?" said one of my mates, "Wow!"

"Yeah..."

"So what was it about?"

"Umm..."

Here's the thing. In the first five years after I left high school, I soared from a sturdy size 18 to bursting out of a size 26. During those five years I was one depressed/ depressing anti-social mofo, outwardly happy and jolly for awhile but then descending into full hermit-mode. I kept in touch via email and phone, but for the most part managed to physically avoid my old friends during my very fattest days. I hid away until a wedding in 2002, and by then I'd shrunk back into a size 18/20, was off my pills and was once again a functioning member of society. It was like the Dark Days™ never happened!

"Welllllll, this will be news to you all, but after we left school I got really honking hugely overweight!" I blurted. "And then I lost a shitload of it, wrote about it for a book, then Cosmo picked it up and asked me to write an article, and that's about it really!"

"Cool! That's fantastic!"

"Ah! Yeah."

That little incident has been stuck in my mind ever since. I can't stop thinking about the past ten years - all the things my friends and I had done, and the fact that my decade was dominated by my goddamn fat. I spent the first five years accumulating ridiculous amounts of it, then the next five obsessed with making it go away. Sure I had some interesting travels, and even had a decent career back in Australia -- but when it came time to summarise a decade of achievements, the overwhelming theme was my bloody weight.

Then there's the writing thing. I've know since I was in kindergarten that all I wanted to do was write. And this year I amazingly got paid to write and saw my name in print a few times - the most incredible rush you can imagine. But again, it was about the fat. I am proud as punch to be published, but there's part of me that is both amused, frustrated and embarrassed that I had to become obese in order to find something to write about. That I had to lose half my body weight in order to write something publishable.

It feels so awkward when old pals ask, "Are you still writing? Have you got anything published yet?" and I have to explain this whole stupid saga about how I got fat and blogged ("What's a blog?") and blah blah blah. It doesn't feel like a legitimate achievement. I mean, I've always been uncomfortable to class losing weight as one of my "achievements". It only reminds me that as a pampered Westerner I had the luxury of being able to "achieve" obesity in the first place. And to earn some cash by writing about it somehow feels even more ridiculous.

Most of all it just makes me think, what the hell have I been doing for ten years? And all the years before that, even when I was six years old, when everything I said or did I was tainted by my weight.

All these questions are churning in my head.

What do I want to write about besides fat?
What are my hobbies aside from losing weight?
What do I want to do with my life?
What do I want to be able to say I've achieved when my friends meet up in another ten years?

Even though I moved to Scotland and had adventures, I still feel like my life has been too much about my weight. I must have buried my personality in the food I binged on, but I don't seem to have found it again as I've lost weight. While my husband is madly into his music and motorbikes and whatnot, I struggle to list any true hobbies of my own. Blogging? Body Pump?

What's most annoying is that while I am so fucking sick of my life being about my fat, I am still overweight and my jeans may just slice me in half  today. Almost five years and I've not finished the job.

The glaring absence of Dietgirl entries since I returned from Oz is due to me wallowing in this minor identity crisis; and generally being a sullen, dejected and apathetic little shite. Homesickness hasn't helped either. But I've realised I need to find a balance between getting to a healthy size and GETTING A LIFE. I need to figure out who I am and who I want to be apart from That Chick That Lost Heaps Of Weight. There is so much more to me than that, and it'll be fun trying to work out what that is.

Okay, enough of this navel-gazing wankery. Someone from work could be reading.

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.

The Right to Party

This weekend I learned that there are more important things in life than your big fat Boeing 747 arms. Friends, family, love, cake - they are more important than the arms.

Actually, the arms aren't totally bad these days. It's amazing what weights and running and regular moisturizing can do. Considering what extra-large lumpy loaves they used to be, they have shrunk and shaped up far more than I ever believed possible. I doubt I'll ever have the confidence to strut about in a strappy top, but I recently I have been buying cap sleeve t-shirts coz that's all I can bloody find, and they actually look alright.

Anyway, what was I saying? The arms. Saturday was our Scottish Wedding Party and it was a stinking hot day. Hot for Scotland, that is. It may have been in the high twenties, but it was even hotter inside our wedding venue. We had a ceilidh, in which there is a band with fiddles and accordions and everyone does crazy dances. It is bloody great fun.

I rocked up in my wedding dress, all nervous that I didn't know 60% of the guests and that no one would have a good time and I would be held personally responsible. It's amazing how much panic you can work up in your mind. But at least I looked pretty good. The dress fit soooo much better than when we eloped in Vegas four months ago. I may have only lost a couple kilos on the scale since then but I can breathe in the damn thing now! The Scottish Companion's mother gushed, "You look lovely! You have definitely lost a lot of weight, the dress sits so much better now!". I laughed but she looked horrified when she thought about her words, "Ooh! Not that didn't look good before! Oh dear."

Still, I felt self conscious about my wobbly arms and tried to disguise them with my shawl-wrap-thingy as I greeted our guests. But as soon as the dancing started I realised I'd have to abandon it. It was just too stinking hot! After just one dance people were sweat-slicked and stumbling off the dance floor to the bar. I was handing out all the cards we'd recevied with wedding gifts, so folk could wave them in front of their faces like fans. I downed a gin and tonic for dutch courage, chucked the shawl on the table, then didn't spare a thought for my arms for the rest of the night. I mean, really. Who gives a shit about my arms? People were there coz they were my friend or SC's friend or some grey-haired stranger that SC's folks knew and they wanted to celebrate our marriage. Plus dance and get drunk. They were too busy having fun to be bothered with my arms. So why the hell was I bothered? Wasn't I there to have fun too?

So I did. As much as I loved running off to Vegas, having a big party with all our friends was even better. All those happy smiley partying people around us finally made it sink into my brain that we were married. And I was really chuffed about that. And even though I was quite nicely sozzled for most of the night, I was also chuffed to realise I felt comfortable in my skin. I chatted to strangers and friends alike, I danced when the dancefloor was practically empty. I just felt happy and grateful to be alive and well and to know a whole bunch of lovely people. I don't think this Lard Busting Journey is so much about busting lard as it is about busting insecurities and fears, gaining perspective and learning how to like yourself... and just to like life, really. I used to crawl through my days like a slug, both in body and mind, numb and listless. Not anymore.

So two weddings down, one to go.

...

All that partying led to a gain on the scale this week. I'm back up to 87.1 kilos. Ooh er! What can I say, not only did my sister and I get reacquainted with each other, but also with some brownies and chocolate shakes and burgers and chips and sausage rolls. I had a great time, but now with just ten weeks til I fly back to Australia it's time to get my arse into gear. I am not going to set dozens of lofty goals, but instead just one: Track Food Every Single Day using WLR. If I can do this, everything else usually falls into place.

...

I just have to share some a recent Woohoo Moment. Today I am wearing a t-shirt from John Lewis and it is a size 14. I bought some 3/4 gym pants and they are a size 14. I bought some little padded bike shorts online for my RPM class I got the 14/16 and they were too big so I sent back and got the 12/14 which fits perfectly. Now this means sweet bugger all since everything else I own is a size 16 and fits just right. I have some size 16 undies my Mum sent from oz that are way too tiny. Sizes are weird and inconsistent. But holy crap, I have some stuff that has a 1 and a 4 on the label! Do you know the last time I had something in a size 14 was my Year 10 formal dress? Twelve years ago! So even if it means diddley squat, I do like to look at those labels and shriek, "Woohoo! There's a 1 and a 4 on there!".

Incidentally I got fitted for a new bra the other day since the cups were swimming on some of my old ones, and I was a 34DD! What the hell? Last time I got measured in December 2003 I was 38C. I was coughing and spluttering indignantly at the Measuring Lady for daring to give me such a hefty measurement. She had to explain to me very patiently how it all works. I must be the only person in the world who didn't realise that the cup sizes change along with the band sizes. So the cup of a 34DD is smaller than the cup of a 40DD or 38C. So I had shrunk and she wasn't implying I was a fatass. You learn something every day, I tells ya.

Snap Crackle Pop

I have met some bloody brilliant people via this blog, and Argy is no exception. Ever since she first emailed me a year or so ago, I have always been besotted with her lush, sensual descriptions of her cooking, salads and fresh herbs. Every time she'd write about her dinner I'd ask her for a recipe. She recently sent the most killer wedding gift -- a handmade recipe book. She also sent this kickass Tupperware container/salad spinner thingy that keeps your salads fresh for days and days. Then she bundled up some herbs that she'd dried herself - oregano, basil, sage, thyme, mint, dandelion - as well as homemade sundried tomatoes. Oooh delicious, I tells ya. The dried herbs you buy in the supermarket cannot compare to the ones dried by Argy on her balcony in Athens. And the tomatoes are so full of flavour, the Scottish Companion and I were just eating them straight out of the box. Thank you, foxy lady!

. . .

My wonky knee now issues a creaking, grinding sound and plain old walking is sometimes painful, so I'm going to see a physio tomorrow. It sounds like a textbook case of Runner's Knee and a need for new shoes but I still want to get it checked out. Consequently I've not run since the 5k and have become antsy and worried my new muscles will dissolve overnight. For a non-impact workout I'm using the stationery bike at the gym which bores me shitless. I'd go swimming except I don't have any swimming gear and OH YEAH, the small obstacle that I can't bloody swim. I am thinking of trying an RPM class, the Les Mills answer to Spinning. I've heard it gets you truly sweaty. Can anyone vouch for RPM?
. . .

Dear Dieters of the World,

It has come to our attention that carbohydrates are getting all your attention lately. For example, if you fall into a bag of Doritos after work; or binge on a tub of ice cream or a family-size pizza, you have been referring to these incidents as a "bad carb binge" or "carb blowout" or similar. Sure, refined carbs are bad news but where there's refined carbs there usually lurks US GUYS as well. It's a team effort! Nine times out of ten we have had our finger in the pie and we want recognition for our role in keeping your ass fat!

Sincerely,
Saturated Fat

. . .

Thank you for brilliant your comments on the last ranty ravey entry. And don't be apologetic for any hints or tips, they are welcome! Deep down we all know that we know what to do to lose weight. Lord knows I should know that I know after four and bit gruelling years! But there are just some days when it goes tits up. For example, I know that I should stick to High Quality Chocolate, but sometimes I crave that sneaky interaction with the vending machine. I had the most brilliant, funny email from a girl named Rachel, who said on the subject of the sub-par Cadbury Twirl:

"By the time any of us has had the internal debate in our heads, no matter how good the chocolate, in those kind of circumstances it’s never going to live up to the ridiculous level of hype we have attached to it by that point. A Twirl will always be just a Twirl - not the route to world peace."

Damn straight. So what can I take from that experience?

1. Accept that there is just going to be crazy days like that now and then.
2. Vent about it on blog immediately afterwards. Demons begone!
3. Get back on the wagon as quickly as possible

(I am pretty sure I have come to these very same startling conclusions on this site at least a dozen times now.)

So I am back on the wagon now. I have tied myself onto it with rope and stapled my mouth shut. I don't know how I worked the stapler with my hands bound up like that, I guess I am more flexible than I thought. It feels good to be eating healthily. It's this endless cycle of:

1. Eat healthily
2. Brief moment of eating rubbish, temporarily forgetting/ignoring how good eating healthy feels
3. Remember how crap the rubbish eating feels
4. Resume healthy eating.

But the upshot is the Unhealthy Eating phase get shorter and less damaging each time.

. . .

SC is in Libya til Wednesday for work. Libya! How crazy is that? I am surprised by how fiercely I miss him. Last year between his travels and mine, we were apart for about three months, but now we're married and I'm mopey with him only away for just ten hours thus far.

I told him I was going to eat heaps of meat while he was away, all the lamb and mince and steak I've been craving during the past three months. Maybe I would just put a whole pig on a spit in the backyard. But now the Meaty Moment has arrived I've found I'm really not that fussed. I have enjoyed the vegetarian diet, it's much less messy to cook and I am really, really lazy, don't you know. Plus we eat fish at least once a week so it's not proper vegie anyway.

Still, I often think of lamb. I saw a sheep in a field yesterday, snoozing in the sun, and I thought, "Mmm, roast lamb." Perhaps it's time for some flesh after all.

Going for Gold

Statistically, I seem to run best when it's raining or a Sunday. Living in Scotland means there's a one in seven chance of this happening. Yesterday was pouring, so I was optimistic that things would go okay!

I admit I felt a little overwhelmed and under prepared. I'd been training consistently for ten weeks, but little things threw me off. Like forgetting to bring my water bottle. Like waiting til the night to decide what to wear and finding nothing clean, thus having to wear whatever was the least stinky. Like not having safety pins to attach my race number to my t-shirt.

Who the hell has safety pins? My mum, my granny, my supremely organised sister: they have safety pins. I do not have safety pins. Do you think I could find any in the shops on Saturday afternoon? Nooo. I even tried pinning the number with some of those dinky rock band badges to no avail. Finally the Scottish Companion had the brainwave of stapling it on. This took around half an hour and our combined brain power to figure out. It is very difficult to staple a piece of paper onto thick cotton with a flimsy stapler; difficult to do it straight and difficult to avoid stabbing your boobs.

But it didn't matter in the end. It was raining so steadily that I ended up my shitty waterproof jacket over the top so you couldn't see the number anyway. The rain seemed to make the crowd even more loopy. It was a great atmosphere, no one was taking it too seriously. There were runners and walkers of all shapes and sizes; many with little pink signs on the back of their shirts with names of loved ones they'd lost to cancer. Every time I'd see someone with My Mum or Auntie Josephine on their backs I'd get a little teary. Except when I saw a wee girl with Kylie Minogue written on her back, I just cracked up laughing.

The rain came down even harder as we were lead through some warm-up aerobics. The water combined with 7000 women jumping up and down made big fat earthworms wash up to the surface. It was surreal. Then the race start was slightly delayed by a guy getting on stage to propose to his girlfriend. Creative, eh?

Finally it was time to line up. They had two big flags, one said Runners and the other Walkers. At first I thought there was going to be a middle-ground Joggers flag, but it was nowhere to be found. This sparked an existential debate with the Scottish Companion as to whether I was a Runner or a Walker.

"You haven't been just walking these past ten weeks, have you?" he reasoned.

But I was having a last-minute panic and argue, "But I'm not exactly a runner, am I? I can't run for longer than five minutes without feeling like I'm going to cark it!".

He told me to just go join the runners and wished me luck. I gave him a kiss on his wet nose and scampered off. By then it was so crowded I ended up near the walkers, beside a girl dressed in a Batman suit. I was so bewildered by the crowd and the rain that I didn't think to be nervous, just a faint notion that something exciting was about to happen. Somewhere in the distance the start horn thingy went off. It took five minutes to inch my way to the start line, then I hit the timer on my stop watch. Go go go!

It was then my trance broke and I panicked, What the hell!? What the hell!? What am I doing here?! Everywhere I looked there were legs and arms and numbers and puddles. I am not so good in crowds. Julia had advised me to start out slow so I wouldn't fade at the end, so I did a very slow jog, ducking around walkers and water. Then the course headed up a hill and I thought Holy fuck. Bloody hills. Better not waste energy weaving around people. So I alternated fast walking with the slow jogging. Then I noticed that after that hill there was another, steeper hill. Bugger.

It was then I started to get cranky. Disclaimer: I was cranky already, my period arrived that morning. HOO-BLOODY-RAY for the feeling of piranhas gnawing your guts! So I was cursing the stupid hill and my stupid slow legs and the thousands of stupid runners cluttering up the road. It felt like it was taking forever. All I could think was, What's so great about this running shit? Why do people rave on about it like it was so damn special? I recalled a comment Meg left on my last entry. She said I would love it! She said it changed the way she thought about herself forever. Well as I slugged up the hill I thought, YOU LIE, MEG! I DO NOT LOVE IT! It felt like I would never get up the top of that stinking hill, and furthermore I had seen no kilometre markers so I had no idea how far I'd gone or how far I had left to go. Bah!

Finally the course evened out and after a minute's walk, I picked up the pace again. I began to relax. I acknowledged the view - a spectacular panorama of Edinburgh. Then some guy was shouting from the sidelines, "You've just passed the halfway mark, girls!"

Halfway?! Arrgh!

I looked at my watch and wasn't too impressed with my time. Julia had told me not to worry about my time today, it was just about finishing the damn thing. But I felt slightly disheartened. It was then I gave myself a wee pep talk. Why are we here, Dietgirl?

1. Because my excellent sponsors have given over £300 to cancer research and they deserve value for money.
2. Because my husband trained with me all this time and I don't want him thinking I've wasted his time.
3. Because Mistress Julia has helped me so much and I want to impress her and make her proud.
4. Because I have worked hard and I want to impress ME and make ME proud, dammit!

And I wouldn't be satisified with taking forever to huff over the finish line either. I wanted to finish as strongly as I possibly could. I'd worked for ten weeks to get to this point, and it would never be My First Race ever again. I'd done some pretty half-assed runs in that ten weeks, so now I was going to stop the whining and bitching. No more bullshit! Just GO FOR GOLD!

I kicked up to a nice steady run. I reassured the lazy part of my brain that I could walk any time, but since the first half had been relatively slow I found that I had plenty of energy left. For the first time ever I really felt like I was cruising, that it was a perfectly natural thing for my body to be running. I found a steady rhythm and my breathing was good, not my usual desperate gasps for life.

The rained stopped and I wrestled off my crappy jacket, somehow tying it round my waist as I headed down the hill. I kept talking to myself, Just run one more minute then you can walk if you need to. But I just kept on running and it felt great.

And there was finally a sign - 500M TO GO. Holy crap! 500 metres! How far is 500 metres, I wondered? Ten laps of an Olympic pool. Ooh that sounds like ages, don't think of it like that. Half a kilometre, that sounds ages too. Okay then. How about one and a bit laps of the running track. Hey that's not so bad! I can handle that! So I took it up another notch. I have no idea where that energy came from but I'd never run so fast before. It felt fantastic!

As I approached the finish line I started grinning. I couldn't help it, I would have giggled had I had enough breath left. I was just so surprised to be there. Grin grin grin. When I finally crossed it I suddenly felt a big sob sneak up to my throat. What the hell?!

I glanced at my watch - 35:15. I could not believe that time. Ten weeks ago I could barely run for one minute, yet I'd just run over half the course non-stop. I was euphoric. I, Dietgirl formerly of the Whole Pints Of Ice Cream In One Sitting, had finished a 5k race. It felt amazing! Meg wasn't lying to me after all! Bless her cotton socks.

I got my goodie bag and scanned the crowds for SC, wandering around in a daze with trembling legs. It was the strangest mix of emotions I'd ever known. I began making these garbled, gulping, strangled chicken noises - this is what happens when you try and cry and get your breath back at the same time. It is physically impossible.

By the time I finally found SC I had my breath back so I was able to just sob uncontrollably on his shoulder. The poor bastard look very confused. Blame my hormones, blame relief and surprise and intense personal satisfaction, but I was crying for Scotland!

Later on I felt embarrassed by my hysterics. After all it was Just A 5k. It wasn't even a proper race, it was a charity event. And people run marathons all the time, hell they run across continents or sail around the world blindfolded with one arm chopped off! I was all ready to downplay the whole day and dismiss it as a freak accident of nature and stomp out any sense of achievement. But as I've reminded myself countless times during my Lard Busting Journey, you can't compare your achievements to someone elses. All you can do is compare where you've been and where you are now, and what you chose to do in between.

I also remembered a day back in January 2001 when I'd stood at the bottom of the stairs in my flat, trying to summon the energy to walk up the dozen steps to get to my bedroom. That had felt like an impossible task. Compare that to yesterday when I stood at the bottom of a FREAKY BIG HILL and running to the top seemed an impossible task. There's no denying that 5k was a huge personal achievement.

I cannot express to you how amazing it felt to do something that I thought I never, ever could do. I am so grateful to Julia for helping me, to SC for patiently training with me, and to all you groovers for your encouragement and extremely generous donations. This may sound ridiculous but I am more emotional about yesterday than I was on my freaking wedding day! There is no better feeling in the world than to take your mind and body to some place you thought it couldn't go; a place you thought it didn't belong. You should all try it sometime.

The Little Blog of Calm

Last Saturday afternoon I went to a gathering of Scottish bloggers. It was a ridiculously warm and sunny day in Edinburgh, why it may have even been twenty degrees. I rocked up to the pub with a friend and had a startling realisation that I wasn't nervous.

A few years ago I'd never meet a bunch of strangers. Hell, I'd rarely meet my own friends at the pub. I used get so worked up for days beforehand, tears and tantrums at the thought of taking my fat out in public. What would I wear? Would I fit on the chairs? But now here I was strutting up to strangers, plonking down on a bench and introducing myself.

I'd soon knocked back a gin and tonic but the self-assurance was still there. It just hit me... I don't care what these people think of me. I don't care if they think I'm fat or badly dressed or unfunny or whatnot. I was happy to be me, so I didn't need anyone else to be happy with me. It was such a rush to feel like this, just calm and comfortable; a million miles away from the girl who ran (waddled) away from her own graduation ball, told her friends she was "popping home for five minutes" then locked herself in her flat with the lights out and gorged on ice cream by the light of the television.

Last Monday night I got on the scales and they screamed 90.4 kilos! That's a massive 3.5 kilos up from the last Wednesday Weigh-In. What the bloody hell? I re-weighed half a dozen times to be sure. I called in the Scottish Companion and got him to weigh himself in case the scales were wrong. He was 75kg as always. I thought of all the things I'd eaten last week, and there were a few dodgy bits. Two gin and tonics, a mozzarella and parma ham pannini, a buttered scone, plus an evil Chinese takeaway the night before. I'd got mine with boiled rice instead of fried; but it was white rice and knowing Scotland it was probably boiled in LARD.

"I still don't see how that could make you gain eight pounds in 5 days! What about all your running?" SC protested, trying to reassure me; "Only newborn babies stack on weight that quick. Or whales, maybe."

What surprised him, and me too, was that I just laughed. No tears or tantrums. I knew it was impossible to gain 3.5 kilos of fat in five days. I knew I'd been exercising like a mofo and I'd eaten healthily apart from those social occasions. I knew I was on the right track.

"I'm not going to worry about it," I told him, "I probably just haven't properly digested all that shite food yet. The only thing that annoys me is that I didn't gain it eating something I really liked so it would almost be worthwhile! Like a honking huge block of chocolate!"

I'm really surprising myself lately at how sane and balanced I feel. About food, about exercise, about life in general. I am moving towards habits that are a lifestyle instead of my past extreme Feast Or Famine behaviour. I ate well during the week, but I went out for lunch with friends and enjoyed it, I had a takeaway with my hubby and enjoyed it, I had a couple drinks with the Blog Geeks and enjoyed it. And I exercised regularly. This is called living your life, folks.

I now realise this is the same approach I used earlier this year when trimming down for the wedding - I lost over 6 kilos in 6 weeks while still eating out at least once a week. At the time I thought I was being Hardcore™, but in reality I was just finally exercising regularly, being careful about what I ate without cutting out food groups or going to extremes. That way I never felt deprived or like I was missing out. After a year of yo-yoing the same five kilos, I finally got great results simply by taking a balanced approach.

And that's what I'm doing now. By Wednesday Weigh-In the scales had calmed down to 88.4 - still 1.5 kilos up from the week before, but again I didn't get hysterical. I resolved to make better food choices and to try looking at food as fuel rather than the centre of my universe. Example: I'd noticed my Wednesday night running sessions were always really rubbish, and realised I'd been eating extra on Wednesdays - like it "didn't count" coz it was post-weigh in. I didn't do that this week and the run felt so much better as a result.

Also, I need to remember that just because I trot around the park three times a week does not give me a licence to eat extra food. I'm not a bloody Olympic athlete, I'm not burning that many calories. So all week I've been ignoring the biscuit tin and the vending machine and feeling so much better for it.

Why the sudden zen calm on Planet Dietgirl? Why the sudden rush of self-esteem? The running has so much to do with it. It's given me a newfound respect for my body and mind. I feel calm, in control and balanced. 5k may not seem a lot to some, but I can honestly say learning to run is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Each session still sees me moaning and whining and aching and puffing but the sense of accomplishment at the end of the run is mindblowing. I am slow and awkward, and I know I'll need to walk/run the 5k rather than run the whole way, but I know I'll make it over the finish line somehow.

It amazes me how much things can change in two months. Despite my constant whinging I am proud of sticking to the lovely Mistress Julia's training schedule (thankyou!). It's something I thought I could never do but here I am doing it!

I am in awe of the ability of my mind and body to cope (eventually) with whatever challenges I throw at it. So how can I not feel good about that? Now I'm looking at other parts of my life in a more positive light, feeling better about being me and realising how much energy I used to waste worrying what strangers thought of me. No more.

Wednesday Weigh-In - Week 2

So I haven't written since last week's weigh day, I offer no excuse except for me being a lazy, frazzled bastard with a very lengthy list of things to do with an apparent inability to finish bloody any of them.

Anyway, here goes.

last update: 26 January 2005

age: 27
height: 173cm (5'8")

original start weight: 159.2 kg (351lb) on 17 Jan 2001
original start bmi: 53.4

fresh start weight: 95.9 kg (211.4 lb) on 12 Jan 2005
fresh start bmi: 32.2

current weight: 92.4 kg (203.3lb)
current bmi: 31

result this week: -0.7 kg (1.5lb)

loss in 2005: -3.5 kg (7.7lb)
total loss since 2001: -66.8 kg (147lb)

initial goal weight: 75 kg (165lb)
distance to goal: 17.4 kg  (38.3lb)

I'm quite happy with that result, I knew that last week's big loss was what I call Honeymoon Kilos. It's quite easy to drop a couple in a week when you ate and drank like a porker for the weeks before that. Now the hard work has begun!

This week's aim was to get back exercising.

I'm going through this phase lately where I am reading Diet Books. None of the sensational ones like The Glass of Air Diet or Fart Yourself Thin, just sensible tomes like Outwit Your Weight and Dr Phil's Ultimate Weight Solution. I don't know what the freaking hell I expected to find from these books, but lately I've had this crisis of confidence where I think I don't know what's best for me, that I don't have the smarts to shift the rest of my lard. I poured over these books expecting some great enlightenment. I took all the stupid quizzes and noted what they wanted me to eat, and it hit me - I already know all this crap. There was nothing they were telling me, no diet tip or exercise or food combination or mind trick that I hadn't already figured out for myself over the past four years.

What I'm trying to say is, I'm past the stage where I needed my hand held. I now know what to do, I have the tools. I know what exercise gets my metabolism ticking and what foods make me feel good. I just have to trust my own judgement again and take responsibility.

Most of all I have to retrain my thinking and realise I'm longer a beginner. I need to look in the mirror and see Almost There instead of Obese Beyond Belief. After all this time, I still think I go to the gym and see myself as The Really Fat Chick just puffing along in the classes with the beautiful people, and for me just to be there is some sort of miracle. Doing two or three classes and a bit of walking may have been an incredible odyssey when I was 120 kilos but now it is just not enough.

I'd booked in for Body Combat this afternoon, I only did it a few times last year because I became addicted to dancing my arse off at Body Jam. But I remembered how good BC is for cardio, so I decided to take it up again. But when I got off the bus I walked straight past the gym, went home and flopped on the bed. Why? Because the class was taken by Scary Richard who is like a drill sargeant. Because all the blonde whisps go to that class. Because I did Body Jam last night. Because I have wedding stuff to plan, boxes to pack. Because I am a lazy butt.

Twenty minutes before the class was due to start, I decided to put my gym clothes on and see if that would change my mind. Soon I remembered how much I used to love Combat, all that kicking and punching. And even though you're only fighting air, it would have to help get my shoulders all mobile again ready for SC's kickboxing class later this year. Plus last night's Jam class was so focused on learning new steps I didn't really get too sweaty.

So I ended up going and freaking loved it. Why do I always quit Combat? It hammers me like no other class and it's so much fun. My shoulders are still singing and my legs are too.

It's so humbling and bloody annoying to realise that I am not going to find some miracle inspiration in a book, some diet secret on the back of a cornflakes box. I just have to swallow what I knew all along, that I'm the only one who can do this and I'm going to have to get off my arse and move it.

To Change A Lightbulb

There is this running joke between my sister and I. Whenever we're too lazy or tired to do something, we whine, "I can't. I'm too fat!"

This joke came from our lovely mother, who one day asked my sister to change a lightbulb for her.

"Do it your bloody self!" snapped my sister.

"I can't, I'm too fat!" was her pathetic reply.

It's become Mum's trademark phrase. Every time she wanted us to shift some furniture or make her a cup of tea, and we told her to bugger off and do it herself, she'd pull the "I'm too fat!" stunt. So now my sister and I say it when we're fighting over who should do the dishes or who should nip round to the shop for some milk. "I caaaan't. I'm too fat!"

Seriously though, I can think of a bazillion things I didn't do because I was too fat. Or rather, things I held myself back from doing because I was too fat. I even did this when I wasn't bloody fat at all.

I grew up with the belief that I was always fat. Consequently, I avoided all sorts of things because of my supposed lardiness. I took drama classes as a kid, but wouldn't audition for any major roles because I was certain they wouldn't have costumes to fit me. I was good at hockey, but when I got to high school I didn't try out for the team, because I felt I was so disgustingly huge that they'd take one look at me and laugh me off the field.

One time my friend was having a birthday party, kicking off with a swim at the local pool followed by a BBQ at her house. I pulled this elaborate lie by pretending I couldn't get there on time because my parents had car troubles. Finally I showed up at the pool just as everyone else was getting out of the water. I even had my swimmers on under my clothes, I carried my beach towel, I had them all convinced that I was crushed that I didn't get to swim with them. All this orchestrated because I was too ashamed to let them see me in my swimming costume.

There was something potentially life-changing that I didn't do because of my weight. When I was 16 I was selected by my school to go to Japan for a year as an exchange student. At this point I was top of my Japanese class and thoroughly enjoyed learning the language. The exchange would mean a year in Japan, immersing myself in local life and culture, and returning to Australia fluent in the language with a whole host of career options opened up for me. The exchange spot was highly competitive, but when I was selected I panicked and bailed. Why? Because I thought I was too fat. The thought of being a fatass whale amongst tiny Japanese people was utterly terrifying. I was convinced noone would like me or consider me worthy of being there.

Fast forward a few years til I am at university, where my body had finally caught up with my perception of my body. I'd spent so long loathing myself that I'd started to eat eat eat and finally I WAS actually fucking huge. Now I was really holding back because of my weight. In three years of uni I went to bar night only once. I didn't go see my favourite bands in concert because I was too fat for a mosh pit. I didn't join the university radio station, even though it had always been my dream to work in radio, because I thought my lardy presence would be sneered at amongst those radio hipsters.

Fast forward to 2000, when my sister says she wants to move overseas in a couple years time, and was I gonna come with her? I gave a weak little laugh in response. "I can't do that," I said. "I'm too fat."

So many things I did not do because I perceived myself as this worthless butterball. A lot of the things I didn't do was because I was physically too fat to do them. But most of the damage came from within, that incredibly crippling force of negative thinking and self-loathing.

I have to tell you, I am in tears writing this now. It's dragged up all these feelings of just loathing myself, feeling so fucking unworthy that I would deprive myself of opportunities and cut myself off from my dreams. It was so incredibly exhausting, being so fat. So exhausting to keep coming up with the lies and excuses why I couldn't do something or go some place.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't get angry about the past, that I never get a case of the "coulda been's". I coulda been fluent in Japanese. I coulda been on the radio.

But how about this one? I coulda been dead. If I'd kept going the way I was, I could have eaten my way into an early grave. So I guess all you can do is keep looking forward. You can screw up the past but it's never too late to change your future. Just look at Erin and her triathlons. And I made overseas, didn't I? A distant dream that I thought I'd never achieve because of fat and fear.

"I'm too fat" is no longer an excuse.

[written for Weigh-In Wednesday]

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?