The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Why did you get so fat?

Howdy! I am having a busy bugger of a week so I found this entry that I wrote back in January 2008 but couldn't find the nerve to post at the time.

Lately I've been doing a bit of publicity for the book; email interviews and the like. I always get stuck on one inevitable question:

Why'd you get so bloody fat?

(not actual phrasing)

Every time I see that question I sigh at the laptop screen. It sounds so accusing, like I committed a terrible crime.

"I don't knooooow" is always the initial answer. Then I poke Gareth in the ribs. "What should I say?"

"Just say you were really hungry! I dare ya."

Seriously, it's a difficult question. It's easy to be flippant like I was on the About page: It was a love of Nutella that knew no bounds. Then there's the basic mathematical reason: Ate more food than my body required.

Calories in, calories out; who ate all the pies. Just like losing weight was just eating less and moving more, right? If it was really that simple, I'd have just posted a food log for the past seven eight years instead of these endless sprawling brain dumps. Calories in calories out is a how explanation, not a why.

It's especially tricky to answer the question in a precise, soundbitey manner. It took 23 pages to explain. And of course being a chronic procrastinator I left that section right until last. I thought the other 90,000 words were a bastard to put together, but the 5000 words of Introduction were the worst. I was eager to drive on to the guts of the story with all the happy adventures and improved self-image, but the allegedly fabulous transformation wouldn't be convincing unless the scene was properly set. How the bloody hell does someone reach nearly 160 kilograms at the tender age of 23?

I gave my sister the shoddy first draft of the Introduction back in April. She told me bluntly that I wasn't being honest. "You're glossing over everything," she said, "And hiding behind jokes. You have to dig deeper."

Of course I got defensive and bawled my eyes out, because I didn't have time to bloody dig deeper! And I didn't want to, either.

But we talked it through for two whole days, picking over the past. I was afraid of offending people. I was afraid of sounding sorry for myself. I was afraid people would think I was making excuses. I was afraid of looking like a dickhead in print. It was confronting to stop and think about how I got into such a big fat mess. Why did I let it carry on so long?

The Introduction was finalised five days before the manuscript was due, after endless consultations and rewrites. I was happy with it in the end, but be buggered if I can reduce it to one simple sentence. There are no easy answers. I really did love my Nutella, but food was more than just food. From a very early age it was always there, easy to find when lonely or angry or anxious. And the more I ate the more I felt detached from my body and just lived inside my head. I'd barely notice another layer of fat wrapping around me, then another and another, like rings on a tree.

Crazy Eyes and Cold Comfort

While in Australia at Chez Mothership, we came across a bulging folder of all the "stories" I'd written in kindergarten.

It was clear as a five year old I was already disgruntled with my appearance. I had very short red hair and hated it so much. As if my inability to hold a pencil properly wasn't already holding me back, but cropped ginger hair too? Dude.

I was spewingly jealous of my follically-blessed classmates. There were at least a dozen stories about my long blonde friend Marnie. This is Marnie, I would write. Marnie has long blonde hair. Marnie is very pretty. I like Marnie. I love Marnie.

Holy crap, run for your life Marnie!

In this story I daydreamed on an Ideal Me, all flaxen locks and pretty bows.

Sometimes I would attempt a more honest depiction of my appearance, as in the April 1983 masterwork, "The world is big and we live on it".

Although if you look closely you can see the madness in the eyes.

Another highlight of our Australian jaunt was the consumption of this here chocolate thickshake at Gus' Cafe in Canberra. There must be half a pound of ice cream in there! Just wrapping your paws around that frosty metal cup feels like home.

I'd already had a thickshake at the magnificent Paragon Cafe in Goulburn but I had to squeeze in one more in before heading to the airport. It tasted all the sweeter because The Mothership, Rhiannon and Gareth were there too... the first time the four of us had been in the same place since I introduced the future son-in-law on Mum's 2004 Scottish tour. I think she can actually understand what he's saying now.

Here we go

Whilst shoving my worldly possessions into boxes I found my 2006 food diary, in which I'd faithfully documented Wot I Ate. I wish I'd kept up that habit - even a one-line description gets the memories flooding back. Hot chocolate in Amsterdam, paella in Valencia; burnt porridge in the office microwave.

But then I remembered that in addition to the paper diary I was also tracking my calories online. And in addition to that, for the first six months there was a running tally on a spreadsheet, so in May I could tell you I'd eaten precisely 96 apples, 9 chocolate digestive biscuits, 205 cups of tea and 1 serve of vegetarian haggis. How bloody sad is all that!?

These days I'm not so loony, but I'm still trying to find the balance between paying attention to what I chomp but not being obsessive about it. I can go months without writing anything down and do fine on instinct alone. Then other times the portions creep up and the jeans start squeezing, so I start journaling again to reel myself back in. Hmm.

. . .

So the move starts tomorrow, woohoo! Everything is a shambles. This is my sixth move since starting this blog. Blog technology has come a long way since 2001 but there have no ground-breaking innovations in the science of moving house. It still blows!

Back in 2000 before the lard-busting began, I helped The Mothership move. She left me unsupervised temporarily while she went to a very important quilting workshop. I was tasked with moving three trillion sets of crumbly encyclopedias from one house to the other - just half a block apart.

This is one moment from my Larger Days that I can still recall with painful accuracy. I brushed it off with jokes when I wrote about it at the time, but as I lugged pile after pile of heavy books to the car, I honestly thought I was going to die. It was September so it can't have been that hot yet, and the distance between the house to the car was all of ten metres. But I can still feel my burning skin and hear my jagged breath and rattling heart. Every step was painful. I flopped down on the front veranda, desperately gulping for breath and worrying how/if I'd get back up. Should I call Mum? Or an ambulance? Would I fit in an ambulance? Panic, shame, humiliation; so much hatred and anger.

After twenty minutes I crawled to my feet and came up with a crafty plan. I brought the big wheelie recycling bin into the house then unceremoniously tossed the encyclopedias inside, one by one. Then I slowly walked them round to the new house and poured them out onto the floor. Just three trips and I was all done! I felt so clever and resourceful and went back to telling myself that everything was just fine.

One Size Fits All

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

It says on the box:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loose Skin: DG by Request

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

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

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

Muscle Memory

A week after that epic hill expedition my legs are finally functioning normally again. Woohoo!

Last Friday was a different story. My knees decided to stop working. I never realised how useful knees were in the Art of Walking. They just wouldn't bloody bend properly, and furthermore my calves and quads and glutes were throbbing. The overall effect was stiff and straight scissor-like gait, like an Aussie pedestrian crossing sign!

That evening Dr G and I were heading over to Edinburgh for a movie and a birthday curry. Most times when I catch the train to Edinburgh it involves me looking at the living room clock in my underwear about half an hour before the train is due and shrieking "FARK!" Then I spin around in circles, chuck on some clothes, almost gouge an eyeball with a mascara wand, run out the door, then speedwalk or jog the 20 minutes to the station, then bolt across the station carpark coz the train is always arriving just as I do.

But Friday was a wee bit different. I started getting ready two hours early, because all movements were difficult - getting in and out of the bath, bending to fetch things from the wardobe, putting on my shoes. Then I decided I couldn't face the walk to the station with my current, painful zombie-like pace so convinced Dr G to drive us to the station.

And of course as soon as we parked the car I heard the train coming. I couldn't make a run for it; I hadn't even manouvered out of the vehicle yet. So the train sailed on without us. In a huff, I sent Dr G to buy the tickets so I could take my time doing my cross-country ski-walk to the platform.

Once in Edinburgh there were even more obstacles to avoid - the gruelling Waverly Steps, stairs at the cinema, stairs at the restaurant. Even little things were impossible, like crossing the street as the lights started to flash, because I knew I'd be mowed down by a double decker bus before I could hobble across. All my post-hillwalk smugness was replaced by crankiness and frustration.

Then I felt a strange little bittersweetness in my belly, remembering that this was how my life used to be all the time. The Dietgirl Logistics Department worked overtime, fretting over every move, plotting the less-strenuous route; making sure I left the house ultra early so I'd arrive somewhere before my friends so they'd never see me breathless.

Out of all the ways my life has changed from the 351lb Days I'd have to say the very best thing is Moving Without Thinking. My body automatically moves how and when I want it to (albeit accompanied by bitching and/or clumsiness). I can just enjoy the moment instead of worrying if my body can cope with the moment without sweating or chafing.

Sometimes I take that ease and freedom for granted; because everything changed so slowly that I forget how different it used to be. I'm also always trying to charge forward - not lingering on the past; busy figuring out what to do next. But those aching muscles made me appreciate that after all those years of obsessing about scale readings and clothing labels, the real joy is just moving through the day.

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.

Made of Stars

Did any Northern Hemispherians catch the lunar eclipse on Saturday night? Gareth and I went down to the beach to watch it. It happened to be our wedding anniversary (two years!), so on paper that just about sounds like the most romantic thing ever. But it was freezing cold we had to stay inside the car and ended up with severe neck cramps from tilting and turning in our seats to try and get a good look at the bloody moon. And then a big cloud came along and hid the whole show.

What we did see was beautiful and incredibly humbling. Normally the moon looks so undefined and distant, but during the eclipse it looked properly three dimensional, like a giant golf ball that you could reach out and grab. I've always loved having a good gawk at the moon; it gives you great perspective. For all our busy lives and crazy dramas and struggles, we're all just wee specks in the universe. Isn't that comforting?

. . .

Yesterday I wanted to throw my bike into the canal. I just had a really shit ride. I've been so full-on with my exercise this week and methinks I'd got a bit over-enthusiastic. My first interval session was intense and totally fried my legs. Then I've been doing some killer weights. I felt like a change so I did Cathe's Slow and Heavy, where you do a 2-down-6-up rep count with the heaviest weights you can manage. The Legs & Shoulders was particularly gruelling, I was shakin' like a shitting dog, to use a favourite phrase of Gareth's.

By Wednesday my legs were knackered but I was scheduled for another round of intervals. I knew I wouldn't make it so thought I'd do a quick easy bike ride to let my legs recover, just the wee 7 mile (11.3 km) loop on the cycle track. Gareth came out with me, but took off into the distance for the 10 mile (16km) route that he does during the week, just a quick blast of a workout when he hasn't time for longer rides.

So. It sucked! There was an innocent-looking breeze but it felt like riding through molasses. Normally I can coast for long stretches but I was pedalling hard the whole time. At the halfway point I had to stop for a drink and a sook.

I was sooo slow on the way home. There were people WALKING faster than I was riding. And I had to stop twice more because my quads felt so bloody weak. I was even yelling at my legs at some point, "Why. Won't. You. MOVE!?".

And the final insult was when I limped over the finish line, Gareth casually wheeled past me having finished his route, the longer one with all the hills and stuff. ARRGH.

I calmed down with a cup of tea, for there will always be days like that. Something can feel ridiculously easy one day but feel like the Tour de freakin France the next. Especially when you're shiny new to this cycling palaver. So I will carry on and rest my weary legs today.

. . .

I really miss that dog. It's ridiculous to miss something you only knew for a few hours, but I do. Actually, it's more the idea of the critter that I miss.

I used to have a dog back in Australia, and I was a terrible parent. I should have rescued an aging, immobile lump from the shelter to match my own fitness level, but I fell for a hyperactive mutt that I called Harry. I'd take him for a walk and he'd pull on the lead, gasping and gagging, and I'd think, "That little bastard, why won't he heel?".

Now I can admit that of course strained at the leash - he was bored out of his tiny little skull! He wanted to run! He wanted to sniff things! But I couldn't shuffle for more than a few blocks without needing to find a park bench to recover. I still feel so guilty for being such an unfit mother. He deserved someone who could carve up the pavement and walk for miles.

I remember one time Harry escaped and ran into the church graveyard across the street. This was in 2000, when I was at my very lardiest. I chased him as fast as I could, which was extremely un-fast I can tell you now. By the time I got there he was pinging between the headstones, nose to the ground. I did not have the physical ability to run after him, so I called his name. But he ignored me. Instead he sauntered over to a headstone, where a family of mourners were placing flowers, and PEED ALL OVER IT. I didn't know which was worse; the shame of him pissing on the grave or my complete inability to do anything about it.

I found a new home for Harry not long before we moved to Scotland and even though I was much fitter by then, I was so glad to see his new Mum was very fit and active. I still wish I could call up that hound and apologise for those couple of years when I was so rubbish for him. I just know if I had a dog now, I could do so much better! I could do things right! I'd love to have a four-legged excuse to go outside. We could walk for hours and throw sticks and I could crash tackle it before it had to the chance to lift a leg in an inappropriate place. Someday, someday.

C'est Harry!

 

The Demon Drink

Yesterday afternoon I looked at all those words of wisdom in the previous entry and thought, Who is this reasonable, level-headed person? What a smug bitch!

Oh yeah. I had pretty ordinary week, people. I had put my big hoof right into all those Social Landmines that I'd vowed to avoid. Result: 0.4 kg gain this morning, just under a pound. Arrgh!

Where did it all go wrong? I went on a team retreat type of thing last Thursday and Friday. There were fairly healthy food options, but I just ignored those options much of the time.

And the drink. Oh, the demon drink. I am not into alcohol to be honest. I don't see the point in wasting calories on liquids. If I am going to indulge I want something I can sink my teeth into, literally! For all the travel and social events I've ponced through this year, I've averaged less than one drink per month according to my spreadsheet.

But I had about three drinks on Thursday night, because there was port and it reminds of Christmas and trifles so I couldn't resist. And then we had our night out in Glasgow on Saturday. I am hopeless in any sort of nightclub situation, I just don't feel comfortable. So before we even left our friend's flat I'd already had two glasses of wine to calm my nerves. Normally it takes me about two hours to drink one glass, I'm so slow. Once out, I got locked in a round-buying thing.

I just cannot keep up with Scottish people. Do you all have cast iron livers? People assume because I'm a tall, sturdy lass that I can knock it back, especially since I'm an Australian tall, sturdy lass.  In truth, I'm hopeless with anything more than one tiny drink. So on Saturday after three vodka and oranges spread over three hours, my stomach was churning. Gareth and I were lined up at the bar when my head started spinning and my vision clouded. I stumbled to the loos and of course there was a queue, there is always a queue! I felt like a hapless sixteen-year-old who'd sneaked in past the bouncers; I looked so pale and pathetic and bedraggled. Finally I got into a stall and just sat there feeling sorry for myself and clicking my heels in a There's No Place Like Home fashion.

But I splashed my face with water and ventured back out, and drank nothing but water for the last couple of hours. I actually quite enjoyed it once I'd sobered up a bit, but I couldn't help calculating that I could have eaten a whole bar of Green and Blacks for all that booze I'd guzzled!

Finally at 3am we were lined up in the world's longest taxi queue and everyone was walking by with polysterene boxes piled with greasy chips, kebabs, spring rolls, mysterious meats and slippery noodles. I had never known such longing.

Thankfully I resisted, because I had already done quite enough damage to my week. Yesterday afternoon I was feeling so porky and miserable for screwing up the 16 Week Challenge. But then I gave myself a stern pep talk; it was just a blip and not the end of the world. I got off the couch and did a blistering upper body weights workout and then sat down to a healthy dinner cooked by Gareth (roast vegies, sauteed curly kale, Quorn sausages and vegie gravy. Noice!).

So order has been restored. This week will be better. Or else!

Water Log

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

. . .

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

So here is some context for my hysteria.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cue raucous laughter from the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logistics Department

There was a girl waiting on the train platform this afternoon, approaching the same size I was at my largest. She looked nervous as the train pulled in, shuffling from foot to foot. I wondered what was wrong. Sometimes I look nervous when a train pull in too, because I'm always trying to judge where exactly the carriage doors will be when it stops. I have good Door Karma lately; the doors have landed right in front of my nose so I can get right on board and have a good chance of actually finding a seat. It's a beautiful thing!

I had good Door Karma again today, and was about to get on when I saw the girl again looking even more flustered. This may sound stupid, but I suddenly recognised that agitated expression. It all came flooding back to me. I stepped back and let her get on first.

She didn't venture into the carriage proper, where most of the seats are; but instead hung round in the end bit. I dunno how to describe it, but there's an open sort of area with a bike rack and a toilet and just one seat that folds down from the wall. She swooped on that solo seat quick smart. It's hot and noisy as hell there, but everyone packed into the main bit of the carriage and fought over the seats, leaving her in the end by herself.

Please don't think I am being patronising or pitying, it was just a moment of recognition and empathy. I'd almost let myself forget how when you're very overweight, every day is a series of logistical operations. How to maneuver my bulk through various challenges. Getting down a narrow aisle of a shop without knocking over merchandise. Getting to work early enough to get a park close to the building, and early enough to get the lift instead of walking one flight of stairs without anyone seeing me. Making plans with friends then fretting as to whether I should put anti-chafing powder on my thighs in case they want to walk anywhere. Finding a solo seat on a train so I don't have to squeeze past anyone. I had to plan ahead and think quickly.

The Dietgirl Logistics Department has been retired for quite sometime; I don't have to worry about non-retracting seat belts or breaking chairs in restaurants anymore. But today I remembered how exhausting it is, physically and mentally, just getting around. All the dread and fatigue and panic came rushing back, and I moronically kept patting the empty space on my seat, making sure I really did fit on it.

. . .

Thanks everyone for your most excellent comfy shoe suggestions in the last entry! There may be hope for this gigantic clumsy-hoofed beast after all.

While I'm on it, apologies for the lack of speed in my email and comment replies lately. It's summer in Scotland and we have been trying to pack lots of Stuff into our spare time, so I've not been online as much. There's such a teeny tiny Window of Opportunity for doing stuff before the dreaded cold and dark comes back again so you really have to go for it!

. . .

Hello to the folks coming over from the MSN Health article on Diet Blogs! If you're starting out and feeling baffled, try the About page or the 5 Year Anniversary recaps.

I met with the journalist last week and she was so much fun to talk to. Normally I am terrified of journalists, which is a hangover from the days of my journalism degree when I was scared of journalists, journalism teachers, anything to do with journalism at all, really. Newspapers, editors, spiral notebooks, pencils; you name it. But this girl was lovely and I came away from the wee chat feeling very happy and thankful about this whole blogging palaver. Woohoo!

Getting To Know You

Hello comrades! I'm back from Amsterdam. Things didn't turn out so well Radiohead-wise, but it's a lovely town and we had a great time and I didn't eat too badly. Ha!

My problem has been more about the days before and the days after. All this stupid knee/shoulder pain, and feeling frustrated and translating that into too many pieces of cheese on toast. But I was back on track today. No more wallowing.

. . .

This month is designated 2001 Month for The Book. I'm giving myself a month to write each year, if that makes sense. 2001 is proving to be a real bitch. I've got my notes and my outline and I've poured over the archives so many times, but I'm still struggling. It's taken me two weeks to figure out why - I just don't recognise myself.

I always downplay how much this Lard Busting Journey has changed me. I fear sounding like an egotistical wanker, and I don't want people thinking I've done anything particularly special or difficult. People ask me How I Did It and I'll say I just ate right and exercised. For five years.

But reading back, I was a completely different person in 2001 and it's hard to relate to her. Who was this chick, hiding from the world, afraid to go to the pub with friends, exhausted by a walk around the block? Don't get me wrong, I empathise with her, I want to hug her and sometimes kick her arse -- but it's so hard to believe that was actually me.

Back in the day I used to wander up and down the aisles at the supermarket in tears, wondering if I'd ever climb out of my black hole. Then I'd stop by the freezer and pick up a 4-litre tub of Home Brand Vanilla Ice Cream. No expense spared! I'd eat the whole lot it in front of the telly over the next few days, just plain or sometimes drizzled with passionfruit cordial. Cordial makes a great sauce on the cheap, don't you know.

And then last week in the depths of my injury-related self-pity, I was cruising the freezer aisle again. I debated for ages over whether or not to buy a Marks & Spencer Exotic Fruit Split, a single serve ice cream with just 100 calories. Tastes like passionfruit!

So I still like my comfort food in the same flavours. Not everything has changed. But at least the portion sizes are different!

Y'know, I'm always bitching about how I'm taking so long to lose this blubber, but if it had happened any quicker my head would probably just explode from the enormity of it all.

Wednesday Weigh In - Week 250

So I did a bit of number crunching and figured this is Week 250 of my lard-busting journey. I lost 0.5 kg (1lb) this week for a total loss of 71.4 kg (157.4 lb). Which means my average weekly loss over the past 4.75 years is.... 0.2856kg. Approximately 0.6lb per week.

Bloody hell! That is a depressing statistic. 250 weeks and still not finished. And most of that weight came off in the first year! Oh well. Can't dwell on the numbers. Plus I have had a lot of fun while losing so slowly over the past four years, I can't deny that.

...

I was slightly disturbed by my eating behaviour in Australia.  There were a lot of local delicacies I'd missed and it was inevitable that I'd eat them, but it's the way that I ate them that's not right. I feel weird confessing this, as I know the Scottish Companion reads this site now, but in the spirit of honesty I'll press on.

It started with the packet of Arnotts Assorted Creams. I bought them to gloat to SC about the superiority of Australian biscuits - Shortbread Creams, Kingstons, Monte Carlos, oh my! SC, Mum and I sat round after dinner and had a couple each over a cup of tea. Deeeelicious as ever. Subtle and satisfying. The leftovers went into a Tupperware container on top of the fridge. That I proceeded to raid at any given opportunity.

If Mum was hanging washing on the line or the Scottish Companion went for a shower, I'd tiptoe into the kitchen and prise open a corner of the lid, snaking my fingers inside and plucking out whatever was in reach. I'd try and savour each bite, but most often the fear of getting caught had me shoving it into my gob and gnashing away, brushing crumbs off my boobs at the same time.

The thing is, I don't need to do this anymore. My mother is no longer a Food Ogre. After years of Issues we have both reached a place of calm and sanity where I can eat whatever I like in front of her and do not feel one single skerrick of guilt or judgement. There's no Pursed Lips of Disapproval anymore, no "Haven't you had enough?" or, "You don't need that!". There hasn't been for years. Yet still I felt propelled to the fridge by some urgent compulsion, like, "Quick! Eat all the nice food while noone's looking!".

At one point on our holiday I had a small bar of chocolate in my bag, and secretly reached in and broke bits off throughout the day. I guess I should be happy that it was just a wee 50g Cadburys, but why the need to hide it? SC was right there with me when I bought it. He knew I had it and planned to eat it that day. So why the need for cloak and dagger antics?

This isn't so much a problem now we're back home, as there's nothing in the pantry that I want to stuff into my mouth with wild abandon. Carrots? Miso paste? Frozen broccoli and cauliflower? Maybe I just fell into my old role of sneaky little fat kid since I was back home with my family after so long. But I know I still do this from time to time, and I don't want to panic every time there's appealing food around. I want to look at a box of chocolates and think, I might have one of those, instead of, I might have one of those, then sneak a few into my pocket when noone's looking.

I've talked about Secret Eating on here before, and always attributed it to leftover Secret Fat Chick behaviour that I hadn't quite gotten over yet. But it feels more like a compulsion than about the food itself.

I've also vaguely mentioned my food fascist former stepfather. He presided over my mother's dinner plate, passing judgement and making cruel comments. He was skinny, so this is how he got to make himself feel superior. His constant negativity was passed on to my sister and I.

So I turned sneaky. If we made cakes for a bake sale, I'd deliberately make too much icing so the leftover bowl would be in the fridge for me to dip into later. If we made an extra batch of cookies for the freezer, I'd sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night, slip a few into my pocket then eat them frozen under my bedcovers. I'd spend any pocket money on chocolates, hide inside my wardrobe and eat them by torchlight. I'd sneak extra biscuits at my grandmothers house, sneak chips and chicken nuggets when I worked at KFC.

Once when I was eight, I saved up a bunch of two-cent coins and got a friend to buy me some chocolate buttons from the corner shop on the way to her bus stop. The next day she handed over the loot in a little white paper bag. I'd never been allowed lollies in a white paper bag before. Sweeeeeet. I hid in a quiet corner of the playground, scoffed them down then hid the bag in a tree hollow. My mother taught at my school at the time so I felt I'd gotten away with murder.

When I left home, as we all know, I continued to sneak. But since the sneakery went from the occasional spoonful of icing to two-litre tubs of ice cream or two Extra Value Meals, inevitably my weight soared out of control.

My mother is no longer with my stepfather. And I sorted my issues with Mum, with a series of screaming arguments about five years ago. I finally let fly with all the crap that had been bubbling beneath the surface and ever since we've had a great relationship - mature, understanding and honest.

I don't think that my recent sneaky eating was so much Fat Chick behaviour as just leftover childhood crap. Sometimes I think my fat is just an unfortunate side effect of the past. When I've sneaked food it happened in a robotic trance, disappearing down my trap before I've even registered the taste. It felt like danger and rebellion. Most times I didn't even have a particular craving for the food, I just saw it and felt compelled to snatch up the opportunity in case it never happened again.

What do you do with this knowledge? Do I call a shrink? I don't think I need to go that far. I have long acknowledged how the past affected me and moved on.

But there's still some pesky hangovers.  Just last week there was a huge bowl of Lindt truffles at my hairdressers with a Please Take One sign. I took one, but waited until noone was looking and quickly unwrapped it, scoffed it, then stashed the wrapper into my handbag. They were MEANT to be for the customers but again I felt the need to slink around!

I need to remember that I am not a child anymore. No one is watching the way I eat, noone is judging me, least of all my bloody hairdresser. So I don't need to be sneaky. I don't need to be a rebel anymore.

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.

Before and After

I used to be really dedicated to my fat. I put so much effort into collecting it. When I lived alone in 1999 there was a phase where I'd bake cakes all the time. My favourite was a chocolate cake made with Cadbury's cocoa powder, as opposed to actual chocolate, so it was really quick and cheap to make. I'd eat the whole cake by myself, over a day or two. I'd eat a great fat wedge with a glass of cold milk or two while sitting in front of the telly.

To me there was nothing more comforting in the world than the cake/cold milk combo. There was something about how the milk would make the cake explode in my mouth, then I could feel this surge of cold crumby liquid race down my throat and burst in my chest. For me bingeing has always been about the textures as well as the tastes. I always remember the feel of food just as much as the flavour. I'd go cut another slice, pour another glass, just to feel it again. There was one time I baked and ate three cakes in a week.

Last weekend in London with my sister and her flatmate, they went to university together so I hadn't seen her since December 2000. That was a month before I started Weight Watchers, when I was still baking up a storm. I totally forgot how long it had been, so I couldn't work out why she kept staring at me all weekend. My sister emailled me Monday to say her roomie had been stunned and said, "My my, how she has changed! She was radiant!". Bear in mind she is Swiss and has quite quaint English.

All I could say to my sister was, "Oh wow! So she could notice a difference?". CRIKEY, I can't believe I said that. If she couldn't notice 69 kilos gone, well I'd be in serious trouble. She is one of the last people I know that I haven't seen since the beginning of the Lard Busting Journey, so it was a kinda cool reminder that the Before and After are quite different.

I was standing at the bus stop this morning and suddenly realised that I wasn't thinking about food. I knew I would have my yogurt, apple, oats and seeds combo for breakfast once I got to work. I knew I'd be having chilli for lunch and chicken salad for dinner, some fruit and nuts in between. Cool. I felt a rush of calm and relief that I knew exactly what I was going to eat. I wasn't busting for the next meal, or plotting opportunities to buy chocolate or tubs of ice cream. Just a couple months ago during my Christmas Binge I was heading back towards those Hey Let's Bake Me A Cake days. As soon as I ate breakfast I was snuffling around in the kitchen looking for chocolates, and asking SC what was for lunch. At one point he said with a hint of bewilderment, "You're just OBSESSED with food lately!"

It's taken five long weeks to turn my brain around. It disturbs me to know how easily I can let food rule my life like that, but at the same time I know I have the power to stop it. I am so determined not to let the wedding and honeymoon send me backwards again. I am not the person in the Before photo anymore, physically or mentally. I will just keep living like the After shot, and sooner or later I'll be it.

Hair of the Blob

I love getting my hair cut. I love the smell of shampoos and dye and clean hair gently roasting under a curling iron. I love the old magazines, the chhck chhck of the scissors and the idiotic banter. But most of all I love the attention.

When I was at my heaviest, I loved having that 45 minutes or so when I was made to feel like a beautiful princess instead of an invisible fat nobody. Sure, I was paying for the privelege, but it felt good nonetheless. I'd especially love it when they'd say Let's try something different today. I'd watch closely as they snipped and coloured away and hoped for a miracle transformation.

Now that I look back, I don't think I ever actually looked at my face during a haircut. I'd maybe glimpse at my eyebrows, but somehow managed to focus solely on the stylists and the hair itself. After it was over and they'd hold the mirror behind my head, I'd nod and grin and say That is a gorgeous cut, thank you so much.

It wasn't until a few days later, at home and trying to recreate the style, that I realised while it was a great cut, it looked rather lost and ordinary when perched atop my great flabby face. I'd frown into the mirror, trying to rearrange my locks, adding pomades or lotions or sprays, scrunching or smoothing, trying to make it look right. But it never did.

Six weeks later I'd go back for another cut and hope again they'd Try Something Different. I had supershort. I had bangs. I had blonde highlights. I went brunette. I grew it out, I grew it long. I started over time and time again.

And then one day, late 2000 I think it was, I looked up at the stylist who had that glazed, faraway look of concentration. Then my eyes moved down to my eyebrows. Down my nose, over my rounded cheeks, to where my chins spilled over the top of the black plastic cape.

It finally dawned on me. No haircut in the world was going to make me look smaller.

The power of my own denial never ceases to amaze me. How can one tiny 45g Frys Peppermint Cream hurt me? It won't, until you eat six in a week. And how can missing one Body Pump class do any harm? It can't, until you miss ten on the trot. It's so easy to block out the bigger picture, to ignore how over time your tiny little Just This Once incidents add up to extra pounds, bigger undies, additional chins.

I still use the hairdresser as a guage of my progress. The last five cuts or so, I've sat down in the chair and looked in the mirror and thought my face looked a little fuller. Nah, must be funny lighting, I've said. Or, My period's due any day. But I'm happy to report I'm over that bullshit. It's time to get honest with myself and change those cumulative bad habits into ongoing good ones.

But I will still keep doing crazy shit to my hair.

Moscow on my mind

Last Monday I was in Moscow. When I first hoofed it into Red Square and looked over at St Basil's and the Kremlin and Lenin's Mausoleum, suddenly my breath caught in my chest and I felt lightheaded and woozy. It was not because I was so blubbery and unfit from hours of walking that I was about to keel over, but simply from pure bloody elation that I was in Red Fucking SQUARE and everything was good in the world.

I take it for granted these days, the fact that I can walk as far as I want for as long as I want. I don't think so much about how now I can find something decent to wear, how I can talk to strangers, how I can catch a train in a strange city or lift heavy objects. I don't like to congratulate myself in case I should develop a fat ego, but on that day I allowed myself a moment. I couldn't believe it was me on Red Square, in the country I've wanted to more than anywhere else, the same scared person who rejected the idea of living overseas just a couple years ago coz I was 'too fat and stupid' to do such an outrageous thing.

Now I was just burning with excitement and adrenaline. I thought about all the things I'd had to change and all the work I'd had to do to get to that point and suddendly I just wanted to eat up the world and all its scrumptious possibilities. My fingers were almost twitching. If I could get myself to this point, this place, what else could I do?

Bloody anything, really. There is no greater thrill for me than pushing myself as hard as possible. I like to stretch and I like when it isn't easy and I like when it hurts. Many people see me as lazy git with untapped potential, but they don't realise that I am always working on some goal quietly and privately and passionately. I just don't tell anyone in case I screw up.

. . .

Elated rambling aside, I have to say that no matter how much I change and how confident I grow there's always the little worm of insecurity bobbing around in my guts. This is the part of me who would shrivel up inside anytime someone on our tour would start a conversation with me, or asked me to sit at their table, or buy me a drink. I can't stop making the Lardy Chick's automatic assumption that they're only talking to me out of politeness.

But I got over that after a few vodka shots.

There was also the tiny, deranged part of me that was afraid my gorgeous boy would change his mind while I was away. He'd realised that I was actually a moron and not worth his time. He called last night and as soon as I heard that warm Scottish accent, life was sweeter than all the chocolate I'd scoffed in Finland. He asked should we get together tonight. I said rather timidly, well if only if you have to come into the city for work (he's across the water a wee bit), I mean don't make a special trip, I can see you on the weekend, whatever suits you best, and other assorted ridiculous statements in which I basically apologised for my existence. And he simply said, "I haven't seen you for three weeks!"  You'd think after almost eight months of blissful togetherness that I could just shut up accept that someone could want to be around me on a voluntary basis, but I am still bewildered by it all.

. . .

So anyway, lovely folks, the trip has left me energised and excited about life. Now I must call the gym and book in for some classes. I'm having serious withdrawls. I attempted some squats in our Minsk hotel room, awkwardly brandishing my backpack across my shoulders like a bar. It ranks very highly on the list of Stupid Things I Have Done. Everyone knows you can do effective squats and lunges with your own body weight, and I have plenty of that to spare. But I thought it would be fun to weild a big fat bag full o' dirty undies, shoes, black market vodka and furry Russian hats. They were some pretty lopsided squats, I tells ya.

The Thighs Have It

A woman sat next to me on the bus yesterday afternoon. It was funny coz only that morning I'd been looking down at the seat beside me and marvelling at how I fit onto my half of the seat and no longer spilled over into the other side. But by the afternoon I was thinking differently. It was a quiet time on the bus so everyone had a seat to themselves. I watched the woman walk up the aisle and my Fat Girl mind assumed she'd never sit next to me coz of my lardy ass. She'd definitely sit next to some weedy person. But she sat herself down right beside me! Of all the seats on all the buses in Scotland, she chose mine...

I was quite chuffed about that and smiled to myself. Until the next stop when someone got off, leaving a completely vacant seat. She got up and moved to it. Hmmph. Had I forgotten my deoderant?

...

So I have broken my Posting Twice A Week vow, but I had to spend some quality time with The Boy after he returned from Canada. All my PMS-fuelled paranoia was proved unfounded, he didn't have any sudden revelations while away and change his mind about me, he had missed me just as much. The thing that made me so happy was how happy and content I was while he was away. Sure there were the first few days of angst and moping, but after that I really enjoyed the time apart, wandering around the city on my own, doing some extra classes at the gym. I missed him like mad, but I was content knowing he was enjoying his snowboarding, having a well-deserved break. I just realised for the first time what a mature thing we have goin' on. We're so comfortable and secure with each other that he doesn't mind me going out on the town with the blokes at work and I'm happy for him to go travelling. I guess every guy I've known before has been a clingy "where have you been!?" type and I am just loving this trust and easygoing thing I've got now. I never knew it could be like this. Woohoo!

. . .

I've been obsessing about my thighs. I think I've shedded about ten years of fat now, which means my body is the approximate size it was when I was sixteen. Now I feel like I am sixteen again whenever I look in the mirror, fretting over the exact same bits I fretted about back then. So much lard has come off my chest, waist and hips that I'd forgotten that I've always had big thighs. The body goes out at the boobs, in at the waist, out at the hips, then out even further at the top of my thighs. What the bloody hell do you call that? These are curves that could quite easily be used to prop up a few screaming toddlers and shopping bags. When I'm at my dance class and shimmying at the mirror, all I can see is thigh.

I was shrieking to my sister, "Why do they stick out like that!?! How am I going to get rid of them?" She told me they were meant to be like that. I looked around the studio. People had thighs of all persuasions, but of course in my head mine were the hugest and most... flared out.

I'm going to be one of those people writing into fitness magazines, "How can I reduce the size of my thighs?" and they shall write back in patronising tones, "Dear Desperate of Scotland, there is no such thing as spot reducing... blah blah blah, eat less, accept your thunderous thighs..."

Now I am all paranoid and wondering if there's anything that can be done. Is stacking all that weight on the bar for my squats and lunges making them bigger? Should I take up running? Should I wrap my legs in hot mud and cling film? Lipo?

Once an obsessive, always an obsessive. No matter how happy you can get with your body, you can always find something to pick on!

Insomnia

One Mini Mission is out of the way! All my gymmin' is done for the week - 6 classes down, including my unspectacular return to Body Combat after a four month absence. I've been so hooked on the dancing that I forgot about the kicking and punching.

All I can say is... owwwww. Combat really uses completely different muscles, makes you move your ass in a totally different way. My shoulders are so tired from all that punching. Just goes to show how it's good to do different kinds of exercise, cross-train, baby!

I've been mucking around at the gym for so long now I can almost push out of my mind the old days when I'd avoid walking outside to get the mail from the mailbox coz it just seemed too far to go and I know it would make me red-faced and feeling like my lungs were going to explode.

It's strange, but 350lbs seems like so long ago. But as I said before, sometimes I like to remind myself of that time when I get frustrated about where i am now. Like when I am lying in bed unable to sleep for worrying if I'll ever get there, I like to remember when I couldn't get to sleep at all coz my body was conspiring against me. Let me illustrate:

Gravity is a dirty bitch. As soon as you lay on your back, the fat on my chest lapped at my chin and made it hard to breathe.

It's a long way down.

Have a great weekend, lovelies!

Learning to Binge

Have you ever looked back and tried to pinpoint where it all went wrong? Where you crossed the line from chubby to morbidly obese? Sure, there's lots of contributing factors as to why one ends up so lardy, but I can zoom in on the precise moment that sparked my Michellin-man future.

The day it all went to shit was about my second week of university. I remember the day with startling clarity. A girl I knew from high school needed a place to live for a few weeks and I had a spare room. So in she came with the most enourmous pile of groceries I'd ever seen. At that point I was around 100 kilos, quite overweight indeed, but I'd been having healthy stir-fries for dinner and had already lost a few kilos.

"We must celebrate tonight!" my new roomie declared. "Let's watch Felicity and have a pig-out!"

"Right on," said I. So off we went to the supermarket.

My definition of a pigout at that time was buying a small packet of chips or maybe a Mars Bar. This is why I had managed to stay "managably fat". As we wandered up and down the aisles, I wondered if I'd go for the chips or chocolate tonight. Meanwhile, the roomie was deciding between two different packets of chocolate biscuits.

Oh right, I thought, biscuits it is. I headed for the checkout.

But then she went down the frozen aisles to examine the ice cream. "Would you look at this?" she plucked out a tub of Conisseur Cookie Cream Commotion. "Ice cream, cookies, it's an oral commotion!"

I frowned as she added it to the basket. "Is that for tonight too?"

"Of course! Now we gotta balance that with something savoury."

She selected a giant bag of corn chips, then purposefully strode to the dairy section and got a tub of French Onion Dip. A family block of Cadbury's chocolate was the finishing touch.

I was so stunned I couldn't speak. I couldn't believe she was buying all these things all at once, with the intention of opening all those packages and tucking in that very night. It had never occurred to me that this could be done. I had only just moved out of home, and where such treats were purchased singularly then strictly rationed. I wanted to ask her, can we really do this? You mean it's possible to eat five different kinds of junk at once? Won't we get in trouble?

We got home and parked ourselves in front of the telly. I felt strangely excited as we ripped open the chips and biscuits and shoved two spoons into the icecream. I loved the sound of foil and paper as I snapped the chocolate bar in half.

I had never eaten icecream from the tub before. Finally there was noone here to tell me to slow down with the dip or to have one biscuit only or to allocate me one row of chocolate then put the bar back in the pantry. I relished the explosion and texture of cramming a handful of chips, then followed it up with the creamy grittiness of the icecream, the salty sweet of a Tim Tam biscuit. Forget taking drugs or graffiting my name across the school playground, this was rebellion, baby! We ate and ate until the flavours blurred and we couldn't move. I felt high.

Soon the roomie got a place on campus and she moved out and moved on. But I didn't. That night was a turning point and from then on I began my descent (ascent?!) into obesity.

I was obsessed with eating. Initially it started with the occassional binge like I'd had with the roomie, then my days became one continual pigout. When I arrived at university I was shy and full of loathing for my already lardy body, so I guess I created this little world for myself where it was just me and the food, and I got some kind of happiness out of it. Eating became an activity, I would ponder what I would eat next and how I'd get it. As soon as my roomie left for the weekend to see her folks, I drive the three blocks to the supermarket and stock up. Something savoury - usual chips and dip, or a loaf of white bread and a jar of the Kraft cream cheese spread I'd loved as a child but Mum only allowed us to have as a treat at my grandmother's house. Well screw you, Mum, I was going to toast that loaf and plow my way through the whole jar.

That had to be counterbalanced by sweetness. I had a penchant for Cadbury's Black Forest, (family size, of course)  Nestle Milky Bar and choc-coated honeycomb. I'd buy a jar of Nutella and finish it in one sitting. Then there was the ice cream. I really went to town with that Cookie Cream Commotion, so many times I'd eat the whole litre at once then wonder why I felt so ill afterwards.

Sometimes I'd do the fast food binge. There was a McDonalds, KFC and Red Rooster on the same block. I'd have a craving for a Red Rooster Hawaiian pack - 1/4 of a BBQ chicken, chips, a pineapple and a banana fritter. I'd go through the drive thru for that, ignoring the way my belly was closing in on the steering wheel. Next I'd think, I'd love some coleslaw with that, so I'd go to KFC coz the coleslaw was better there.  And maybe get some more chips too coz the KFC chips were the best. I'd throw a newspaper over the Red Rooster so the pimply kid on drive-thru wouldn't think I was a pig. Then I'd often make a last stop at McDonalds for a chocolate shake or a sundae. Or both. You gotta have dessert.

I would go home then eat it all, quickly and urgently, barely tasting a thing. It was more about the texture of the food, the stringiness of the chicken, the warmth I'd feel as this horrible greasy shit filled up my insides, the crunch of the chips, the salt on my fingers, the way the ice cream seemed to slide down my throat then make everything feel all cool inside my rib cage. It sounds bizarre but the whole shopping and eating thing made me feel purposeful, it was an event. I didn't have much of a life to speak of.

I didn't stop this behaviour for five years. From 1996 - 2001, I gained over 50 kilos - 110 pounds.

I don't even know why I am writing about this. Maybe just to remind myself of how things used to be, when I get angry at myself for still being the tubbiest git in my gym, or for eating one Tunnock's Tea Cake. Sometimes you need a little perspective.