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.

My Day In Elle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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


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

Evidence

You asked for Chicago photies and I shall obey you!

Exhibit A: Token Food P0rn

American Snacks were provided yesterday afternoon so I got to experience Chicago Dogs and these giant pretzel things, served with mustard and a delicious pile of yellow goo!

Exhibit B: Brush With Fame

Jen and I went to a lunch with Jillian Michaels, trainer extraordinaire from The Biggest Loser show - just a dozen or so chicks sitting round chatting to this superbuff dame. She was only obliged to be there for an hour but instead it almost hit two because she just wouldn't shut up, in the most wonderfully open, honest way. Sweeeet.

Exhibit C: Windswept Vixens

Back: Jen of AFG and YAWWBlog, Queen Jennette. Front: Corinna of Celebration of Curves, that Dietgirl weirdo, Wendy! Five chicks who happen to write about their bodies sometimes. But a helluva lot of other stuff too.

Late last night I also got to hang out with Weetabix but I was too intoxicated to remember to take a photo! But you will just have to take my word for it that she is hilarious, foxy and a most generous hostess to boot.

Over the past year or I've felt a little lost. First I went through a phase of being rather obsessed with reaching my magical goal weight, then lately I've moved on from that obsession and lumped with a sinking What The Fuck Do I Do Now feeling. Because I've spent 6.5 years pouring so much energy into Operation Lard Bust. I've wondered and worried as to what I'm all about; what there is to me aside from being The Chick That Lost Heaps Of Weight.

But meeting all these foxy vixens this weekend has truly kicked me up the butt. I met them because of what they've written about their body Issues, but now I've found out more about what they do and what they think about when they're not talking about their butts. So it's a timely reminder that there is so much more; that I have done so much more with my life than this. And I can do so much more. We all can. You can look after your body and get healthy and sweaty but it's just one cog in the wheel. Rock n roll.

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.

To Fetch A Pail of Water

I did two scary things this weekend!

1. Held A Tiny Baby
When I wasn't scoffing hot cross buns on Good Friday I got to cuddle my friends brand new bairn. I am rubbish with babies; I'm terrified of breaking them. But this little fella was gorgeous, and it warmed my crusty heart to see the parents so completely besotted by their new creation. I also felt an attack of the warm fuzzies to see Gareth holding him somewhat nervously but overall my overwhelming feeling was, "Lovely, but not for me." Not for now, anyway.

All of a sudden I have reached an age where people ask about my breeding intentions. Wasn't it only yesterday they were asking what I want to do when I finish high school? I haven't even figured that one out yet!

Just the other night I was out with friends and one of them said, "So when's the baby due?". I got all huffy, "Are you saying I look lardy? I have been BUSTING MY ARSE at the gym!". But he said no, it was because I looked happy and I'd only been drinking pints of water all night. Ahh, nice logic.

Anyway. Babies. It would be great if we could have a wee family in a few years, but right now I'm not interested. I have only just started to look after myself properly, let alone a screaming child. I spent so many years all surly and depressed, merely enduring life and just dragging my lardy arse through the days. But now that I'm finally fully present and participating, I'd like to enjoy my delayed youth for a bit longer.

2. Climbed Up A Big Hill
Gareth is mad into hillwalking at the moment. His fitness level makes me spew with jealousy - not only does he cycle a casual 80+ miles per week, he also wanders in the hills for hours on end.

Anyway, the other day he was heading out to Dumyat, a small hill of 418 metres (1,373 ft), and asked did I want to tag along. He assured me it was a quick and easy walk, popular with old grannies and small children.

"And you could add hillwalking to your New Activities list!" he said.

I was not sold. It wouldn't really count as I used to walk up Mount Ainslie back in Canberra. Not as high but felt bloody grueling back in 2002. People run up that hill in 10 minutes, but it used take me nearly an hour!

But then he told me he'd packed sandwiches and a thermos of tea, so my stomach led the way.

There is a very straightforward, gradual path to the top but of course Gareth likes to be different and took us on a much steeper cross-country route.

I have to admit I got shitscared. And really puffed. And cranky, because Gareth was barely breaking a sweat.

Why do hills have to be so... hilly? I don't trust my balance. I seem to believe that my body will somehow defy gravity and I'll fall off the hill and break all my bones.

My first worry is the ol' knee. Not the pain, but the fear of pain. Almost two years since I first hurt it, I am terrified of hurting it again. So I am really awkward and tentative on my feet.

The second problem is my former belly. For many years I couldn't see my feet because of my huge stomach, and I was always worried I'd lose my balance and fall down stairs/escalators/ravines etc. And even though the stomach isn't there anymore, I'm still nervous in descent mode. It's irrational and highly annoying. So I couldn't let myself enjoy the climb because I was too busy worrying about how I'd get back down again.

My tactic was to haul myself up the hill like a demented gorilla. Back hunched over, arms outstretched, fingertips grazing the ground, ready to catch myself if I started to fall. Not the most efficient technique, I tells ya.

But the view form the top was amazing. Bloody windy though. Our tracky-dacks billowed in the breeze in a satisfying MC Hammer style.

The world was beautifully silent and peaceful, far away from our neighbours and their squeaky tumble dryer, far away from work worries. I could finally understand why Gareth enjoys it so much. It puts the world into perspective. Plus if you've been puffing uphill for an hour you can totally justify a big sandwich.

Our descent was painfully slow and took even longer than the climb, no thanks to my Baby Learning How To Walk technique. Tiny, lurching steps with arms waving in the air and lots of screaming. But it was satisfying in the end, looking back at how far we'd shuffled.

My muscles were deliciously hurty the next day, but my knee felt fine and I was feeling rather smug about the whole thing. I realised again that my fitness level is quite good these days, it's just my silly fears that keep slowing me down. So I will keep working on that.

Of course Gareth had to go out-smug me yesterday by climbing another hill with his mate while I was still whimpering about my tired legs. It was four times higher and involved rocks and extreme steepness and scrambling on hands and knees. But I guess one man's Everest is another man's stroll in the park, so I will stop comparing our feats all the time. The sporty git.

Say Cheese

The progress photo page has finally been updated! That is all.

Buy A Copy For Yer Mum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to download (519kb, Zip file)

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

Blow Your Cover

I received a few emails this week, mostly of the 'Found ya!' nature. After three and half years, more and more people are stumbling across The Secret Life. How did you figure it out, dammit? I guess there's not as many Australians living in Edinburgh who just went to Russia as I thought.

Those who've found me have been nice about it. Still, I feel awkward. It's a hefty chunk of your life to hide away.

I worry if the folks who only knew me through my other site will think of me differently now that they know about The Fat. There's a huge part of me that still feels like I am not worth being around, not pretty enough, not up to scratch, blah blah blah, until I get smaller.

Someone else emailled me to simply say that I saved their life. I won't go into the details but I was gobsmacked and felt a little buzz that some waffle I put on this silly site could motivate someone.

Someone else (well, two someone elses) emailled to ask why I haven't updated the photo page in ages. This would be because I've neglected to take any new photos. Below is one from December, approximately 93 kilos, drunk and grinning in the loos at my work Christmas party.

As you can see I've still got a lot of work to do. What to do about those thighs? And I continue to mask my eyes as I cling to the flimsy premise that Dietgirl is my super secret alter ego :)

Next entry I will get back to the Fat Bustin', I promise.

Seriously, Now

Bloody hell, people. I've been trying to shift my fat arse for over two and half years. Aren't you sick of me yet? I know I am freaking sick of me. I weighed last night at the gym, 15st 2 1/4 lb. That is about 96.3 kilos? Can anyone help me out there? Either way I know I need to work harder. Enough of this half-assed effort.

Here's some pics in case you forget what I looked like. And yes, I will persist with the blurring of my eyes, I am in denial that anyone could recognise me by mighty saddlebags!

January 2001:

August 2003: