Today I’m dreaming of puddings. Specifically, that pudding I made at Christmas with the sticky toffee sauce. I took a photo of it at the time and right now it’s dished up as my desktop wallpaper (click the pic for closeup). I can see the dense crumbs, I can even make out individual chunks of carrot. There’s a pool of toffee sauce and melted ice cream and I wish I could dive right in. You can even see the wee flecks of vanilla in the ice cream! Just staring at the picture is almost as satisfying as the real thing.
. . .
Someone arrived here today from Google with a very precise search string: Dietgirl, the Amazing Adventures of. Like it was in a catalogue or something! For some demented reason, that comma made my day.
There are a lot of new people coming by lately so why not say hello? I don’t bite! I am not that hungry.
. . .
The Mothership sent me a card in the post this week. Inside was an old photo she’d found, taken the day I left Australia. On 27 March 2003 I was about 110 kilos (250lb) and a size 20/22.
I gawked at that photo in complete disbelief, barely recognising myself. Which is strange because at the time I’d felt so tiny, having spend the previous two years busting down from 350lb, as you know.
I remember that final morning in Oz – frantically stuffing things into my suitcase, sneaking online one last time to type goodbye to friends, and The Mothership fretting we’d get SARS in Singapore or shot down over Iraq. Now I look at my eternally chubby cheeks in the photo and think, Dude, if only you knew all the crazy shit that’s going to happen once you get on that plane. Woohoo!
Sometimes I have trouble remembering how things used to be. When I came to the UK it was almost like wiping the slate clean. The first two years of lard busting had changed me, but the real changes began once we arrived in Edinburgh. I really had to leave the fat girl insecurities and fears at the airport, coz we had to find a job and somewhere to live quick smart. There was no time to be shy and scared of strangers.
These days I am so used to feeling comfortable in my own skin that I almost forget that it used to be very different, and that it was a real stinking struggle to reach this point.
. . .
I was getting a haircut the other day and my beloved hairdresser was chatting away about Dr Gillian McKeith’s new show, in which she gets the fatties to live in her house for eight weeks so she can torture them at closer proximity and examine their poos at any hour she chooses. My hairdresser found out about my weight loss so she often talks about That Sort Of Thing with me.
Another stylist overheard us and asked what she was on about. My gal explained, "Well, Shauna used to be… bigger."
I cracked up laughing but then the inevitable questions came. How much bigger? She’s lost 12 stone. No way! I know, you’d never know would you? It’s amazing! How did you do it!?
"I dunno really," I mumbled, "I ate less and did a lot of exercise!"
You know, I’m bloody proud of myself for turning my life around and I’ve never been at all ashamed or contemptuous of my former heavier self. Sometimes I do wonder why on earth I made my past so bloody public. It’s really unsettling to have someone staring at you, knowing they’re trying to picture an extra 70 kilos on your frame.
Just as when you’re morbidly obese you want people to see you as more than your fat, when you’re smaller you want people to see you for more than the fat that used to be there.
I know people wouldn’t really do that, but it’s more of a reminder to myself that there’s more to me — to all of us — than the size of our pants. Past or present!