you asking about the Weight Watching.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I lost another four pounds this week, which means … drumroll please!—I don’t need that extra weight on the scale anymore!”
“Wow!”
“So I’m no longer super fat. Next week I can stroll in and jump on the scale like a ‘normal’ fat person!”
“Shauna,” she clucked, “you shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”
“I’m not! It’s just a big milestone for me.”
“Well I’m very proud of you.” She cleared her throat. “Listen, I have to tell you something very important. I just finished this book that Oprah recommended.”
“Oh … great.”
“Shush, you! It was all about controlling parents and how they have such high expectations of their children. And how this is so very traumatic for the child! So I had to call you and say I’m sorry for all the pressure I put on you over the years.”
“Pressure?” I laughed. “You?”
“I just want you to know I don’t have those harmful expectations anymore. All I want is for you to be happy and to do what you want to do, whatever you’re passionate about.”
“OK.”
“So don’t go thinking I’m disappointed about the aborted journalism career. And if you don’t do the computers for the rest of your life, I don’t mind about that either! You’ll have no crazy expectations from me anymore.”
“Oh cool. So now I can fully focus on all the expectations I have of myself!”
“I’m trying to be serious!”
“I know.”
“Good. Well, I’m glad we had this conversation.”
WEEK 12
April 6
302 pounds
49 pounds lost—137 to go
After the dazzling success of the Vampire Method walking regime, this week I went back to the gym.
Rhiannon and I joined up six months ago in a fit of good intentions, but my efforts were short-lived. I had an induction with a friendly girl called Angela, but I don’t think she quite knew what to do with me. She weighed me (310 pounds, the scale maximum) and tried to do my measurements, but her tape measure couldn’t reach around my hefty hips. Then she tried to take my blood pressure, but my arm was too big for the cuff.
So we moved on to the fitness assessment. Rhiannon had told me about the rigorous moves they’d put her through, but I was spared by virtue of the fact that I was already pink and puffed just from stepping on and off the scale. Instead Angela got me to walk on the treadmill. I barely managed five minutes at a mighty 2.5 miles per hour.
There was space on my program chart for two dozen different weights and cardio moves but she could only write one pathetic instruction: Treadmill, 2.5 mph, twenty minutes .
“Wow, what an athlete!” I said with a pained smile.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Angela said kindly. “We all have to start somewhere. We’ll be filling this chart with all sorts of exercises before you know it! Give this six weeks then come and see me again.”
“OK,” I lied.
Rhiannon cleverly suggested we make our comeback an hour before closing, so the gym would be quiet and less intimidating. She knows me too well.
Surprisingly, my chart was still in the filing cabinet. I thought they’d have removed it by now, maybe shoving it into a box labeled LARDY LOSERS WHO COULDN’T HACK THE PACE . But there it was, with the same smiley face that Angela had drawn all those months ago.
The cardio theater was deserted but for a lone brunette on a treadmill. I froze in the doorway, mesmerized and terrified by her pert buttocks and swishing ponytail. What if she saw me? An arse like mine is hard to miss. What if she screamed at me to be gone from her sacred temple of fitness?
“She’s not looking at you!” said Rhiannon. “She’s engrossed in her run.”
“I can’t go in there. Look at her boobs, they don’t even move!”
“They’re either fake or she’s got a fantastic sports bra.”
“What do you think she’s thinking as she runs along like that? God, I’m so fucking
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I lost another four pounds this week, which means … drumroll please!—I don’t need that extra weight on the scale anymore!”
“Wow!”
“So I’m no longer super fat. Next week I can stroll in and jump on the scale like a ‘normal’ fat person!”
“Shauna,” she clucked, “you shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”
“I’m not! It’s just a big milestone for me.”
“Well I’m very proud of you.” She cleared her throat. “Listen, I have to tell you something very important. I just finished this book that Oprah recommended.”
“Oh … great.”
“Shush, you! It was all about controlling parents and how they have such high expectations of their children. And how this is so very traumatic for the child! So I had to call you and say I’m sorry for all the pressure I put on you over the years.”
“Pressure?” I laughed. “You?”
“I just want you to know I don’t have those harmful expectations anymore. All I want is for you to be happy and to do what you want to do, whatever you’re passionate about.”
“OK.”
“So don’t go thinking I’m disappointed about the aborted journalism career. And if you don’t do the computers for the rest of your life, I don’t mind about that either! You’ll have no crazy expectations from me anymore.”
“Oh cool. So now I can fully focus on all the expectations I have of myself!”
“I’m trying to be serious!”
“I know.”
“Good. Well, I’m glad we had this conversation.”
WEEK 12
April 6
302 pounds
49 pounds lost—137 to go
After the dazzling success of the Vampire Method walking regime, this week I went back to the gym.
Rhiannon and I joined up six months ago in a fit of good intentions, but my efforts were short-lived. I had an induction with a friendly girl called Angela, but I don’t think she quite knew what to do with me. She weighed me (310 pounds, the scale maximum) and tried to do my measurements, but her tape measure couldn’t reach around my hefty hips. Then she tried to take my blood pressure, but my arm was too big for the cuff.
So we moved on to the fitness assessment. Rhiannon had told me about the rigorous moves they’d put her through, but I was spared by virtue of the fact that I was already pink and puffed just from stepping on and off the scale. Instead Angela got me to walk on the treadmill. I barely managed five minutes at a mighty 2.5 miles per hour.
There was space on my program chart for two dozen different weights and cardio moves but she could only write one pathetic instruction: Treadmill, 2.5 mph, twenty minutes .
“Wow, what an athlete!” I said with a pained smile.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Angela said kindly. “We all have to start somewhere. We’ll be filling this chart with all sorts of exercises before you know it! Give this six weeks then come and see me again.”
“OK,” I lied.
Rhiannon cleverly suggested we make our comeback an hour before closing, so the gym would be quiet and less intimidating. She knows me too well.
Surprisingly, my chart was still in the filing cabinet. I thought they’d have removed it by now, maybe shoving it into a box labeled LARDY LOSERS WHO COULDN’T HACK THE PACE . But there it was, with the same smiley face that Angela had drawn all those months ago.
The cardio theater was deserted but for a lone brunette on a treadmill. I froze in the doorway, mesmerized and terrified by her pert buttocks and swishing ponytail. What if she saw me? An arse like mine is hard to miss. What if she screamed at me to be gone from her sacred temple of fitness?
“She’s not looking at you!” said Rhiannon. “She’s engrossed in her run.”
“I can’t go in there. Look at her boobs, they don’t even move!”
“They’re either fake or she’s got a fantastic sports bra.”
“What do you think she’s thinking as she runs along like that? God, I’m so fucking
Similar Books
