Read Online The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl by Shauna Reid - Free Book Online
Authors: Shauna Reid
Ads: Link
lost—119.5 to go
There are many different instruments of torture at the gym and I passionately loathe them all—the exercise bike, stepper, and elliptical trainer, pedaling and plodding my way to nowhere. They say you’re supposed to do cardio three times a week: Does this mean I’m to be completely bloody bored three times a week for the rest of my life?
The rowing machine, however, is quite a charmer. Our gym has two at opposite ends of the cardio suite, so Rhiannon and I take one each and pretend we’re college lads out on an English river.
“Hallo, old chum!” she yells over the techno music.
“I say, lovely day for a row!” I shout back.
The rowing motion is strangely hypnotic and makes my shoulders burn. Sometimes I feel almost sporty. Last night I got carried away completely, trying to beat my best time for 500 meters.
“Eat my dust, old chap!”
“Not fair!” said Rhiannon. “I’ve got a slow boat!”
After tonight’s grueling workout we soaked our aching muscles in the spa. I finally summoned the nerve to get into the damn thing. I’d been using my lack of swimsuit as an excuse, but Rhiannon said, “Just stick on a T-shirt and knickers and live a little!”
The spa is set on a platform in the middle of the changing rooms, flanked by plastic plants and wood paneling for that porno set ambience. From this secluded position, I watched the patrons come and go. I was awed by how they casually peeled off their sweaty workout clothes and strolled to the showers without a trace of self-consciousness. I always turn up dressed and ready to go, and then either go home stinky or change my clothes in the shower room. I don’t expose so much as a lily-white toe!
I couldn’t resist peeking at other chicks’ boobs in a critical, comparative, scientific kind of way. Being of the heterosexual persuasion, I don’t get to see naked breasts very often. It was incredibly enlightening. Who knew there were so many varieties? I’m so accustomed to my own gelatinous girls that I never appreciated that there are also little ones, pointy ones, bouncy ones, and ones with wacky nipples. Such diversity; but all had their own charm.
It made me think about how much time I spend fretting about my body. This bit is too big, that bit is too blobby, that bit is too ugly, that bit’s just plain wrong. Being so paranoid and critical is exhausting. Who’s to say what’s normal anyway? Why can’t I appreciate what I’ve got?
I now realize what I desperately want out of this lard-busting caper, more than a size 12 dress or a number on the scale. I’m aching to be comfortable in my own skin, with all its quirks and flaws, just like the women at the gym seem so comfortable in theirs. I want to be happy just being me.
But I’m not quite sure how you’re meant to get there.
WEEK 26
July 9
278.5 pounds
72.5 pounds lost—113.5 to go
“Oh my. Goodness me. Crikey!”
The Mothership stood on the front veranda of her house, clutching her heart theatrically as I climbed out of the car.
“Ma, don’t be a drama queen!”
“I’m not! I haven’t seen you for two months!”
After twenty-five years in education, Mum is incapable of switching off her teacher voice. It boomed across the street, as if she was reading a story to her kindergarten class.
“I mean, wow. You’re shrinking! Rhiannon, isn’t she shrinking?”
“Yes!” Rhiannon grinned and rolled her eyes. “She’s shrinking.”
Mum thrust a giant bunch of dahlias into my chest. “These are for reaching your Seventy Pound milestone.”
“Aww Ma, you big cheese!”
“I’m very proud of you. I’m very proud of both of you!” She patted our heads as if we were oversized Labradors. “Now, who’s going to make the Mother a cup of tea?”
I hate going back to Cowra; it feels like returning to the scene of the crime. I cringed as we drove past my old haunts—the KFC, the Chinese take-away, the cinema where I worked one summer and had unlimited access
There are many different instruments of torture at the gym and I passionately loathe them all—the exercise bike, stepper, and elliptical trainer, pedaling and plodding my way to nowhere. They say you’re supposed to do cardio three times a week: Does this mean I’m to be completely bloody bored three times a week for the rest of my life?
The rowing machine, however, is quite a charmer. Our gym has two at opposite ends of the cardio suite, so Rhiannon and I take one each and pretend we’re college lads out on an English river.
“Hallo, old chum!” she yells over the techno music.
“I say, lovely day for a row!” I shout back.
The rowing motion is strangely hypnotic and makes my shoulders burn. Sometimes I feel almost sporty. Last night I got carried away completely, trying to beat my best time for 500 meters.
“Eat my dust, old chap!”
“Not fair!” said Rhiannon. “I’ve got a slow boat!”
After tonight’s grueling workout we soaked our aching muscles in the spa. I finally summoned the nerve to get into the damn thing. I’d been using my lack of swimsuit as an excuse, but Rhiannon said, “Just stick on a T-shirt and knickers and live a little!”
The spa is set on a platform in the middle of the changing rooms, flanked by plastic plants and wood paneling for that porno set ambience. From this secluded position, I watched the patrons come and go. I was awed by how they casually peeled off their sweaty workout clothes and strolled to the showers without a trace of self-consciousness. I always turn up dressed and ready to go, and then either go home stinky or change my clothes in the shower room. I don’t expose so much as a lily-white toe!
I couldn’t resist peeking at other chicks’ boobs in a critical, comparative, scientific kind of way. Being of the heterosexual persuasion, I don’t get to see naked breasts very often. It was incredibly enlightening. Who knew there were so many varieties? I’m so accustomed to my own gelatinous girls that I never appreciated that there are also little ones, pointy ones, bouncy ones, and ones with wacky nipples. Such diversity; but all had their own charm.
It made me think about how much time I spend fretting about my body. This bit is too big, that bit is too blobby, that bit is too ugly, that bit’s just plain wrong. Being so paranoid and critical is exhausting. Who’s to say what’s normal anyway? Why can’t I appreciate what I’ve got?
I now realize what I desperately want out of this lard-busting caper, more than a size 12 dress or a number on the scale. I’m aching to be comfortable in my own skin, with all its quirks and flaws, just like the women at the gym seem so comfortable in theirs. I want to be happy just being me.
But I’m not quite sure how you’re meant to get there.
WEEK 26
July 9
278.5 pounds
72.5 pounds lost—113.5 to go
“Oh my. Goodness me. Crikey!”
The Mothership stood on the front veranda of her house, clutching her heart theatrically as I climbed out of the car.
“Ma, don’t be a drama queen!”
“I’m not! I haven’t seen you for two months!”
After twenty-five years in education, Mum is incapable of switching off her teacher voice. It boomed across the street, as if she was reading a story to her kindergarten class.
“I mean, wow. You’re shrinking! Rhiannon, isn’t she shrinking?”
“Yes!” Rhiannon grinned and rolled her eyes. “She’s shrinking.”
Mum thrust a giant bunch of dahlias into my chest. “These are for reaching your Seventy Pound milestone.”
“Aww Ma, you big cheese!”
“I’m very proud of you. I’m very proud of both of you!” She patted our heads as if we were oversized Labradors. “Now, who’s going to make the Mother a cup of tea?”
I hate going back to Cowra; it feels like returning to the scene of the crime. I cringed as we drove past my old haunts—the KFC, the Chinese take-away, the cinema where I worked one summer and had unlimited access
Similar Books
![Hard and Easy [High-Country Shifters 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/601893/thumbs/152x264/hard-and-easy-high-country-shifters-5-siren-publishing-menage-everlasting.png)
