Read Online The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl by Shauna Reid - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shauna Reid
Ads: Link
to free popcorn.
I hate Coles supermarket most of all, which unfortunately was our destination today. It’s the beating heart of this rural metropolis, the modern equivalent of a town square; which makes it extremely dangerous. There’s always a 95 percent chance I’ll run into someone in the aisles, which is hell since I’ve doubled in size since I left town six years ago.
“Now this is just a quick trip to Coles,” Mum promised. “I only need a few things!”
But there’s no such thing as a Quick Trip to Coles. We’ll go in for a loaf of bread, and Mum will inevitably be distracted by what she calls the Chuck-Out Bin, the place where reduced-price near-death cheese and yogurts lurk. To her, an expiration date is not a recommendation but a challenge.
That’s my cue to hide my hefty arse behind a display of cornflakes or a tower of oranges and quietly panic. Who will ambush me today? What nosy questions will they ask? How will they react to my bulk? Please hurry up, Mum. What if I see one of my old teachers and they discover their dedicated student turned out to be such a crushing disappointment?
It was particularly traumatic during my postuniversity jobless bum phase. The questions were always the same. “So I hear you’ve finished your degree! What have you been up to?”
You mean, aside from becoming hideously obese? Well, I rise at noon but leave the blinds down so no one thinks I’m home, and then it’s ice cream and Days of Our Lives for breakfast. And then I curl up in a nest of rejection letters and cry great self-indulgent sobs, and then it’s nap time until MacGyver comes on.
“Oh, not much,” I’d eventually say.
“So have you got a man yet?”
“Oh, not yet.”
“Well, dear, it will happen when you least expect it!” Cue sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “And same goes for your job situation, I’m sure!”
And then I’d descend into gloom for days, picturing them rushing home to tell their families, “That Shauna, she peaked way too early.”
You’d think I’d feel less neurotic now that I’ve got a good job and I’m losing weight, but I don’t particularly.
“Ma, I think I’ll just wait in the car while you two go in.”
“But you can’t—”
“I’m twenty-three now! I’m old enough to wait in the car by myself!”
“Well all right,” she relented. “But don’t touch anything.”
I think I’ll keep a low profile in Cowra until I get down to a size 16, which was my approximate lardiness when I finished high school. It will be as if that whole pesky morbid obesity thing never happened.
Next stop on the itinerary was my grandparents’ house. Nanny and Poppy are two of my most favorite people in the world. They lived on a farm much the same as ours, with crops, tractors, cow pats to step in—but things couldn’t have been more different inside the house. They had cake! Ice cream! Mashed potatoes! Harmonious relationships!
Like all good farmers, my grandparents worked hard, but there was always time for a cup of tea. I used to sit at the kitchen bench, eyes wide as Nanny dragged out the biscuit tins and sliced up a homemade cake. I’d wriggle in my seat, overwhelmed by choice and wondering how much I could eat before Mum would say, “No more for you, young lady.”
I thought Nanny and Poppy’s house was a veritable palace of fat and sugar, but they actually had a moderate approach. Nanny cooked hearty meals in sensible portions, always with lots of vegetables. Dessert and cakes were reserved for special occasions or a treat for the grandkiddies. Food was just food with Nanny and Poppy. It didn’t mean anything. They didn’t use it as a weapon or a punishment. Mealtimes were beautifully ordinary, with no tense silences or bitter arguments; no one making pointed comments about your thighs one minute then demanding you finish your lamb chop the next.
Rhiannon and I still reminisce about that one glorious time when Mum and my stepdad went out of town,
I hate Coles supermarket most of all, which unfortunately was our destination today. It’s the beating heart of this rural metropolis, the modern equivalent of a town square; which makes it extremely dangerous. There’s always a 95 percent chance I’ll run into someone in the aisles, which is hell since I’ve doubled in size since I left town six years ago.
“Now this is just a quick trip to Coles,” Mum promised. “I only need a few things!”
But there’s no such thing as a Quick Trip to Coles. We’ll go in for a loaf of bread, and Mum will inevitably be distracted by what she calls the Chuck-Out Bin, the place where reduced-price near-death cheese and yogurts lurk. To her, an expiration date is not a recommendation but a challenge.
That’s my cue to hide my hefty arse behind a display of cornflakes or a tower of oranges and quietly panic. Who will ambush me today? What nosy questions will they ask? How will they react to my bulk? Please hurry up, Mum. What if I see one of my old teachers and they discover their dedicated student turned out to be such a crushing disappointment?
It was particularly traumatic during my postuniversity jobless bum phase. The questions were always the same. “So I hear you’ve finished your degree! What have you been up to?”
You mean, aside from becoming hideously obese? Well, I rise at noon but leave the blinds down so no one thinks I’m home, and then it’s ice cream and Days of Our Lives for breakfast. And then I curl up in a nest of rejection letters and cry great self-indulgent sobs, and then it’s nap time until MacGyver comes on.
“Oh, not much,” I’d eventually say.
“So have you got a man yet?”
“Oh, not yet.”
“Well, dear, it will happen when you least expect it!” Cue sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “And same goes for your job situation, I’m sure!”
And then I’d descend into gloom for days, picturing them rushing home to tell their families, “That Shauna, she peaked way too early.”
You’d think I’d feel less neurotic now that I’ve got a good job and I’m losing weight, but I don’t particularly.
“Ma, I think I’ll just wait in the car while you two go in.”
“But you can’t—”
“I’m twenty-three now! I’m old enough to wait in the car by myself!”
“Well all right,” she relented. “But don’t touch anything.”
I think I’ll keep a low profile in Cowra until I get down to a size 16, which was my approximate lardiness when I finished high school. It will be as if that whole pesky morbid obesity thing never happened.
Next stop on the itinerary was my grandparents’ house. Nanny and Poppy are two of my most favorite people in the world. They lived on a farm much the same as ours, with crops, tractors, cow pats to step in—but things couldn’t have been more different inside the house. They had cake! Ice cream! Mashed potatoes! Harmonious relationships!
Like all good farmers, my grandparents worked hard, but there was always time for a cup of tea. I used to sit at the kitchen bench, eyes wide as Nanny dragged out the biscuit tins and sliced up a homemade cake. I’d wriggle in my seat, overwhelmed by choice and wondering how much I could eat before Mum would say, “No more for you, young lady.”
I thought Nanny and Poppy’s house was a veritable palace of fat and sugar, but they actually had a moderate approach. Nanny cooked hearty meals in sensible portions, always with lots of vegetables. Dessert and cakes were reserved for special occasions or a treat for the grandkiddies. Food was just food with Nanny and Poppy. It didn’t mean anything. They didn’t use it as a weapon or a punishment. Mealtimes were beautifully ordinary, with no tense silences or bitter arguments; no one making pointed comments about your thighs one minute then demanding you finish your lamb chop the next.
Rhiannon and I still reminisce about that one glorious time when Mum and my stepdad went out of town,
Similar Books
