My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding

chapter 15



I told on Thomas to his boss yesterday, completely forgetting that the lad had previously been sacked. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because I’m not sure the Meli Spa manager believed me at the time. Thomas had done a runner and Brenda went on with her exercise ball class without me.

Nevertheless, the manager had offered me a free spa treatment (as way of apology for Thomas and his bum feeling tactics that may or may not have happened in the managers’ eyes) that I plan on making use of soon. I’m sure I’ll definitely need some down time after mine and Callum’s wedding and honeymoon. The lead up to our big day is certainly proving stressful. I need something to calm me halfway down. I don’t want to relax too much as I need to keep my energy levels up to burn calories.

After work at the cafe I scoop my Kindle eBook reader off the coffee table. I type “diet” into the search field and wait while the eInk screen loads up the Amazon eBookStore. There are so many f*cking books on dieting, I have to narrow down my search keywords to “exercise wedding diet” and hope that will do the trick.

It does.

The title of the suggested eBook that pops up on my Kindle screen catches my attention promptly. It called…

‘Fat Bitch = Fat Bride’ by Judith Shield

The eBook is only .99 pence, so I purchase it straight away from download. The forward of the diet book reads like this…

‘If you’re a fat bitch then you WILL be a fat bride. Read my book now to improve your chances of walking down that aisle at a decent size. You don’t want everyone staring at you thinking you’re nothing but a fat bitch, now do you?’

I shake my head at my Kindle screen in agreement contemplating, no Miss Shield Author Woman, I do not want people thinking I’m a fat bitch. And then I read on…

‘If you’ve purchased my book then you’ve taken the first steps to getting rid of your fat bitch status. However, you’re still currently a very fat bitch, so you need to come to terms with this fact.’

After reading the entire forward that goes on in this manner, I’m not sure I feel motivated to start working out double-time, or if I’m feeling much too depressed about my weight to even go on with life.

No, that’s just silly. How could a two-page piece about a book make me feel worse than before I’d read it? That’s not what professional authors do. If this book has made it to publication as a sound way of getting fat bitches —such as myself— to take charge of their pre-wedding lives, then that’s good enough for me!

At least, it should be, right?

Why do I have feelings of doubt about this dieter’s eBook? I’m not quite sure, so I start reading the first chapter. The fact that the book starts out with the words “bully” and “exercise-nazi” as a way of describing the author’s teaching tactics, doesn’t deter me from reading on in the slightest. After all, I’m guessing if a woman is a fat bitch —like me— sometimes they need harsher training advice.

Something tingles at the back of my eyes as I read more of the weight-loss eBook. I discover they are tears of sadness. The more I read about how fat the author thinks I am, the more depressed I become about my weight. In the back of my mind I’m hoping the creator of this self-help book is wrong, but a part of me can’t help wondering if I think that only because the truth hurts. I mean, I am a fat bitch, I know I must be, and I don’t want to be a fat bride. So, I read on and on some more…

By the time I’ve read the first half of the book I’m more confused and stressed out than ever. At least, I think I am. If Judith Shield were here with me right now, would she tell me I’m stressing? No. On the contrary, she’d probably call me a lazy bitch and tell me to get up off my fat arse and start exercising.

Throwing down my Kindle onto the couch cushion I jump up and start pacing the room. Momentarily, I stop and grab my iPhone off the coffee table. I do a search on Facebook and I’m shown results for the Fat Bitch group page thingy.

“Hurry up!” I yell at my phone when the page takes ages to load. My nerves are on edge. I’m anxious and I don’t even know why.

Finally, the Fat Bitch = Fat Bride page loads. I scroll down through adds for the authors next book: Fat Bride = Jiggly Honeymoon which gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. I vow to never read the author’s follow up book. I won’t have to because I’m not going to be a Fat Bitch Bride! I’m determined not to end up on honeymoon having my fat jiggling everywhere as I try to make love to my new husband!

At last I’ve reached comments from readers of Shield’s book. I’m surprised to find that many of the entries seem as confused as I am. There are a few motivational comments by women who claim they lost weight after reading the Fat Bitch book, but other than those, most of the replies aren’t helpful at all.

“Argh.” I harrumph loudly and throw down my phone in great disgust, just like I’d done with my Kindle. They are digital devices though. Even though it’s a soft cushion I’ve thrown them onto, I really should be more careful with these bits of technology. My Kindle screen has gone dodgy by blanking out a few times already.

“Oh f*ck it.” I mumble and pick up the pacing once again. I don’t care about any sort of gadget right now. What I care about is my fat and how it is absolutely plaguing me now that I’ve read that eBook. I know the truth about myself that I should have realised ages ago.

I’m a fat bitch who’s determined not to be a fat bride.

***



I did think it was a bit dodgy that the actual advice on how to lose weight was at the halfway mark of the ‘Fat Bitch = Fat Bride’ book, but I’m guessing the author wrote it that way as she had so much to say in the beginning. And what the book did say, in the front matter, was a lot about how disgusting fat is. They were well-made points by the author. I think. I mean, don’t people who are struggling with weight-loss problems need this type of motivation in their lives? Well, I’m not sure about calling what’s written on the ePages as motivating, but it’s certainly got me feeling. Feeling like a blimp at this point.

As for the actual exercise advice, there’s one tip from the book I can start with right now. Miss Judith Shield suggests doing house work as exercise, so I get right to it.

Instead of turning on the dishwasher, I pull out the dishes one by one and start washing them each by hand. When I’m finished I load them back into the dishwasher and then I turn it on.

There’s a miniscule pile of washing in the laundry room. “Oh well that’s definitely not enough clothes for an entire wash,” I say, making up excuses not to use the washing machine.

I’m slightly aware that talking out loud to myself is a feature of going crazy, but I don’t care. I’m crazy motivated to implement the Fat Bride advice. For added measure, I kick the laundry basket. “Stupid fat.” I shout, again out loud. “I’m going to burn you off my body if it kills me.”

Bending, I pick up the plastic basket that’s not even half full of clothes. I don’t load the washing into the machine though, instead I make my way upstairs. Once I’m on the first floor I head straight into the loo and dump the apparel items into the bath. After dropping the basket onto the floor I remember something from the diet book. It said to wear wrist and ankle weights while working-out for extra fat burning potential.

Running quickly into the bedroom, I don both ankle and wrist weight.

“Ah shit,” I complain, before turning on the bath taps. “These are going to get wet.” Looking down at my wrist weights, I contemplate momentarily before quickly coming to the conclusion that this is a good thing. After all, water will add weight to my wrist weights and then I’ll be able to burn even more fat off my arms!

I am going to wash laundry by hand, oh yes I am. I whip on the tap and fill the tub with warm water. Luckily all the clothes are dark in colour, so nothing needs separating. I get down onto my knees and lean over the bath after turning off the taps.

“Oh bugger.”

I’ve forgotten the washing powder and fabric conditioner.

“Oh joy!” I yell. I don’t know if this outburst is me faking joviality at the thought that running down —and then back up— the stairs is honest happiness. I’m just trying to instil a sense of ambition within myself like the Fat Bride book told me to do. Well, it didn’t really say very motivating things, but I just don’t know how comfortable I am with calling myself a fat bitch. Especially as I’m just starting out with this new regime by Doctor Shield.

I do run down and then back up the steps with washing powder and fabric conditioner in hand. I’m getting very sweaty now as everything I’m doing is with ankle and wrist weights attached to their relative body parts.

“Oh shit.” I swear again upon entering the bathroom. I’m wondering if I’ve put too much water into the tub. Ah well, I suppose I’ll just have to use double the amount of washing powder. I pour in four scoops, bend down again, lean over the rounded edge of the tub and get to work.

“Scrub a dub dub, I’m an old fashioned blub.”

I start crooning to myself. I’m making up a lunatic song about my current exercise efforts.

“Back in the day, they’d wash shit this way.”

Suddenly, my lyrics become a rap.

“By hand, yo! That’s where it’s at. Ratta tat tat, scrub that crap. Rub those kickers, and they’ll scrub up quickers!”

I’m really getting into the groove of things now. I don’t know why I didn’t think of doing laundry by hand sooner. No wonder women were thinner two hundred years ago, anyone who did laundry without a washing machine really got loads of exercise. I’m sweating more now than I did running up and down the stairs!

Once I’ve finished washing everything, I lean down and stretch my back, which hurts. I guess being on my knees in such a bad position for so long wasn’t such a great idea. Not as far as cramping goes, anyway. My legs are stiff when I stand up.

“Ooohhhh,” I moan in agony. Placing my hands on my lower back, I bend to the side and popping sounds exude from my lower spine. “Aaahhh,” I hiss. “That’s better.”

Looking down into the bath I notice all the bubbles have gone from the surface and the water is a brownish grey colour.

“Yuck.” I state, matter-of-factly. It’s a disgusting job, doing the wash by hand, but someone (namely fat me) has to do it if she wants to get in a good workout!

Hang on a minute. I think I’m getting a grip on the name-calling thing now. The author of the diet book did have things right. There’s a bit of advice that she mentions in the beginning of the book that I understand now. It’s not exercise that’s suggested, but I’m ready to try out the mentioned tips. Right after I ring out all this soaked laundry though.

“Hooray.” I stare with a bit less glee at the inner contents of the bath. It will give me more exercise when I’m forced to wring the hell out of these clothes. There’s a feeling of doubt creeping into my mind again though.

Shrugging my shoulders, I get on with the task at hand. I figure I’m just excited to be getting on with the next bit of Fat Bride book advice that I’m sure will clear up my doubtful thoughts for good.

***



I get straight into the tip in the book that suggests a process I’m trying out.

“You fat bitch! You horrible disgusting mess! You are a whale of a woman and you look like a blimp!”

Callum arrives home to find me shouting at myself while standing in front of our full length bedroom mirror.

“What the f*ck are you doing, Em?”

Oh my. He looks angry.

“I… I… What do you mean, honey?” I’m confused by his sudden appearance in the room, not to mention his vehement language.

“What do you think I mean?” He’s very frowny as he walks toward me. “Just what do you think you’re doing saying things like that to yourself?”

I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know why he seems so angry at me. I’m deeply confused and I can’t figure out why this is. “I was just doing what the book said.”

“Book? What book?”

I tie up my dressing gown. I’d been letting it hang open while staring at myself in the mirror as this was the advice from Dr Shield. “That book,” I reply sheepishly. Pointing at the bed, I watch as he strides forward and scoops up my Kindle.

If I thought my fiancé was frowning before, it’s nothing compared to the way his brows draw together as she flicks through the pages of the eReader screen. “For f*ck sake.” I hear him mumble this a few times. “For f*ck sake, Em!” Now he says his swear words a lot louder. “What is this crap? Fat Bitch equals Fat Bride, my arse. You are not fat and have never been. You are not going to walk down any aisle as a fat bride, because that’s just not possible. Even if you were fat you still shouldn’t be reading an idiot book like this… Oh my god, Em—”

I’ve lost it. I burry my face in my hands and start weeping openly on the spot.

Callum gathers me quickly into his arms. “Oh, Emily baby, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He strokes my hair as I struggle to find the words to reply. I’m desperate to respond to my fiancé because I don’t want him thinking any of this is his fault.

“It’s okay, Cal,” I finally manage to croak. I lift my head and look up at my gorgeous man. “You’re right. You’re one hundred per cent right and I’m a complete idiot.” I didn’t know why my fiancé’s anger had unsettled me so, but I definitely know now. He is right about that blasted book. I should have listened to my doubts about it when I first started reading the damn thing!

“Aw, babe. You really are an idiot, yes.”

“Shut up.” I punch Callum in his stomach playfully. We both laugh, but then he turns serious-faced again.

“Honestly, honey. What on earth convinced you that this eBook has useful advice?”

“It’s not my fault. Well, it is.” I acquiesce. “But the author is a doctor of fitness and she’s quite convincing.”

“A doctor of fitness?” Callum gets a look on his face that defies logic. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a thing.” He sits us both onto the bed and I snuggle up against his arm, reading the eBook over his shoulder. “The author of this book is no doctor, Em. It says here she’s a self-proclaimed health mentor. Did you even bother to review the ratings?”

“Of course I did!” Snatching the Kindle away from my fiancé, I flick to the final ePage that links to the online book reviews. “See,” I say, with an I-told-you-so attitude. “The book has four stars.”

“Hmmm.” Callum looks dubious. He kisses me on the cheek, distracting me while he snatches back the eReader.

“Hey!” I complain with false indignity. “Don’t grab, you punk.”

He snorts a laugh and scrolls down the screen. “It looks to me like the reason this book has four stars is because half of them are five stars, while the other half are all one stars.”

“Oh.”

“So you know what that usually means, right my love?”

I have to admit that I do know exactly what my fiancé is talking about. We’ve both found this to be true about certain ratings. When five star reviews seem too good to be true, they probably are. They’re most likely fake reviews written to boost an author’s main rating. These praise-worthy reviews are usually created by friends and family of the author.

“The one star ratings are the real ones.” I answer Callum eventually.

To prove his point he starts reading out one of the five star reviews. “This book was great! It was fantastic! I’ve never read such good a book in such a long long time! I love the author and I want her to write more books on my fat loss right now!”

I cringe inwardly at having to listen to such an obviously butt-kiss like review.

Now Callum reads from a one star review. “Do not waste your money on this book. The author clearly doesn’t know what she’s on about. When is it ever good for any person of any (dress) size to call themselves fat, and call themselves bitches no less?”

“That sounds a bit more honest.” I interject.

Callum nods his head. “That’s because these reviewers are right, it really isn’t a good thing to be yelling at yourself like that in the mirror. Jesus, Em, I didn’t know what was going on when I walked in and—”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” I grab his hand. “I promise I’ll never read any crazy advice books ever again. Come to think of it I might never read another published book ever again. It seems like whenever I do read even novels these days, they’re all total let downs.”

“Maybe you should just stick to reading indie authors from now on.”

I smile at him. “You know what? I think I’ll do just that.”

“Good.” He says flatly before kissing the palm of my hand. “And I’ll hold you to that promise of yours of no crazy diet book reading.”

This is one promise that’s going to be easy to stick with. As far as I’m concerned self-help books are off my reading list unless I know for a fact they’re written by a collaboration of at least ten real doctors.