A Season of Hopes and Dreams

Talking in a circle is easily my favourite part of Carb Counters. Although it’s a nightmare if you’ve had a bad week, it’s really inspiring to hear everyone’s stories and see their progress throughout the sessions.

First up is Sheila and, although I can’t hear it, I know everyone is groaning inwardly. She’s joined, left and rejoined multiple times and, despite openly admitting she doesn’t follow the plan and eats her body weight in sausage rolls, can’t understand why she isn’t losing weight. We’ve all tried to give her friendly advice, but it falls on deaf ears every time.

This week, she’s lamenting her two-pound weight gain. ‘I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,’ she says with a sigh. ‘OK, I went out for my sister’s birthday and had spaghetti and tiramisu. That’s not a crime, is it? And I might’ve had a huge pizza all to myself… and some brownies. But I’ve always had a high metabolism, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’

I purse my lips to stop myself saying something, and see a couple of other members rolling their eyes.

‘Remember what we said last week about sticking to the Treat Points allowance,’ Marjorie says, sounding like she’s about to explode. ‘Pizza and brownies are big no-nos on the Carb Counters plan, as well you know!’

I can tell from the look on Sheila’s face she’s not listening. If she were a cartoon, there’d be a flock of bluebirds circling her head. Some people just aren’t meant to be Carb Counters and she’s definitely one of them.

The last to speak is Zara, a woman who joined at the same time as me. She twirls her rose-gold curls round her fingers as she prepares to tell everyone what kind of week she’s had.

‘Well, it’s been a good one for me,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘I’ve managed to stick to the plan better than I thought, even though I was on holiday from work and my husband wanted to eat out every night! The hardest bit is staying within my Treat Points allowance, to be honest. I don’t know about you all, but I can’t resist a slice of cheesecake!’

A giggle ripples around the circle and we all nod. No matter what stage we’re at in our journey, we can all relate to the temptation of cheesecake.

Marjorie pipes up before Zara can continue. ‘Tut tut, stay away from that cheesecake or next week’s results might not be so positive! You can always try the guilt-free cheesecake recipe in the Carb Counters cookbook if you’re feeling peckish.’

Nice book plug, I say to myself.

Zara giggles. ‘I already have, and it tastes like dog vomit! That bran stuff tastes like twigs and don’t get me started on using quark instead of cream cheese.’

An even bigger laugh bursts from the circle this time, along with murmurs of agreement. Although the Carb Counters cookbook is meant to help us, the recipes are god-awful.

‘On the positive side, though,’ Zara continues after the laughter has subsided, ‘I had a doctor’s appointment this week and my BMI has come down by nearly two and a half points. I’ve got a long way to go, but it’s two and a half points closer to being ready for IVF.’

Her voice cracks a little and she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Zara’s fertility issues are common knowledge within the group; she’s kept us updated with her progress over the last twelve months.

‘That’s great,’ I say with a smile, ‘you’ve worked really hard for this.’

I’m not known for speaking out in the group – despite being here for a year, I’ve always been far too shy – but I’m so proud of Zara that I have to congratulate her.

‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘it’s been a long road: three miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy. It finally feels like I’m going in the right direction, though.’

I can’t help but smile; although people sneer at slimming groups, Zara’s story just goes to show they can change people’s lives.

Marjorie’s gaze turns on me and she cocks her head to one side.

‘Would you like to share something, Cleopatra? Something about your week maybe, or how you’re going to achieve next week’s target?’

As the other members turn to look at me, I freeze. Although I loved being in the spotlight during my dancing days, that’s definitely not the case now. I feel everyone’s eyes burning into me and my heart rate quickens.

‘I… I… erm…’ I swallow hard and try to focus on my breathing. I can do this, I’ve got this, I say to myself.

Finally, I gather the words I want to say in my head and put them in the right order. However, by the time I open my mouth, Marjorie’s already directing her steely gaze in someone else’s direction. Part of me feels relieved to step back into the shadows, but I can’t help feeling a little disappointed in myself.

Next time will be different, I promise myself. Next time I won’t fluff my words.

*

After we’ve had our results boomed out by Marjorie, who would rival any town crier, it’s time for our workout. This is my least favourite part; exercise and I just don’t go together, as you’ve already seen. Today’s one is what Marjorie calls “a fun, high-impact aerobics experience”. Fun is definitely not a word I’d use to describe the hell she puts us through. Nightmare, yes; gruelling, most definitely.

‘Aaaaaand it’s onto jumping jacks!’ Her smile is wider than ever and almost looks macabre as she stares out at us from the stage. Her high heels and dress have been swapped for a canary-yellow tracksuit and trainers. ‘Come on, ladies, let’s burn that fat, shall we?’

With an energy that would make a Duracell bunny jealous, she throws herself into the exercise. Some weird noises come out of her mouth as she jumps up and down; I guess she thinks it’ll encourage us to do the same.

‘If I do any more, my heart’s going to explode,’ I say to Emma as I try to catch my breath, my voice barely a croak. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for jumping jacks, not that I had a lot to start with. They’re more like stumbling jacks now. ‘Why can’t we do something nice like yoga? Or a group nap?’

Emma pauses and takes a deep breath, although she’s barely broken a sweat. She looks at me in my broken, sweaty state, but there’s no judgement in her kind, dark eyes.

‘Because yoga doesn’t make our fat cry,’ she says, reminding me of yet another one of Marjorie’s mottos. ‘Anyway, keep going; you’re doing great!’

‘Hey, what was the invite you were talking about earlier?’ I ask.

It’s too late, though; Emma’s already thrown herself back into the jumping jacks. I suck it up, take a deep breath, and give the rest of the workout everything I have. Somewhere along the line, I get a second wind and even find myself enjoying it a little bit. Maybe being Cleo Jones isn’t quite so bad after all.

The mysterious invite Emma mentioned lurks at the back of my mind as I head home from Carb Counters. She left pretty sharply after the workout ended, so I couldn’t ask her any more about it. I throw her words around in my head: is it because you got the invite too? What has she been invited to that I might’ve been asked to as well?

I don’t have time to worry about it too much, though. I have bigger fish to fry; namely, choosing an outfit for my trip to the pub.

*

As anyone who’s ever had problems with their weight will testify, picking an outfit is an absolute minefield. Finding something you feel comfortable in that also flatters you is near impossible, and usually involves a meltdown or two.

For me, tonight is no exception.

There’s a pile of discarded clothes on my floor, each item ruled out either for being too clingy or too frumpy. There’s just one dress left to try: if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to walk into the Bell and Candle wearing my tiger-print onesie. Stepping away from my full-length mirror, I lift the dress out of the wardrobe. It’s a rich, deep red with little white hearts on the front.

‘I’m counting on you,’ I say as I slip it off the hanger. ‘So, don’t let me down.’

I’m not quite sure whether I’m referring to the dress or myself. My heart rate quickens and a cold sweat sweeps over me as I pull it on. The material is stretchy and doesn’t feel very forgiving. Horrid images of what I might look like flash before me: awkwardly stuffed sausage immediately springs to mind. As I pull it into place, I can see the material is stretched over my chest. Goodness knows what the rest of it must be like.

It’s time to go over to the mirror to appraise myself. As the Pussycat Dolls would say, I hate this part right here. To mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to see, I close my eyes before taking a sidestep to the mirror. This may all sound overly dramatic and shallow – there are, after all, more important things than looking good for a night out – but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. This is about much more than just looking nice in a dress.

I start the countdown in my head, keeping my eyes tightly screwed shut.

Four, three, two, one…

I take a deep breath and open my eyes, preparing to face the reflection staring back at me. An all-too-familiar feeling of panic and dread envelops me, spreading bad thoughts to every corner of my brain and bringing tears to my eyes.

I look awful. Everyone’s going to laugh at me.

My eyes scan down my body; everything I hate about it seems to be magnified, there for all to see in super-high definition. My stomach is bulging against the dress’s red cotton material, my hips are awkward and lumpy, and my legs look like tree trunks. The little voices in my head, the ones I know so well, which are telling me I look hideous, turn from tiny whispers to bellowing roars. I pull at the dress, trying to make it sit better or feel more comfortable.

It doesn’t work.

For a moment, I consider climbing into my tiger-print onesie and throwing myself under my duvet. Horrible dark thoughts are closing in like storm clouds and it’d be all too easy to let them win. I’ve let that happen so many times before.