My bottom lip quivered. ‘Enough of being fat,’ I said.
She tried her usual tricks, telling me I was a peach and an Amazon, but I was done. I didn’t want to feel different anymore. I wanted to feel normal.
Mum got it then. She didn’t argue, she just grabbed me and hugged my face to her chest, then dragged me up onto her lap (which was no small feat for a woman as slight as my mother, but she gave it a good crack).
‘No more worrying,’ she said. ‘We will sort it out.’
The next week, Mum picked me up from school early to take me to my first appointment with a famous diet doctor in St Kilda. As we sat in the waiting room at the clinic, just before the receptionist loudly called out my surname for the whole world to hear (Shhh!), Mum told me, ‘Remember, regardless of your weight on the scales, you are loved by God beyond all measure.’ (In case I haven’t mentioned it, my mum is a little bit Catholic. She once told me that if she ever did get a tattoo, it would probably be a mural of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, right across her chest. She’s pretty dedicated, shall we say.)
Dr Von Thinburger (not his actual name, but neither was it terribly far off) was tall and slim with dark hair that seemed to sit slightly above his head. He was also wearing a white lab coat. Clearly, we were dealing with a professional.
He welcomed Mum and me into his office with a smile and asked me why I was there (Ah, hello? Are you blind?). Mum explained that I was tired of being teased about my weight. Just like Mum, he told me not to worry, we would soon have this little problem sorted. I found his confidence reassuring.
The doc asked me to stand, took out a measuring tape, jotted down the inches of my waist, arms, bust, hips and thighs, and then invited me to hop up on an old-fashioned silver scale. (‘Remember, regardless of your weight on the scales, you are loved by God beyond all measure.’) After that, he picked up a camera, asked me to stand against the door, and then he took a couple of photos—first front, then side. These were to be my very first ‘before’ photos.
In them I am smiling. We must have popped home in between school and the appointment because I am in my smart-casual clothes from the ladies’ section of Target: a floral yellow and blue t-shirt, blue slacks and cream slip-on shoes. I looked just like a little Italian nonna, only I was ten. All this attention was embarrassing but, at the same time, I had a hopeful feeling in my heart that day. Imagine if he was right and my problem really could be solved? Imagine if I could wear crop tops and bubble skirts like my friends? Imagine if I could know what it felt like to be … normal?
Dr Von Thinburger asked me to sit down, then produced what he called a BMI chart. He pointed to each of the four sections: underweight, normal weight, overweight and obese. I was in the obese section, he told me.
I didn’t know what the word ‘obese’ meant, but I could tell from the way he said it that being obese was not a good thing.
The doctor handed my mother a piece of paper, saying, ‘From now on, please have Clare follow these instructions very carefully.’
I don’t know how much you know about diets but, as far as they go, this one was very strict: low fat, low carb, no dairy, no sugar, and definitely no peanut brittle. I was to eat only three small meals a day of measured protein with a cooked vegetable or salad, a splash of apple cider vinegar or lemon juice, two thin crackers and one piece of fruit.
Once he had talked me though the meal plan, the doctor eyeballed me and said, ‘Clare, you have to do exactly as you are told. If you do, you will see very quick results. You might feel tired for a few days but, after that, it will be easy. Maybe even fun. Look, here are some little recipes you can try!’ He handed me a photocopied booklet.
Flicking through it, I saw black-and-white pictures of what I can only describe as things inside things: cottage cheese inside a tomato, a tomato inside an orange, an egg inside a tomato, an egg inside another egg. Fascinating.
‘What’s that on top of everything?’ I asked.
‘Parsley,’ he said. ‘As a garnish. You can eat it, but not too much, okay?’
I nodded.
He told us to come back in a week.
I’d walked in feeling ashamed, but I left feeling hopeful. Having a plan felt so much better than not having a plan.
On the way home, Mum and I did some shopping from the food list, bought a food scale, and that night I ate exactly what the doctor had ordered.
The next morning, for the first time in my life, I made my own lunch: weighed and measured onion-and-chive cottage cheese inside a scooped tomato with apple cider vinegar and a small garnish of parsley.
I was not yet ready to share my diet news, so when my friends asked me at lunch what I was eating, I replied, ‘Nothing! Mind your own beeswax.’ It came out louder than I intended—so loud that Mrs Wool, our Friday substitute teacher, asked me to please come over to her desk. I stood before her, red-faced, holding my lunchbox.
She looked at it curiously. ‘What are you eating?’ she asked.
I replied quietly, ‘It’s onion-and-chive cottage cheese inside a scooped tomato with apple cider vinegar and a small garnish of parsley.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s an unusual lunch for a little girl to be eating.’
‘I’m on a diet,’ I whispered.
Her eyebrows went up. ‘A diet? Well, good for you, Clare Bowditch. How does it work?’
So I told her, blow by blow, gram
