The Denim Diet

No more scales for Paula. Her size 12 jeans were all she needed . . .

PAULA wondered how she’d let Gemma talk her into this. She stood, balanced on one leg in a tiny changingroom that looked like the entrance to a saloon bar in the Old Wild West.

The swing doors didn’t seem very secure. She was terrified that at any moment her bottom was going to poke through the gap and she’d be deposited on to the floor, one leg into a pair of jeans that were at least a size too small.

There were giggles from the next cubicle and Paula tried to convince herself they weren’t directed at her. Gemma poked her head over the door.

“Come on, Mum! Aren’t you ready yet?”

Paula pulled up the jeans, surprised to find that they glided easily over her bottom. If anything, the waistband was too loose.

She gave Gemma an ecstatic thumbs-up.

“They fit! I actually fit into a pair of size twelve jeans!”

Gemma looked incredulous so Paula twirled obediently for her daughter to check the label on her back pocket. Gemma gave a sympathetic grin.

“Sorry, Mum. Didn’t you realise these are all American sizes?” “What does that mean?” “Well, it says size twelve but they’re not really a size twelve,” Gemma explained helpfully. “They’re actually a UK sixteen.”

“Oh,” Paula said, completely deflated. “Well, at least they’re too big.”

“Great! Shall I get you the same ones in a fourteen?” Paula shook her head. “Once I’ve lost the weight I won’t be able to wear them. I was size twelve when you were little and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be again. I’ve let things slip a bit, that’s all.”

Gemma looked unconvinced, but went off to get the real size 12 jeans anyway.

“Aren’t you going to try them on?” she asked, handing them over.

“Look, we both know they’re not going to fit.” Paula climbed back into her comfortable leggings. “But it’s three months until my fortieth birthday and I’m determined to be in better shape by then. Are you getting anything?”

Gemma nodded, indicating the skinny jeans slung over her forearm. “Size six?” Paula cried. Gemma was slim and leggy, just as Paula had been at that age, but she was no stick insect. Gemma rolled her eyes. “American sizes, Mum. These are a ten, really.”

At home, Paula put the jeans straight into the wash.

“If you wash them, you won’t be able to return them,” Gemma pointed out.

“That’s the idea,” Paula said. “I’ll fit into these by my birthday if it kills me.”

Paula had heard all about the jeans incentive on breakfast telly.

“Standing on the scales is so last year,” the presenter had said. “The best way to check if you’re losing those inches is to try on your favourite jeans!”

Well, Paula thought, she’d tried every other method going, so why not?

The only problem was, she didn’t have a favourite pair of jeans. Come to think of it, she hadn’t worn jeans since the kids were tiny.

She’d intended to order a pair from her neighbour’s catalogue until her daughter intervened.

“You’re thirty-nine, not seventy-nine!” Gemma had objected. “If you want jeans, I’ll take you shopping for some. And not cheating ones with an elasticated waistband, either.”

Paula folded the laundered jeans and stacked them in the airing cupboard.

“Haven’t you tried them on yet?” Gemma asked day after day, but Paula always shook her head.

For the first time in her life, she was sticking to her diet – salads, fish and no chocolate digestives.

“No biscuits? No crisps?” her husband, Daniel, grumbled good-naturedly, peering into empty kitchen cupboards.

Paula stood firm.

“If I buy them, I’ll eat them.”

“You know I think you’re perfect just as you are?” Paula grinned. “You’ll say anything to get me to buy biscuits. Anyway, it’s not just about looking good. I want to be healthier. I want to be able to run up the stairs without gasping for breath.”

Daniel gave in gracefully. Paula suspected he was nipping into the newsagent’s for a sneaky Mars bar on the way home, but she wasn’t tempted to join him.

Instead she fantasised about trying on her new jeans for the very first time.

Weeks passed. Paula ate healthily and every Tuesday and Thursday evening she went to aerobics at the local leisure centre.

She was positive she’d lost weight – her clothes felt satisfyingly loose and the women at work had said how good she looked. Size 12 was in sight.

The day of reckoning came. It was two weeks before her birthday and Daniel had suggested a night out.

“There’s a new fish restaurant in town,” he said. “That shouldn’t muck up your diet.”

Paula hugged him, touched by his thoughtfulness, and waited until everyone

was watching TV before creeping along to the airing cupboard.

She held up the jeans with a feeling of reverence and, unable to wait any longer, shrugged off her leggings on the landing.

She dragged the jeans up over her thighs. They were tight, but at least they were on, she told herself. The ability to take a deep breath was, perhaps, an overrated luxury.

She hobbled along to the bathroom to admire herself in the mirror but, when she undid the top button, she was dismayed to see a roll of dimpled flesh spilling over her waistband.

Almost tearful with disappointment, Paula kicked off the jeans and stepped on to the longneglected scales, holding her breath as she squinted down at the digital display.

“I’ve lost over a stone,” she said in confusion as Gemma came in.

“Good for you, Mum,” she said absently, spying the discarded denim on the tiles. “Ah, I’ve been looking for those jeans.”

“But these are mine, aren’t they?” Paula hardly dared to hope.

“Yours are still folded up in the airing cupboard.” Gemma examined the label. “Sorry, Mum. I could have sworn I’d left these in the washing basket.”

Paula exhaled in relief. “What size are they?” “Ten.”

“That’s a UK ten?” Gemma looked bemused. “Yes.”

Paula grabbed the jeans. “Let me check.” Gemma waited as Paula studied the label inside the waistband.

“I told you they were mine. Can I have them back? I’m going out.”

“Is there a party in here?” Daniel popped his head around the door. “Shouldn’t you put some clothes on if we’re off to this fancy restaurant?”

“Did you say fancy? If it’s that fancy, maybe we could give it a miss and go somewhere more casual?” Paula said. “You see, I was planning on wearing my new size twelve jeans . . .” n