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I have a little joke between myself and my friends that I am a Giant.

Some variations of this are that Im an amazon, or a tranny, and I respond by referring to my smaller stature acquaintances as miniature, midgets, shrunken, or something of that nature. I also refer to small homosexual men as "pocket-gays" ever since Jack from Will & Grace coined the term and it spread through-out the queer community.

There is no malice or spite in these little terms of endearment, and they serve the purpose of acknowledging the elephant in the room (excuse the pun): Im a 6ft tall woman.

I have friends of all shapes and sizes, but more often than not I am the tallest person in the room.

I further accentuate this with my choice of footwear sometimes, because as a woman most of our "dressy" shoes presume we are seeking an extra inch or two . . . or three . . . or five.

Being the "Giant" had become part of my identity, and since I was already a Giant size by default it made no difference to me whether I was a size 18 or 20 because I knew I was shopping in the "fat lady" stores anyway.

To be honest, my weight used to regulate itself with my busy lifestyle, but a car accident, two ruptured lumbar disks, some depression, a move in with my parents, unemployment, the isolation of a rural property, and mums home-cooking, have thrown my metabolism out of whack and I finally realised I was giving new meaning to the nickname "Giant".

I started the Tony Ferguson diet three weeks ago. Its a meal replacement, shakes and low-carb type dealio, and Ive lost 4.1kg so far.

Im going to use this blog to discuss the program, and dieting in general, and give updates on my progress.

Theres a difference between being able to change a light-bulb without a ladder, or reaching the top shelf at the supermarket because of your long arms and height, and being wedged in a supermarket aisle or snapping the rungs off a ladder due to your weight.

I couldnt see that for awhile, but I think I just want to stick to being Giant in one direction.
I am moving next week . . . I hate moving!

I know its one of those things that nobody really likes, but I have a particular aversion to it. There was probably a period of 6 years there where I moved house almost every 6 months, and with each new move I would dread it more.

Giving notice on your lease, preparing for your final rental inspection, negotiating to have your bond refunded, packing boxes, disconnecting and reconnecting utilities, finding a friend with a ute or a van, or going to the expense of hiring one.

It is all just hideous!

Ansd thats before you start to factor in the actual heavy lifting, bending, manoevering of awkwardly shaped large items, the repitition of scaling several flights of stairs . . . arrghh

I can feel my blood-pressure rise as I think about it!

However, this move is going to be relatively stress-free. Why? Because its kind of a half move. Before I moved down to Tasmania, I put the bulk of my belongings in storage in a friends vacant garage in Sydney. I quite literally came down here with the shirt on my back and whatever fitted in the car.

Now that I am returning I have very little to pack or organise.

No furniture to haul, or kitchenwear to wrap, or nick-nacks to organise, or old university notes and books to lug around . . . I feel like a free woman!

No cleaning, or lease, or utilities, because its my parents house, fully furnished when I arrived and they are continuing to live here after I leave.

The friend who was storing my belongings and furniture is the person Im moving in with when I get back to Sydney, and theyve already moved all my gear over.

Its like magic!

All I have to do is drive up and unpack!

Oh well there is the little matter of assembling my bed frame that I wont be able to avoid . . .