Tag Archives: Asshole

Foot In Mouth Syndrome

Freeform thoughts,

dog-hiding-face

Given that I have a black belt in saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I could probably fill a dozen blog posts with the bloopers I’ve come out with over the years, but someone said something to me last week which reminded me how easy it is to insult someone by accident. I was chatting to a colleague who’d just given me a whole cheesecake to take downstairs for our team – I work in the HQ of a food retailer, and a supplier had left some samples – as I took the offered box I joked about walking the long way around the building so I could eat it on the route between our respective departments. He laughed, and said well it probably wouldn’t be the first time haha…

Now, logic tells me – along with the slow motion way in which his face fell, then turned a lovely shade of magenta – that he didn’t mean it like that…he was talking generally and not insinuating that I’d vaporised samples before, heading down the stairs and along the corridor shovelling cheesecake into my face as I went…it’s just unfortunate that that’s how it came out. I think my snort of laughter sent the message that I wasn’t offended and the moment passed, but imagine if I’d been a really sensitive soul, just how easily I could have assumed that’s exactly what he meant, and how crushed I would have been.

It made me think about unguarded moments of my own where I’ve probably ruined someone’s day by forgetting to push my words through that inner filter which is supposed to vet all my thoughts before they make it out of my mouth. Like the time I bumped into a friend I knew was expecting in the post office and asked her how long ’till her baby was due…turns out he was three months old. Yeh, I wanted the ground to swallow me after that one.

Incidentally some years later, a lady in the queue at the same post office asked me when my baby was due…given that I wasn’t pregnant, just fat, I think that’s what you call poetic justice but in the spirit of avoiding a horribly embarrassing moment for both of us, I rubbed my stomach tenderly and made up a random date. I wouldn’t mind but I think my boy was about eight years old at the time so I didn’t even have the excuse of recent baby weight to console me.

I once asked a friend I knew from college who the bloke in the red shirt was on a photo I’d seen of her in a group and when she said it was her husband I was like no, the old bloke…nailed with a death stare and yes, that’s my husband…awkward…thank God the filter caught the words is he rich? before they made it out past my lips…it was a very close call.

Of course coming from Yorkshire, where people tend to be very straight-talking, I’m probably a bit de-sensitised to start with – folk around these parts tend not to flower things  up, and looking back I think the greatest compliment my ex husband ever paid me was when he commented admiringly that I didn’t sweat much for a fat lass. Not surprising he’s an ex when I think about it, right? The arrows with the sharpest barbs though have definitely been the ones to do with how I look.

There have been occasions in the past where people have said things unintentionally that really hit me hard, ably assisted of course by the asshole in my mind who picked up the baton immediately to make me dwell on them, awarding them far more power in terms of hurting me than they ever should have had.

What I’ve noticed though, is that now this march to Skinny town is established, and it’s gathering a momentum all of its own,  words which might otherwise have wounded are falling by the wayside unnoticed you know? It’s almost as though in my head I’ve totally bought into this fat suit being a temporary state of affairs, so it’s fine not to waste energy dwelling on a problem that’s well on the way to being fixed. That feels pretty bloody cool.

Can you feel the balance of power shifting beneath our collective boots too?

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Three Months A Blog

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, Reflections on past times, , , ,

3mCan you believe it’s three whole months since that rainy post-holiday Saturday when I sat down and flexed my fingers over the keyboard for the very first time. That’s a quarter of a whole year!! Crikey it feels like we’ve walked miles together since then don’t you think..? I just mooched a couple of hours away this morning by working my way through all the blog posts I’ve written, and of course all your comments which for me, are a constant source of pride and inspiration.

It’s the first time I’ve really properly looked back – I mean I know I’m the queen of edit, often before you get to see my daily dollop of words they’ve spent a few days simmering in the cooking pot and it’s rare that they escape onto the page without having been chopped and changed, pulled apart and put back together again until I’m as happy as I’m ever going to be – that’s just the perfectionist in me. I know I need to get over myself but I just want it to be good you know? Asshole is chipping in here with the words control freak by the way, just thought I’d share that 🙂

I never edit after they’re published, in fact once they’re out there I tend not to read them again, focusing instead on what you write, and of course what’s coming up next. But what I noticed as I’ve worked my way through every post from the beginning, including your bits was how much it’s evolved over a relatively short period of time. I didn’t really imagine this would ever be anything more than a self-propelled written conscience, perhaps with an occasional visitor who’d more than likely wandered in by mistake and politely passed the time of day before moving on. But look what we turned into!

There weren’t many comments in the early days, but the ones I got were treasured. I read and re-read them…I wondered about the person who’d written them. Where they lived, what their story was you know? I wondered what had led them to my blog, and what had prompted them to leave their own footprint on it by chipping in with thoughts of their own. I still do that now. Looking back, I can see where some of our familiar names fell into step and started to really build this community and now, I just feel quite humbled by the way it’s gathered it’s own momentum and become a thing, you know?

I love the way we all relate – all of our stories are similar and yet different. Wherever in the world we happen to live, we’re all unique as individuals, but connected. United in this fight against the fat suits we somehow managed to get ourselves zipped into. In the back office at Skinny Girl HQ – aka my kitchen ha ha – I can look at the analytics tool which shows me how many visitors I’ve had, and which posts they’ve visited, and I get a massive blast of inner sunshine when I see a new visitor has somehow landed on the latest post, and stuck around to have a really good root around lots of the older stuff.  And when someone writes and says they’ve laughed, or cried, or felt supported or understood by something that one of us has written or shared, well that’s the best feeling of all.

So anyway…my name’s Dee and I’m a food addict. But I am 3 months clean and sober, mainly down to you guys. It’s never easy, but so far, this route to Skinny Town is proving to be way more enjoyable than I could have hoped for, and a million miles away from the boulder-strewn paths I’ve been used to navigating in the past…that has to be the posse factor, right?

Happy anniversary, I appreciate your company more than I can tell you…big hugs all around 🙂

 

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So What Makes The Cut?

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , , ,

casesLordy, where do I even start with this one. So I’ve been busy over the last couple of days getting my stuff ready for my forthcoming trip. (What do you mean you hadn’t realised I was going away, didn’t I mention it?) And the fact that I’m only going for four nights is in no way proportional to the size of the bag I’m taking with me, in fact folk might well suspect I’m emigrating when they see me setting off.

I’ve mentioned the wardrobe situation before haven’t I, in a post a few weeks ago – my skinny clothes reside inside those closet doors whilst my fat clothes are relegated to the laundry basket/ironing pile merry-go-round. I bought quite a few new outfits before my last holiday, but I’ve got to be honest I don’t think I possess one single fat garment that I would choose to wear as a skinny girl. So what makes the cut, and gets to come on the trip? I think probably everything. I have to account for the asshole factor you see.

In the few times in my life that I’ve achieved the hallowed skinny girl status, I’ve gone mad buying clothes…lots and lots and lots of clothes. Most of which sit in my closet still, with the tags attached. Were I travelling as a skinny girl, given that we know our itinerary I’d have a carefully selected outfit for each day, each evening and maybe one or two spare things. I’d unpack, hang them up and wear what I’d planned to wear, when I’d planned to wear it and beyond that, I wouldn’t  give it much thought.

Travelling as a fat girl, with the asshole in my head in tow, it’s a different proposition. Whilst I’m packing, he’ll tell me yes that looks fine…he’ll say that about everything, pretty much. But when I’m there…different story you know? You’re really wearing that? It makes your bum look like two puppies fighting in a sack. Your arms are on display and it’s too tight…it doesn’t look right, doesn’t fit right, you look twice as big as you really are if that’s even possible…I know I’m getting better at ignoring him, but I sort of feel like I’ve got to take twice what I actually need you know? Kind of like fat girl insurance.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s no pity party going on here…it is what it is and I’m buffeted from the barbed comments he’ll sling in my direction by the deep rooted confidence that I’m on a clear path from fat to skinny, so next time I can set off with a pair of clean knickers and a toothbrush rattling around in my bag because the rest of my holiday duds will be waiting for me in the boutiques lining the malls that I’m going to pillage whilst I’m there.

There’ll definitely be shopping this week…you know the score. Maybe a bit of jewellery…a handbag perhaps…scent, yes definitely scent…fat girl accessories, but clothes, no. I don’t need fat clothes, I have them and besides they’ll have limited shelf life since I’m on the road to skinny town 🙂 And I have all the skinny clothes I need, I’m just waiting for my buns to shrink.

I have everything I need…I’m in a good place  cocktail

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The Sandwich Dance

Biggest Triumphs, In the here & now, , , ,

sanger

It was all going so well. Don’t panic, it still is, I’m just being a drama queen.  Today…plain food sailing from the minute I opened my eyes. Porridge, pointed, tick. Lunch, prepared at home and taken to work, pointed, tick. I even ate lunch at lunchtime, not mid morning, that’s how much I was on my game today. Over-ripe banana masquerading inside a greenish banana skin, cheeky knacker can’t fool me – bin – so no mid afternoon snack, but that’s ok. I wasn’t hungry. Until someone offered me a free sandwich and suddenly I was starving. And I said yes, to the sandwich. Well strictly speaking I didn’t, I opened my mouth and actually formed the word ‘no’, but somehow yes came out instead. Along with my hand, to take the sandwich. Judas!

Lunch, for a big meeting going on down the corridor had been catered apparently, and there was stuff left over. They must have been fairly important visitors, I mean this wasn’t just your ordinary sandwich, this was an epic sandwich. And somehow it was now sitting on my desk. Staring at me. Being all….seductive.

It was a large round soft brown bread roll, with double cheese, spring onion and mayo inside, all wrapped up in a little cellophane bag. It could at least have had the good grace to be a sandwich I wasn’t struck on, but that sandwich just happened to be my favourite.  I love cheese. And you know what else..? It was as heavy as a brick. I mean that sandwich was made by someone who knows how to make a sandwich…bursting at the seams, chock full of filling, not some mean-fisted measured spoon’s worth. I picked it up and when I felt the weight of it, I felt proud of the guy who’d made that sandwich, in a fat-girl-strikes-gold kind of way, he’d knocked it right out of the park.

The asshole in my head sprang into action immediately. Go on…it’s your favourite. And you’re practically on holiday now, so it’s ok. You’ve done really well but you can take your foot off for a few days, you don’t want to be worrying about points. You’ve probably got enough points left anyway and if you did eat it, you could go without dinner later, it’s six and two threes…go on, it’ll be fine…it’s cheese! Mmmmm….cheeeeeeese….

That sodding sandwich flirted with me for the rest of the afternoon. You know the score…every time I looked at it, it was looking right back at me. I moved it off to the side, next to my bag, but I could still see it out of the corner of my eye where it seemed to be almost dancing to get my attention. I tried and better tried to concentrate on the piece of work I was doing but all I could think about was how that double cheese and spring onion combo would taste as it burst onto  my tongue and how my taste buds would explode at the sharpness of the cheese.

But I didn’t eat it. I brought it home. It was a helluva fight…me and the asshole in my mind both battered bloody and bruised. But now it’s like I’ve stuck the pin back in the grenade…it’s lost it’s power. I brought the sandwich home so my boy can take it to work for his lunch tomorrow.  It’s sitting in the fridge right behind me as I type this, still soft and brown and heavy and very very cheesy…but I’m over it.  The craving passed.

Me: 1 – Asshole: 0. Again.  Let me hear you say YEAH!

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Dude Was Working It!

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , ,

hair

So, at the risk of sounding very unkind I have to tell you about a haircut I saw last night whilst I was out of town. Yes, I know, each to their own, live and let live, we’re all entitled to our own sense of style…I get that but you know that way where sometimes something tickles you to the point where every time you think about it you get the urge to grin? Well this did it for me.

The evening had not started well. It had been a long day, a very early start and I’d been on my feet all afternoon manning a stand at the conference, so I had an achy back, my feet were killing me and the last thing I felt like doing was hosting a table at the gala dinner. I should further set the scene by telling you that having walked the 300 yards from the hotel to the venue rather more quickly than I would normally, due to a light drizzle of rain and no umbrella, I arrived feeling out of breath, sweaty from the exertion and with damp hair which had kinked a little more with every step I took and which I knew within an hour would look like I’d somehow managed to have a really bad perm between the appetiser and the main course. The asshole in my head was having a ball, as you might expect.

So it’s fair to say as I stood holding my glass of champagne at the drinks reception I may have been smiling on the outside but on the inside I was a woman on the edge. And then I saw it. That haircut. And in spite of myself I started to feel better.

If I had to describe it to you (which clearly I do since you weren’t there) all I can liken it to is one of those little plastic lego men – they always had thick immobile plastic hair plonked on top of their little plastic heads, do you remember..? Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there was a little plastic stalk fixing this hair to the bloke. It was really thick and dark with a full but very short fringe, sideburns which weren’t made of face fur but actual hair which had been grown down the sides of his face in front of his ears, and the whole thing had been finished off with a kind of wind tunnel/superglue effect.

Thing is, it didn’t get that way by accident you know?  It must have taken a serious investment of time and a mountain of hair gel, and that young guy genuinely thought he looked like the mutt’s nuts. Which led me to thinking.  It’s not really about what you look like – it’s about the way you feel. That hair, no word of a lie, was ridiculous. But that dude was working it! And I kind of had a light-bulb moment…an epiphany if you will.

If you believe the asshole in your mind when he tells you that you look ridiculous, even if you don’t, you will feel ridiculous, you’ll believe everyone else thinks you look ridiculous, and your confidence will be shattered.  But you can totally get away with actually looking ridiculous if you feel like a million dollars on the inside. Imagine being blessed with an asshole in your mind who tells you good things like his obviously did…Dude, you look awesome! That hairstyle is a babe-magnet for sure…they’ll be falling at your feet tonight, go on my son, work it…

Of course when the young guy has a few more years under his belt and looks back on the photos from last night he’ll cringe and wonder what on earth possessed him, but in his head, last night, he was the MAN.

Can anyone tell me how I swap my asshole for one who says good things..?

 

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