Tag Archives: fat

Part Woman, Part Ostrich

Freeform thoughts, Reflections on past times, , , ,

ostrich

In the way that I often do when I’ve said something out loud – or written it on here which pretty much amounts to the same thing – I’ve been reflecting on something I referred to yesterday. Remember I talked about voicing my determination to stay skinny in between mouthfuls of cake..? It sounds so utterly ridiculous when I put it like that. But as much as I was being flippant yesterday in the interests of provoking a smile and a shared ‘eyes to the sky’ moment with you all, that’s literally what happened.

When I look back I can see myself walking away from Skinny Town, a place I loved and had worked so damned hard to get to. I was walking in the opposite direction without a backwards glance, sitting in my big fat leather armchair night after night with a family bag of cheese balls and a large carton of Haagen Dazs, having already eaten my way through the day. It’s all very well me looking back now and wanting to scream “what were you thinking?!!!” at myself…I don’t think I could answer that even if the Dalai Lama himself rocked up to help me find enlightenment. I wasn’t thinking – my head was empty. I mean yes of course, on a rational level I must have known that the wheels had come off but where I should have been having a word with myself…nothing.

I can’t seem to recall a single conscious thought about what I was doing and yet every day I watched myself get bigger and bigger. Discarding the skinny jeans in favour of elasticated waists and shapeless sweaters. I lived in the moment, and never thought about the pattern. The trajectory, you know? Where I was headed. From Skinny Town to Mooseville in one long straight run, stopping only to replenish the  supply of cake. You know what I think? I think it went beyond just not thinking about it…I think I made a conscious choice to ignore what I was doing to myself and stick my head in the sand. I was an Ostrich. And I’m struggling to understand why, I mean that’s not right is it…normal folk just wouldn’t do that. I mean, maybe they’d turn a blind eye to five pounds, or even ten pounds at a push. But one hundred and forty pounds…? No.

If someone had asked me why I wanted to put the weight back on, I would have looked at them as though they’d taken leave of their senses. I didn’t. And yet, I was.

You know I still don’t have all the answers, right? I know on here I come across as fairly well in control and self-aware, but it’s mainly because I’ve had some wonderful encouragement and feedback from you guys – I know you’re drawing inspiration here and there from the odd post, and the posse in general too which is amazing. I guess we’re all just figuring it all out as we go along. Getting skinny is a familiar journey – the unknown bit, the hardest part for me at least is going to be staying there. Pulling up the drawbridge and becoming a permanent resident of Skinny Town.

But you know, I thought it was worth talking about this today, because we’re all at different stages of this journey, and if just one of our posse is sitting in their armchair every night, walking away from Skinny Town without anyone there to hold the mirror up and yell WHAT ARE YOU THINKING..???  Well I’d feel like we’d let them down.

Please don’t be that person…don’t do what I did. Please.

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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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Waiting to be Skinny

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, ,

thin

Have you ever felt like your life is on hold, whilst you dream about all the things you’re going to do once you’re skinny? I have. There are places I really want to see, and experiences that I really want to have but somehow the prospect of doing them as a fat girl is nowhere near as appealing as the way I imagine they’d pan out if I experienced them as a skinny girl. And I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that way.

I can even articulate the reason why – being fat preoccupies me. With alarming regularity, the fact that I’m fat muscles in on everything I do. When I’m walking the dog and my ankles ache from the heroic effort they have to make with every step to transport all this timber, I nod and agree with the asshole in my head when he comments that if I were skinny they wouldn’t hurt. On holiday recently when I was reclining on my sun lounger reading my book and I fancied a drink, I decided to just stay thirsty because the thought of hauling myself off the sun lounger was just too much of an effort – it was low to the ground with arms at the mid point, and swinging my legs over the side and hopping up in an easy fluid movement would have been impossible. It would have been a ten point manoeuvre, and wholly inelegant, which people might have noticed and even laughed at…look at the moose, she could do with a hoist, has anyone got a crane hahaha…of course the asshole is front and centre of driving all these thoughts but still, they exist.

So I don’t want to experience the things that I’ve dreamed about, or the things that I aspire to as a fat girl – I want to experience them as a skinny girl and live in the moment, with nothing on my mind other than how much I’m wringing every ounce of enjoyment out of each and every one of those moments.  When I swim with the dolphins I don’t want to spend the run up to it worrying about what on God’s green earth I’m going to look like in a wetsuit. If I snorkel off the great barrier reef I don’t want to be preoccupied about what the person snorkelling behind me is thinking as my arse completely obliterates his view…imagine the postcards he might send, Shamu is alive and well and currently on holiday just off the coast of Australia. As I board the Orient Express in Paris or the Rocky Mountaineer train in Canada and realise a lifelong dream, I don’t want my experience ruined by a seat that’s too small, or feeling that I’m spilling over and spoiling someone else’s experience. And if I’m lucky enough to ever ride an elephant in Sri Lanka I’d like folk to be able to tell us apart 🙂

As a really fat person it’s so tempting to put your life on hold and just dream instead about the life you’ll live when you’re skinny. I know, I’ve done it…I’m not doing it any more and I’ll tell you what else, I’m not waiting till I’m skinny either. As soon as I have just one X in front of my L, I’ll be ticking things off my bucket list with gusto. So there!

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Space Invader

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , ,

FLS

Now, I’m guessing it depends where you sit on the fat to skinny spectrum as to whether you’ve really given the matter of space any serious consideration. I’m talking about personal space, and how much of it we take up as we go about our business. I say this because until I joined the realms of the super-obese I don’t recall really thinking too much about how much space I was taking up in this world, but once the penny dropped with me that I might be taking up too much of it to the point where it was pissing other people off, I became super-tuned in to the vibe, and it’s become a major pre-occupation.

We’ve all seen the debate raging about whether fat people should pay extra for flight seats and to be honest, count me in – my lard, my responsibility – just don’t make a fuss and for God’s sake don’t make me sit across two seats…that would be less about equity and more about treating me like livestock. They may as well run down the aisle blowing a bugle and shouting ‘Make way for the moose!!’

When I emerge from my chrysalis as a skinny string bean I’d welcome the chance to fly for peanuts if they want to just hitch up my seat space a little so it cradles my bony ass nicely and frees up a little more room for someone with a bit more padding – everybody’s happy. I’m sure in this age of technology it could be done. And if there does happen to be any aircraft seat designers reading my blog today, can you please sort your shit out with the seat belts whilst you’re at it?

I get it, I get that life is designed for Joe average.  And if you’re a fat person who genuinely believes that fat is as beautiful as skinny, or if you’re a skinny person who’s wandered in here by mistake (you’re very welcome but stop screwing your face up like that, you’ll get wrinkles) then you probably won’t be able to relate to what I’m saying. Which is fine, because we’re all different and if you’re happy, I’m happy. And a tiny bit envious.

You don’t know how lucky you are if you don’t feel the need to tiptoe through life trying to take up as little a space as possible. You won’t feel mortified if your arse or your chunky arms encroach onto someone else’s personal space when you sit beside them and pretend not to see FFS written right across their averagely proportioned face. You won’t feel the need to hold everything tucked in as tight as possible ’till your core muscles quiver, in the hope that you can prevent your body spilling over your quota of space and invading someone else’s. It’s not possible to pick up your body baggage and place it on the tray table in front of you to make room for someone to sit down like you can with your carry-on and I hate how apologetic that makes me feel, as though I’m being deliberately rude just for…being.

Writing it down really helps to focus the mind…you have no idea how much I can’t wait not to feel like that any more.

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Walking in the rain.

In the here & now, ,

wet dog

Morning…happy Bank Holiday Monday. Oh look, ‘quelle surprise’ it’s chucking it down outside. I can’t even claim a pyjama day because my dog is still going to expect a full service walk. Try and get away with anything like a short cut and I’ll get the doggy death stare as soon as he senses we’re homeward bound…it’s like he taps into my thoughts when we leave the house and if I deviate from the planned route somehow he just knows. You know how you tried to skip two or three pages when your kids were nodding off mid-way through their bedtime story, and three words into thinking you’d gotten away with it they were wide awake and protesting..? That’s what I’m talking about.

But today that’s ok, because didn’t I make a deal with myself that I’d do some exercise this weekend…I even said it out loud, what’s more I wrote it down and a bunch of folk have read it so I’m committed to the cause. In the rain. I mean it’s not just a bit damp out there, we’re talking big fat raindrops falling from a heavy grey sky and every car that drives past my house sounds like it’s driving through a stream. Lovely.

I think I’d enjoy walking in the rain if I was skinny. I’d have on some chic little raincoat, and a pair of adorable wellies, which would accommodate my calves without so much as a grumble. Somehow, those big fat raindrops would surround me without actually landing on me, and I’d arrive back home looking rosy-cheeked, without a hint of frizzy hair and looking for all the world as though walking in the rain was my favourite thing ever.  I would have walked so far that the dog would be exhausted and he wouldn’t nag to go back out again for the rest of the day.

But because I’m fat, we all know it’s not going to be that way. My chic little raincoat in fact resembles something you might find at the local camping centre. My calves will be shoved into wellies that were not designed for fat legs, so they’ll kink somewhere around my ankles and give me blisters, which if I’m lucky I won’t notice because I’ll be too busy grumbling about the red hot poker someone’s wiggling about in my knee. I’ll arrive home soaked to the bone, with a hyper excited spaniel who feels short-changed because we didn’t stay out for at least 3 hours, and he’ll be ready to go again within 10 minutes of getting home.

But, with every step I’m going to imagine the warm shower afterwards, and the feeling of achievement I’ll get when I’ve followed through on my promise to look after both the dog, and myself by not settling down in the armchair with a cup of tea and a packet of custard creams because it was raining too hard to go out.

Happy days!

 

 

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