Tag Archives: self-esteem

Six Fat Ladies On My Washing Line

In the here & now, , , , , ,

washing

I’ve always liked a nice washing line, in fact I think it’s fair to say that washing lines are one of my things. There’s nothing nicer than the smell of fresh blown washing, and there’s few things more satisfying than the sight of a long line of freshly laundered clothes bobbing in the breeze. It’s a pretty day today, lots of blue sky between the clouds, and for the first time in ages I pegged my washing out.

I observed the rules of course…anything that happens to part of a matching pair has to be pegged next to its partner. Each garment has to have matching coloured pegs. Where possible things of the same garment family should be grouped together, like trousers, or tops. Allowances can be made by exception, for example pyjamas have a top and pants but can’t be in two places at the same time, so a matching pair generally trumps garment family…

I know what you’re thinking. It is ridiculous, I can see that. My boy, who isn’t afflicted by the same degree of washing line OCD enjoys winding me up by breaking every single rule on the odd occasion his laundry bypasses the tumble dryer and makes it on to the line. Today though, they’ve been pegged by my own fair hands, and all is in order. I should be happy…and yet.

I looked outside to check on the weather and caught sight of my line of washing with the breeze through it, and there were six pairs of my black trousers lined up next to each other looking for all the world like six fat ladies getting their groove on. With the wind inside them they looked monstrous.

Is that what my arse looks like from the rear view..? Still..?  I can’t believe that something so stupid can turn my mood upside down so quickly. The asshole voice in my head went berserk and my new-found self confidence took a proper battering. How ridiculous is that? I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, and there’s absolutely no logical reason why I should.

Looking at them made me feel fat. And when I feel fat, I start thinking fat. I’ve been grazing all day, it’s now 4pm and I’ve got no points left. None. My weekly ones are all spent too. The sight of my cavernous pants drove me to loiter near my boy who was eating hangover carbs in the form of pizza and I turned the kind of eyes on him that even Charlie dog could only aspire to. Having checked that I had enough points left, he begrudgingly handed over two slices of heaven which didn’t even touch the sides of my mouth as they headed south.

I’d love to tell you that the pizza tasted amazing but the truth of it is I ate both slices so fast I barely tasted them. And there it is, right? The compulsion to anaesthetise my feelings with food when something makes me feel bad. Alive and kicking at the first fucking opportunity. I honestly despair that despite all the work I’ve put in, unpicking the knots in my thought processes and rebuilding the way I think piece by piece, I can still come totally unglued when my self-esteem take a knock.

I don’t wear size twelve pants. I know this. It shouldn’t come as a shock to see six pairs of fat pants going through the laundry. The fact that I’m on track to be in a size twelve this time next year should be enough…today, it wasn’t.

I guess we all get days like this, right?

Tomorrow’s a new day, with a shiny new week’s worth of smart points. Looking on the bright side, I’ll be starving when I wake up tomorrow given that I can’t eat anything else today so if I was forced to find a silver lining in this shitty day at least I’ll greet the new week feeling like Kate Moss 🙂

Like it..? Tell your friends!
 

Sleeping Downhill

In the here & now, , ,

bed

When I was talking yesterday about the cruise holiday that I enjoyed with my friend just before I took my first hesitant steps towards this new healthier life, it put me in mind of an embarrassing incident from that same holiday that I’d buried somewhere at the back of my memory bank. I actually broke the bed.

Yes, seriously. I was mortified. My friend and I had twin beds in the same cabin, and a couple of days into the holiday, I fell out of mine. The actual incident itself was too funny…I can’t even pretend that the sea was rough, in fact we were in a fairly sheltered bit of the baltic at the time and the water was as calm as a millpond.

I was also relatively sober, having only had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner but somehow, in the middle of the night as I heaved my bulk and attempted to turn over I managed to forget that I wasn’t at home in my superking-sized bed…as my full weight neared the edge of the lightweight single bed, it tipped me off and I went over the side.  Not only that, I managed to grab hold of the mattress on the way down in an attempt to save myself from falling, and pulled it down on top of me as I went.

I ended up with my head wedged between the tipped-up bed base and the bedside cabinet, with the mattress and duvet on top of me, dazed and half asleep wondering what the fuck just happened. And then, obviously, I got a fit of the giggles. My friend, who’d been asleep in the other bed, woke up at that point to utter carnage.

It didn’t occur to me as I tipped everything the right way up again and reassembled the bedding that I might have broken it, but I had a vague feeling of disorientation as I went back to sleep, and for the next couple of nights…it was only when we called maintenance to change a lightbulb in the bedside lamp later in the week that it became apparent that I had in fact been laying downhill ever since, off to one side and with my head lower than my feet.

There was nothing wrong with the bulb, turns out it was the plug which had come adrift from the wall as the bed had knocked it. And it seemed that one of the legs at the top of the bed had obviously buckled under my weight as it tipped over. As the little Philippino maintenance man emerged from underneath the wonky bed in what felt like slow motion with the un-needed light bulb in one hand, and a bed leg in the other, I couldn’t quite meet his gaze. I couldn’t bear to see the fat lady broke the bed written all over his face. I was mortified.

They swapped out the base of course, and in their polite customer-orientated way they avoided any conversation about how or why it might have happened. But you don’t need me to tell you how many times the Asshole voice whispered to me about how the entire crew would be laughing at how the lady in cabin L201 was so fat she broke the bed…or how I didn’t get a proper night’s kip until I got home because I was too scared of it happening again.

This year is going to be so different 🙂

Like it..? Tell your friends!
 

Finding The Answer

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

answer-the-question

You know how sometimes someone asks you a question which stops you in your tracks and makes you think about something which has never even occurred to you before? Well, that happened to me this week. Let me ask you the same question.

Did you start your diet because of how you looked, or how you felt?

I’ve been mulling this over for the last couple of days and even now I’m not 100% sure about the answer. I just knew the time was right, but I’m less clear about what actually drove me to it. How I looked versus how I felt…I mean they were both awful you know? I looked like shit and I felt like shit so take your pick was kind of my first response. But the question sort of got inside my head and stuck which is generally my head’s way of flagging that I need to unpick something in a bit more detail.

If I’m working on something I like to understand why, as in what is the problem I’m trying to fix?  The idea of being able to articulate exactly what prompted me to begin this journey appeals to me…my own personal why.

I’d started to really struggle with mobility issues. On the last holiday I took with my friend immediately before I started my diet, I could barely walk from one end of the ship to the other without needing a rest…everything hurt. My back and my knee in particular felt like they were buckling under the strain of lugging twenty three stones around on my five feet five inch frame. I felt like I was lumbering, rather than walking. It was awful…it felt awful. My ankles were swollen, and my thighs chafed till they bled.

In the restaurant when I tried to squash my double arse in the elegant dining chairs, it felt like everybody was staring at me. I doubt that they were, but I felt crippled by my Asshole thoughts about what other people were thinking. Even walking through the restaurant to get to our table was torture, and I prayed the whole time that my arse didn’t add insult to injury by sweeping someone’s bread basket off their table on my way past. The Asshole voice in my head was on overdrive, and every thought landed, you know? Ha ha! Look at the fat girl in the dining room…feeding time at the zoo!

So, genuine reflections on the time immediately before I started my diet seem to be more aligned to how I felt rather than how I looked. I think I’d stopped caring about how I looked at that point if I’m being completely honest. Every night before we went down for dinner, my friend would be busy fixing her hair and putting her face on, generally making an effort you know? Me, I left my hair to dry wild and curly, and didn’t go anywhere near make-up… I didn’t even look in the mirror when I got dressed. There seemed little point and besides I didn’t want to be faced with the reality of what a hot mess I’d turned into.

It’s good to look back, in a weird sort of way…actively dredging up these memories renews my determination to get as far away from that place as possible. That was then…this is now. Now, I feel better physically…much better. Hamstring hobbling aside, I’m fitter and stronger, and I can walk without significant pain most of the time.

The biggest difference is that I’ve stopped being quite so conscious about how much space I take up in the world. I feel like I can sit on a chair without having to offer up a quick prayer that nobody skimped on the screws, you know? I no longer feel the need to try and tiptoe through my life. Oh sure, the Asshole voice still churns out a full range of self-esteem torpedoes on a regular basis, but more and more often they land a bit wide of the mark and they don’t inflict quite as much damage so that tells me I’m fitter and stronger in my head too.

So I think my answer to the question, having chatted it through with you lot is that it started out being about how I felt. Now what’s spurring me on is a mixture of both. I started putting my face on again a couple of months ago, and I’m thinking more and more about how I look, where back then I didn’t care. I’ve become strangely obsessed with what I’m going to wear to the forthcoming awards ceremony, but that’s what normal people would do, right? It’s a big deal and I want to look nice.

Just out of interest, how would you answer the question..?

 

 

Like it..? Tell your friends!
 

Eating Humble Pie

In the here & now, , , ,

pie 2

So, one of the drawbacks of coming from good old Yorkshire stock is the tendency to forget that not everyone is as comfortable with plain talk as I am. I mean, if you’re a regular reader you’ll be used to me getting straight to the point of what’s on my mind, with an occasional bit of salty language here and there. I don’t see an issue with that, because that’s me, you know? It’s what comes out of my head, in the same way it would come out of my mouth if you were standing in front of me.

I guess sometimes in my haste to drive home a point I can forget to apply my is this going to offend anyone? filter, and judging by the furious response I got from someone on an email last night at least one blooper got through the net yesterday…whoops.

Now, having exchanged lots and lots of emails with you lot over the last eight months or so, I know that collectively you have a terrific sense of humour. I know we laugh at the same things, despair over the same things and, well we just get each other, right? We’ve walked the requisite mile in each other’s’ shoes, and we’re all eminently qualified to understand and express a view on the general topic of being fat.

It was pointed out in no uncertain terms that there may be a small number of folk amongst the posse who would prefer not to be referred to as fat old ladies with bingo wings. Being a fat old lady with bingo wings myself, I didn’t give it a second thought, but I had a proper bollocking – that’s Yorkshire speak for telling off in case it doesn’t translate – from someone I’d managed to offend with my sweeping generalisation that only fat girls and old ladies wear shrugs…

Now, half of me wants to defend my position (really, have you EVER seen a skinny string bean with toned arms cover up their top half with a shrug unless it’s like an Antarctic event?) but mostly I’m full of remorse that my words might have stung a bit. Not my intention, I promise and I’m genuinely sorry if I hurt your feelings. Me and my big mouth, right?!

That said, I also had a handful of really lovely notes from folk who wanted to encourage me to be proud of who I am, you know, comfortable in my own skin so I could feel like a million dollars despite my arse looking like boulders in a bag. I love the sentiment, and I appreciate every single word of reassurance…I’m not buying it though.

I’d give anything to be able to get to that place, where I consider slender and fat to have equal standing in the beauty stakes. The ability to look in a mirror and see fat and beautiful in one and the same body has eluded me since time began and I don’t see that changing any time soon. I can’t bring myself to fly the banner for big and beautiful…I just can’t. I’m not saying that fat people can’t be attractive, because they can…but looking at it through the lens of self, I can’t put those two words together because I don’t feel it, you know? I recognise that not everyone feels that way…but I do.

That said, in relation to the way I felt 62lbs ago, I feel awesome.  And relatively speaking, I’m looking better. But that’s because I’m skinnier. I’ll look even better still when I get the next hundred and a bit pounds off.

Good job there’s no Smart Points in humble pie… 🙂

Like it..? Tell your friends!
 

Wanted: One Fairy Godmother

Diet update, In the here & now, , , ,

cinders

I’ve had such an awesome weekend. The biggest wow factor for me was that I left yesterday’s spring fair having done exactly what I’d set out to do, in spite of all those temptations. I did it. In your face Asshole…oh, and you don’t need me to tell you that as soon as I got home, I headed straight upstairs for my weekly weigh in, and guess what…two more pounds off this week 🙂 I’m chuffed to bits.

So, I followed up on my promise to myself and treated myself to a gorgeous piece of costume jewellery yesterday…fair’s fair after all, that was the deal providing my mouth behaved itself in the food hall, right? My favourite jewellery lady was there and as usual she didn’t let me down…I bought a stunning necklace to wear on the night of the UK Blog Awards, which is coming up in just under two weeks’ time. I’m not sure what I’m accessorising yet, but whatever it is it’ll be black.

I’m in an agony of indecision about my outfit – thoughts welcome of course, but I genuinely don’t know what to do. First of all, I’m still too near the wrong end on the scale of fatness to wear heels. I mean I could, if I was happy to totter into the venue hanging onto the arm of my boy and then sit in a corner all night because my feet hurt, but I don’t want to do that. 62lbs ago, the old me would have done exactly that but it’s different now. I’m different now. I want to sparkle, you know?

I’ve been looking for inspiration on the evening dress front but seriously, fat-girl frocks are just awful. Nobody makes evening dresses with sleeves…trust me I’ve looked. Well, nobody except the kind of folk that would successfully dress my great aunt Maud.

I’m not a classic curvy girl. I don’t have big boobs, and a waist. I’ve got shoulders like a linebacker and small boobs with a big belly and an even bigger arse. Not exactly a designer’s wet dream. And I don’t have a good track record with Spanx…what it hold in here it tends to spit out there and so I end up with the same amount of lumps, just redistributed. Smooth thighs with poodle-cut knees…you get the picture.

And I can’t do sleeveless, not with these bingo wings. I’ve already ruled out sleeveless with a shrug because only fat girls and old ladies wear shrugs, and whilst I happen to be both, I refuse to wear a garment that draws attention to the fact that I’m too fat and old to carry the frock off without covering bits of it up. I’ve tried a few on, just in case I could be persuaded but whilst they might do the trick where my upper arms are concerned, they totally throw my midriff under the bus to prove a point. No no no no no.

So that probably means my outfit of choice will end up being flatties with a pair of black palazzo pants, and a plain black floaty top. I think the very sparkly necklace I bought yesterday will dress the black up enough for me not to look like Widow Twanky. But I’m still all kinds of stressed about it, you know? The most annoying thing is that four dress sizes ago I would have worn the same thing, just bigger. I mean, I didn’t think I’d be attending in something bright red, backless and split to the thigh…I just thought I might have graduated from palazzo pants.

Still, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be knocking on the door of size twenty…it’s exactly where I thought I would be at this point. I’m bang on track, and I wake up every day feeling grateful to be on the way down the numbers. It’s just that I’d give anything to have Cinderella’s fairy Godmother rock up on the 29th to wave her magic wand and make me skinny. Just for one night.

Ah well…fat and sparkly it is then 🙂

 

Like it..? Tell your friends!