Well, since I haven’t written much about The fat diaries in a while, or sat moaning and belting out how fat I am, I thought I would today.
I stood on the scale this morning. After that I heaved myself heavily into the bath. The water rose by an inch or two, I think. I didn’t measure. I gazed down my E’s to my quivering tummy, that incidentally Aidan used to lather with soap when he was younger and use it as a slide, and then I searched. I searched to the left. I searched to the right. Where was my beaver?
and then it hit me…..
I haven’t seen her in years in the bath. My tummy is too big. Even when lying flat. Shame poor thing, in the dark like that.
I stood up. Towel dried and there she was. Like a big fat Volksie Bonnet emerging from a car wash. In the shade of First, Second and Third Stomach. But not too shabby herself, weight wise.
So in conclusion, should you ever have wondered one fine summer’s day, if fanny’s put on weight, then I can tell you unequivocally, that YES, my dear, they do!
My mom calls them Pull-in panties. Also known in my circle as Bridget’s Jones’ knickers. You know the ones? The ones you buy from Edgars and the Woolworth. They come in magnificent shades of white, beige or black. You get medium support or maxi support. I buy the maxi support. My mom actually asked me why I didn’t wear pull-in panties the other day. The cheek of it? I answered back in a very clipped tone that I fucking was! (I think I might have skipped out the effing part).
My best form of torture is to wear the Pull-in cycling shorts. I’m not talking about the ones you buy from Verimark. Those are a breeze compared to the pugnacious pair I own. Mine are beige. Have the thickness and feel of flexible canvas. John has to leave the bedroom and may not observe the agonising procedure of me …..um…slipping them on. Ha ha…slipping is a joke, it’s more like me wrangling and trying to put a 5kg polony into a vienna sausage casing. It involves grimacing, squeezing, lots of talcum powder for easier lubrication and a few beads of perspiration on my forehead. And when I finally have them on…I snap the waistband in jubilation, wipe my brow and slowly run my hands over my smoother bum and thighs!
They definitely make a difference. One can’t breathe or eat in them or wear them when it’s too hot but they definitely… make a difference….
The last few days have had me mulling over something. What makes some people thin and some people fat? Others can eat what they like and others(like me) look at food and gain a few kilograms. Obviously the intake versus excercise, blah blah bladhee blah thiny-ma-jig comes into effect. I KNOW that, so don’t be a wise ass!
But why are some people, like my sisters, born with a gene that makes them more aware of what they eat? I eat now and worry later. Why does it not concern me in the way that it should and in a way that should spur me into action to do something about it? What is that? This issue has concerned me for years. Not the weight issue as much as the nonchalant issue!
Today I put on about 6 different outfits before I went back to the first one I tried on. I still wasn’t happy with the outcome. I felt uncomfortable the whole day and self-conscious. In a nutshell, I let a pair of crappy fitting jeans dictate my opinion about myself and my outlook on the day.
The thing with weight is that it’s an external encumbrance. Out there for the whole world to see. Out for everybody to judge and form an opinion on. It’s not a fragility that is hidden. It’s out there to be whipped and flogged by everybody that cares to. It’s there to fuel my relentless self loathing and to vex me constantly.
Every week I subject myself to failure at my weekly weighing sessions. Sometimes it’s fine and I lose weight, but more often than not, I don’t. What other person takes their personal failure and exposes it to the world for public ridicule? Not many I’m sure…….