This is hard for me to write.
See, the thing about being fat is this: you don’t go to bed thin and wake up fat. It just kind of creeps up on you. One day clothes fit and the next time you look you are iced in your very own security
What can I tell you about it? That all my mirrors are set shoulder high so I don’t have to catch a glimpse of my body? That nobody but Mark has seen my legs since 1995? That I ache to be the person I could be if I was thin, even though three years ago I was and in all truth it didn’t feel that different?
Let me make myself clear: I wouldn’t have made it into a Victorian freak show, but I think about what it is to be bigger than other women, almost every day. Not because I am show stoppingly large, but because I am bigger than I want to be and if I’m totally honest and I really stop to think about it, I hate it. I hate it so much it hurts.
I can’t give you reasons. I can’t say I am this way because. I don’t know. Or I do know but I don’t particuarly want to put these trivial catalysts to inner pain into words. So suffice to say, my life is lovely and I have an over-fondness for violet cremes and mature cheddar.
I have in the past been really rather excellent at dieting. A dieting extroadinaire! I cut out wheat and the weight fell off, but the truth is I was giving it all I had: thinking about dieting every minute of every day. Thinking about nothing else. And then along came Finley and something resembling the authentic life I had always dreamt of, and suddenly it didn’t matter. And before I knew it I was halfway back to where I started.
I don’t want to be one of those women who talks about nothing else because I am concentrating on pretending not to be hungry. I don’t want to be one of those women who knows the calorific value of every lettuce leaf I raise to my lips. I don’t want to make dieting the subject of my dinner parties, nor gossip about which mommy at the school gates has let herself go. I don’t want to be that person. I want to live life in all it’s decadent, scrumptious glory and I want to do over a pretty plate of chocolate cake….
But I hate fat people and the fact that I am one myself doesn’t make that terrible statement any less true. So don’t bother ranting at me for being fattist. Trust me, I feel your pain.
I don’t know what I look like from behind. The thought of having my derriere plastered all over Sky One makes me feel ill (I don’t know when the programme is being screened, but I promise not to let vanity stop me from telling you!!). I hate clothes shopping. No, scrap that, I adore clothes shopping. Just not for me. Clothes shopping for me is a vintage girlies nightmare. I’m tireder than I should be. Less attractive than I could be. I wear a uniform of black clothes and I never look in the mirror without kind of squinting. I have no idea what I look like, but sometimes even without knowing, without acknowledging what might be the truth, I feel beautiful. Does that make sense?
But what I hear you ask, does this have to do with
I cannot reconcile my mind with my body. Who I am with who I want to be.
And more than that I’m not even sure I want to.