Tag Archives: fatty

Well, Well, Well…

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Well well well, what do we have here? I’ve found it increasingly difficult to recognize my own good self recently. My “go-getter” status has definitely reached a new high, depending on who you ask of course. In actual fact, I seem to be slowly but surely morphing into my father.

When this afternoon I was daydreaming about my newly purchased attachment for the garden hose (do you know what those things can do these days?) and found myself calling my husband to see if he could bring home an empty milk bottle so that I might concoct a home made dripper for my basil, I realized I’d gone too far.

I wasn’t quite ready to tear myself away, so whilst I watered (the mist nozzle really gets me going by the way), I considered whether I actually had tipped over the “cat-lady-rose-bush-croc-wearing” line.

The funny thing is that like a mysterious beast of prey, you wouldn’t know what I was truly capable of upon meeting me; that I would be daydreaming about giving the corn (yes corn!) a good mulch and crying with delight when I found a worm in the compost. Unfortunately I live only a few kilometres from the city of Melbourne and therefore live with what could most generously be described as a large courtyard with a small lawn.

I grew up in the city but find that I move ever so gently, year by year, towards being a woman I would have never thought I would know. The vain city girl still lives strong; the biggest indicator of which is evident in all the fantasies I have about moving to a more rural area.

My fantasies always involve a great set of pins in tight jeans, bouncy hair and (I can hear the collective sigh of us fat girl now), a beautiful shirt tucked in to said jeans. Ah….the serenity…

Unfortunately little dreams don’t manifest themselves, so in the last few days, I’ve stepped into a new world, hoping to help me get back on track. Anyone following my weight loss would see, blaringly obviously, that I haven’t lost any significant weight in some time.

The difference in my appearance has motivated many to comment positively on how I look, inadvertently resulting in a release on the weight loss accelerator. But well aware of a job half done, I decided to take up a free trial at my local gym.

Not so much a gym as it is an oestrogen laden, sweat soaked women’s group, where middle aged gals doodle their way through a serious of hydraulic machines, enjoying a good dose of Abba coming through the speakers.

Needless to say, when I walked in, I knew instantly that it was the place for me to be. Free trial up and a decision about joining imminent, I went in today to complete my final workout free of charge. It was only when a woman walked in, donned in lycra and a sweat band rolled and tied around her forehead, all coordinated of course, I realised that I couldn’t possibly be more comical than that and would therefore be quite happy there.

Unfortunately joining seems to be more difficult that one would expect. You need to make an appointment for a fitness assessment, at which point I’m sure I’ll be sold all sorts of pointless gym-ing paraphernalia. When I finished my final trial, I walked up seriously to the young girl behind the desk,

“Now I’ve decided that I would like to join. I think this could work for me”

“Well, you have to book in for your assessment. Tomorrow’s no good, Friday’s no good. Why don’t you call next week?”

My face dropped. I had half expected a brass band to emerge from the staff room with a personalised congratulatory rendition of It’s Raining Men, every girls’ power song (C’mon, you know it is!). Alas, nothing; not even a discrete applause. It put me off enough to consider backing out.

But some places you have to get to on your own. And it could be the crazy in me, but lately I’ve been carrying my own little orchestra inside anyway…

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Just As It Is

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“Must write blog, must write blog” has been in the back of my mind since I returned.  Unfortunately, I’ve been must-ing my way around my home town, straight back into the groove of daily life, hanging hopelessly onto the memories of a trip now passed.

There are a few minefields one faces upon return from a holiday when re-telling their holiday adventures. Unfortunately, there is always the danger of painstakingly recounting what is to others, an utterly boring he-said she-said; there’s a risk of going on far too long about the meal you just didn’t want to miss, and of course, it’s easy to forget that those nodding appreciatively have most likely been scraping baked beans from a can while you were stuffing your face with crayfish, taking happy-snaps.

A few days ago someone asked me to see photos. I directed them to Facebook in their own time but they pressed me for a personal viewing. Filled with trepidation, I obliged. But 15 photos in, one party had walked off; the other yawned awkwardly, declared they had to go and then left the house completely. When I found myself starting a sentence of explanation and then realised that by the end of the sentence, there was no one left to make eye contact with, I knew it was over.

“See! See! This is why I didn’t want to do it”. Other people’s photos are always best viewed in private. Mainly so you can flick through the scenic shots that have no context for you, but also to reduce the awkward dilemma of trying to wind up the conversation before a yawn creeps into the back of your throat.

Most important of all, how does one having travelled to a country like Africa not reconstruct moments, people and conversations with just a touch of the clichéd? Descriptions of wildlife, mountain ranges and canyons can’t really be made without using words like majestic and splendour, both of which make my eyes water with embarrassment, so I tend to not say much at all.

The most special of moments I had were not because of the scenery or cities. They were with people I met and the conversations I had with them, resulting in a shared experience that couldn’t be easily translated. And sometimes, if you are open to it, special things can happen that you don’t want to share anyway.

Perhaps my experiences over the past few years, in a strange way, prepared me well for the trip. If you open your eyes, but close your heart just a little bit, you’ll be well equipped to see everything there is to see. And it has to be said (simply because it’s true), magical (oops!) things can happen there.

Luckily for me, my moment of fat-girl emancipation in the form of riding an African ostrich, just as my grandmother did many years ago, never occurred. I was just that bit too heavy, which means I just might have to go back some time soon!

Holidays have a sneaky way of making people see the light. ‘When I get home, some things are going to change’ is a sentiment we’ve all experienced. It’s a diet, more exercise, more time for reading, leisurely weekends…always something.

But if I learnt nothing else, I learnt to think less, smile more and yes, it has to be said, realise that even though I may choose to, changes aren’t necessary.

I’m a lucky little bugger, just as it is…

Case of the Lost Bowl

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There’s a television show currently screening on Australian television which has, as the critics say, “taken the country by storm”. Masterchef Australia fits the formula replicated around the world; contestants, judges and unsuspecting fruits and vegetables get carved up for our viewing pleasure each week night. My family and friends know that I am not a fan of the show. The judges repel my ethical sensibilities as they shovel food into their mouths, with the short bald one sweating as he does so, and I can’t help but picture the many starving around the world who would give their left leg to be so greedy. I probably wouldn’t be as offended if the judges were skinny and looked like they needed a good feed; it’s simply the excess that makes me feel uncomfortable and if I’m honest (which I usually am) the mirrored image that stares back at me…

That aside, I should admit that I do love cooking, although I rarely cook from a cookbook. The best explanation of this is that I have less interest in the actual recipe and flavours than I do with the preparing of it. As I’ve said before, I’m the third generation of good female cooks who can instinctively whip up a curry and I don’t recall my mother ever declaring as she served up my dinner, “the beef is the real hero on the plate darling”. Nor do I remember describing my food as being “eclectic” or “brave”. The thing that really tips me over the edge is when contestants describe their food as “honest”.

Really? Honest? Did that chocolate pudding tell you what a dill you are then? But admittedly I am predisposed to a rant and I’m also predisposed to use psychological rhetoric which I suspect also makes me appear rather arrogant. Maybe “honest food” is the equivalent to an “anal stage of motivational development”?

What they don’t talk about on the show is the growing girth of the judges and I suspect the growing waistlines of the many fans who rush out to replicate the dishes made on the show each night. I was only too aware of my rather rolly-polly waist when the toolman and I were watching our favourite show at the moment; United States of Tara (the toolman likes to see a couple with a wife “crazier” than me I suspect).

I was happy lying at my end (as couples know, we have our ends) and was conscious of the fact I was lying on the remote. A good twenty minutes later I shot up with a gasp.

“What’s wrong baby?” the toolman got a fright, such was my exclamation.

“Omigosh…I can’t believe it….I’m humongous!”

The realization had occurred slowly. I was watching the screen when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the remote on the coffee table. If the remote was on the coffee table, then it couldn’t be under me. Whatever it was felt quite cool against my side. Then I saw the toolman’s dessert bowl sitting next to the remote. Where was my bowl and spoon?…….And then BOOM! I realized I was lying on it, actually lying on it.

“I’m so huge I can’t even feel crockery when I am lying on it! It was stuck between my rolls! People should tell me to stand up and shake when they can’t find their car keys!” I was distraught but then I fell into giggles.

A fellow blogger and “fan” of my blog told me this week to remind myself of the good things I do each week and I think she had a point. Yes, crockery got lost in my blubber and I didn’t even realise it was there and yes, add to that the loss of actually gaining weight this week and the result looks glum. But this week, I’m going to let it ride and have a laugh about it.

Now if I was a dish on Masterchef, do you think they would call be “brave”?

Wiggling Good Time

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“Lean forward a bit”

“Ok. Any better?”

“Worse. Stand up straight” she says with a giggle

“I am, I am”. I lift my left leg and bend it in front of me. The reason was twofold; first to show the world that I can do that now and to see if it made a difference.

“Have you been to the toilet today?” she looked hopeful.

“I just went before. Why don’t I take off my jumper? I weighed in my singlet last week anyway”.

Standing in leggings, socks and a singlet, I saw the loss of last week on the scale before me– 1.1 kilos (2.4 pounds), which meant that finally I had reached the big 2.0. Twenty kilos (44 pounds) and with 14 to go, I am well on my way to redeeming myself as the slightly pudgy but well rounded bouncy brunette I once was.

It felt so great that the slightly raised eyebrows I detected (from the oh-so-well-manicured-crowd) as I wiggled my bum in the air didn’t deter me from exclaiming, “I got there! I did it!”

Throw in a few working ovaries and some firmly attached nails and the world is my oyster…

And sometimes you just have to leave it there.

The Loss of Gains (and those comments from Karl)

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Mysteriously, the blogosphere community to which I belong simultaneously fell silent along with my keyboard. It was a few days ago that the mechanical hum of my laptop and untapped keyboard started to bother me, just as ideas about weight loss and fattydom really started whipping up a storm in my mind. Gaining half a kilo last week, whilst it wasn’t entirely wretched, certainly left me feeling that way. The deafening silence from other bloggers has left me feeling there is something in the air.

This week, I lost that 500 grams plus a small fraction and therefore have neither failed nor succeeded in the past fortnight. That is of course unless you are one of those people who prophesise that all experiences in life are opportunities to learn and are therefore valuable; this woman I am not. Some situations are just darn right stub-your-toe-in-the-middle-of-the-night-tragic!

I feel at this stage that a confession of sorts would be valuable in understanding my occasional cynicism and episodic lacklustre attitude to life. Please don’t misunderstand me; I am generally a smiling woman who laughs easily. But picking myself up, pushing down the intermittent “why me?” and copping it on the chin are not things I am great at. I prefer theorising about what motivates behaviour, the elusive underlying psychological premise, and jumping on the Freudian couch.

Where all this cynicism came from is probably best explained by all sorts of experiences that will remain unsaid. I will spare you the details until A) I work up the guts, and B) feel that society won’t judge me. What I will tell you however is that even though I have never been a mere slip of a thing, I did once enjoy a curvy body that moved exactly the way I wanted it to. It went up stairs when I asked it to, it could manoeuvre behind someone’s chair in a restaurant and curled up in the corner of a couch easily.

And then one day, about this time two years ago I fell ill and it lasted over a year. As my body started to betray me and I found myself permanently in a tracksuit and unable to continue with my usual routines, I turned to food in a way that left me completely transformed within less than 6 months. What I will say next will undoubtedly leave a few people thinking, “yeah right, fatty” but I swear that one day I looked in the mirror and saw a fat person. I was so disconnected and angry that I didn’t see what was happening to my body as I indulged in anything and everything I found under my nose.

With stretchy pants and a mirror that started from the waist up, I rarely looked at myself and rarely said no. On one level, I was a person who thought they wouldn’t see the year out but instead of bungy jumping or travelling to Rome, I just ate….and didn’t move. And I didn’t care.

Now, being in a much more self aware state, I simply cannot believe what I have done to myself. I can only admit this now as I truly believe I am on the path to a better me. But I will never be the same; the striations of stretched skin will never go away and I’m terrified of what will be left once I reach my goal weight.

I. Am. 25.

I confronted my husband recently with this news, like he hadn’t been watching me from the sidelines for the past two years.

“You know that when I lose this weight I won’t be like I used to be”

“I know”

“But you know I can’t do anything about that now, right?”

“I know”

“You know I’m terrified about that don’t you”

“I know. But you know I think you’re gorgeous, right?”

“I know”

He’s rock solid that boy of mine. For a woman who shrieks in fear if the bathroom door swings ajar as I’m showering and now dresses in the dark, I’m a far cry from the girl I once was. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing to myself in those months – even when my thighs started to rub together, I was still completely unaware of the gauntlet I was about to subject myself to and the permanent scars I would leave on my body and my mind.

It would take a very special person who has never had this struggle with fat to understand my position. I am understanding of those who simply don’t get it…I am painfully aware of the common misconception that all overweight people are simply unmotivated and lazy.

A good friend revealed to me that when she told her new work colleagues that she had lost over 20 kilos, the response was “what, you’re joking, you can’t be serious”.  In truth, the reason people respond this way is because the overweight person is of course seen as purposeless, work-shy and lacks a determination and resolve that slim people naturally possess. It’s hard for some people to imagine the skinny “determined and fun” person as the “fat lazy” overweight person. It rarely occurs to people that the “determined and fun” person was just overweight.

Naturally, if asked the question, “Are fat people ineffectual?” people would reply with a stern “No”. At least the polite ones would. But I believe the words of Karl Lagerfeld (whom so many women inadvertently love and support) are felt rippling through all the tut-tuts and eye rolling of slim people, suggesting that fat women simply “do not care enough about ourselves to be skinny”. Karl famously remarked,

“No one wants to see curvy women…You’ve got fat mothers with their bags of chips sitting in front of the television and saying that thin models are ugly.”

I suppose according to this premise, I can’t really comment can I? Being an overweight woman who is quite partial to the odd chip, I don’t deserve an opinion. Is it so hard to believe that some curvy women like to look at curvy women and feel sexy as curvy women?

I digress.

What I would like to suggest is that many overweight people are very effective in their lives (I won’t go as far as to list my accomplishments here for fear of seeming like a bit of a nutter) but struggle with food and exercise. It’s one portion of life that is out of control.

Other unfortunates who have drinking problems, light gambling problems, spending problems…(the list goes on and on) are not generally referred to as lazy or disconnected. Some even go as far as to admire these people, with comments of support like “gee, they really play hard and party hard don’t they?” which is the very opposite of lazy. We might as well pat these “high achievers” on the back with a congratulatory slap.

That is of course, unless they’re overweight.

I wish someone had told me what I was getting myself into when I gained so much weight. I wish I had been aware that my whole life would change; my perceptions, my attitude, my social worth, and the way I am perceived. Naturally, I would have shredded this brave person with my bare teeth at the time but maybe, just maybe, a fellow woman who has come back from where I am could have convinced me.

Because of course, I would have seen the desperation in her eyes.

A Camera Click and Dash for Cover

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There’s nothing like a photo to shock you into a calorie deprived stoicism that rivals even the most dedicated organic-eating-water-drinking-carbophobic-skinny-minny.

Thanks to Facebook, even the most discerning Fatty cannot immunise themselves against the flagrant attack their friends seem hell-bent on launching, without diversion, straight into fatty’s heart. Over the top you say? Absolutely! But can I venture to stay…

BLOODY WELL STOP IT!

Yes, I am fully aware that I am overweight. I do not however want this reflected in digital form for all to see. It not only gives fatties everywhere the opportunity to zoom in and pan across images of themselves they despise; it gives others the opportunity to gaze at wobbly bits without the distraction of our over-engaging-over-compensating-very-funny-story!

Add another important variable into this state of affairs. When I look in the mirror, fully dressed, ready to go out, I think I look at least passable. That at minimum, people won’t notice me and at best I don’t offend. In truth, sometimes I think I look quite nice, all things considered. This thinking, my friends, is for my very survival.

After going through the rigmarole of viewing oneself from all angles (side with stomach sucked in, stomach out, from front on with shoulders straight, front on shoulders slumped, belly out, belly in…you get the drift), one must pull themselves up straight, think positively and grab their keys. For if I looked at the situation through clear eyes, I wouldn’t go anywhere at all.

And then, unsuspectingly, you log onto Facebook and someone has snapped you without you knowing (which means belly out) and BANG…your heart sinks as you realise the situation is much worse than you realised.

But I’ve lost 14 kilos! But I’m lighter now! I even sprayed myself  last week with fake tan! How can I look like this? And then, you finally drag your gaze away from fleshy thighs and look upwards towards your eyes and it’s even worse.

Sad eyes are hard to cover up. Anatomically, my eyes are the same as those of my former, slimmer self. Inside, I am the same person, with the same gregarious attitude to life but I am covered with all this extra…stuff…that weighs me down.

And whilst I understand that those who “tag” others in photos on Facebook are probably well meaning and more concerned with how they look in the photo than their loved ones, I beg of you: Look at the whole picture, imagine you are each person in the photo and ask yourself whether you would like to be put out there on Stalk-book…I mean Facebook.

I have a dear friend who would innocently ask of me, “What? You look good!” She has said this about me for as long as I have known her and for most of my life I believed her. It’s a lovely sentiment but even she now half yells frantically…”I won’t take one of you!” as she pulls a camera from her bag. My cousin now hands me her camera to delete any I don’t like before she even has a chance to look at them. Bless!

But sadly, for someone who used to slap on a cheesy grin at the hint of a “click” or unrelated “flash”, this is just the way I like it.

The Heavy Rye Debate

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Buying bread at the supermarket is like shopping for your ideal self. I read not long ago (from a very funny fellow weight loss candidate) that an overweight person will regularly fill their basket with things that represent their ideal- veggies, fruit and fat free biscuits. For me, this sentiment really reveals itself in the bread isle.

Last week, whilst pondering my ideal body shape and which loaf of bread was going to do it for me, a gorgeous couple came up beside me. I quickly picked up the soy and linseed “women’s health loaf” and confidently placed it in my trolley whilst concurrently fantasising about making my way to pick up a “women’s health” magazine (which would of course be precariously balanced on top of my hand bag for every one to see). In reality, I actually just plodded around the corner and did a full loop back into the same bread isle where I threw out the overpriced health loaf and picked up my favourite heavy rye.

I must admit, I usually experience an irrational sense of satisfaction from the bread I purchase. Fluffy white speaks fatty, whilst dark rye speaks healthy, tanned, slim. In reality, my shopping basket doesn’t really reflect my size at all. But even this is a huge source of embarrassment for me. I am sure that those who see my trolley or what I eat think that I am one of those sad women stuffing their faces in the car on the way home but order light in the restaurant (we all know the ones). Should I just order a pizza and stop the confusion, I regularly ask myself. It’s much more comfortable to appraise someone as a fatty because of their poor eating habits- more uncomfortable is the fatty that “is trying”.

This is the same reason that you’ll rarely see me exercising down the street. Walking works well- but I feel self conscious traipsing around my suburb the size I am. I’ve heard others laugh and nudge each other when a fat woman in stretchy pants puffs their way down the street. “At least she’s doing something about it!” I’ll spit out at them. But in reality, I’m terrified of being that woman and having that sideways poor-thing-but-it’s-kind-of-amusing look from strangers. A kinder person may not even consider this a conundrum, but a gentle soul I am not- I am all too aware of the bitchy perils of being a young woman.

So I admit, yes, sesame sour dough was my undoing this week. It was heavy, sour and beige. Not my ideal and it certainly reinforces the same weight problem. I know I’ve gained weight this week and I know I’m running (ok, a slow amble) round in circles doing the same things and getting the same crappy results. I’m also aware of coming apart at the seams because I drank a bottle of wine last night and I’m a non-drinker (and a two pot screamer as my good friend phrased delicately).

So tomorrow I’ll weigh in reluctantly. But I will weigh in because I will not hide from the scales. I just hope they’ll be kind…