In my ‘real’ life, I find it very difficult to talk about things that upset me. I literally choke on the words. I am a very archetypal buttoned up, repressed, stiff-upper-lipped Brit. I find it so much easier to ‘talk’ on here. Sometimes I worry that if I moan on here, no-one will read it and – worse – that they’ll be rolling their eyes at my tedious self-indulgence. But I’ve decided that not even I can be so absurdly people-pleasing that I deny myself the relief of unburdening myself here – metaphorically unbuttoning and letting my flab hang out, if you will. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you with that image! But I apologise, dear Reader, if this is just too damn irritating for words.
Are there any occasions more mentally torturous than a real rub-your-nose-in-it shopping session? Last night I went to look for an outfit for Naughty R’s wedding in case I either a) couldn’t squeeze into the outfit I had in mind and/or b) it was so bloody freezing that a short sleeved jacket would essentially be committing suicide by hypothermia. I can’t really afford anything new but I did feel that a boost from feeling that I looked good in a new frock would be the sort of lift I need right now.
Well, you know what they say about best laid plans? Something about them going awry for mice and men apparently. And women too, it would seem. I tried on 7 dresses in John Lewis and 3 in Debenhams. I can honestly say that I looked absolutely ghastly in every single one. Most of them were too tight to do up, a couple got wedged around my hips. And that was in a size 18. I usually wear a 16 but am clearly kidding myself. And it followed a ghastly day too – it was the cherry AND the icing on that particular poisoned cupcake. Shouldn’t shopping be fun?
It was utterly, utterly soul-destroying; I wanted to cry – and then eat chocolate and then cry a bit more, repeat, ad lib to fade... I ended up by saying “Well, let’s go and eat – you can do that at any size”. And that sums it up.
It really – brutally – rammed home, rubbed my nose in it, that I am a fat bird. It doesn’t matter that I am two stone lighter than my heaviest weight (and sadly, 2 stone heavier than my lightest – felt every ounce of that), it doesn’t matter how much running and cycling and walking I do or how many salads I eat or how many times I don’t have the chocolate or the cake or the sweets or whatever it is, I am fat, fat, fat. And my (lack of) progress means that I might never be anything else, no matter how hard I try.