fashion

First World Problems: Confessions of a Failing Fatophobe

measuring tape

Be honest. Wouldn’t all of us on occasion like to be transported back in time to meet up with our younger self and just give her/him a good slap?

Now, before you spam my blog with warnings and lectures, I am not advocating violence or self-harm any more than I would advocate ACTUAL time travel, were that possible. We all know what would happen if we were to mess with quantum physics and the space/time continuum. We are talking metaphorically here, people. Bear with.

Great Scott!

I said to my daughter recently, “You know, I never really worried much about my weight until I got into my 30’s…” She just laughed and levelled me with one of those, “Come on, let’s be HONEST” looks and said, “Mum. You have ALWAYS worried about your weight.”

And then I thought about it. Yep. She was right.

Cruising through high school at a cool 112 pounds (8 stone), I felt fat. All my friends were wearing 28″ Levis… why oh WHY did I have to wear 30s? (First World Problems!) In college when I gained the obligatory “freshman 15” – basically the stone you gain in your first year at Uni – I was horrified. Well, not horrified enough to give up frat house beer or late night Dominoes, but standing in dance class in my shiny red leotard looking like a bottle-bummed spider next to the ballet majors? Yeah, I was bothered. Why was I wearing shiny red spandex? Hey, it was the 80s. Everything was shiny back when Spandex was the new black.

In my sophomore year at Uni, 2 things conspired to help me slim down: 1.) Rooming with one of the tiniest people you are ever likely to meet in your life, a size-0, Polly Pocket human beside whom I was positively Amazonian, a feeling that certainly worked to curb my more-than-healthy appetite for KFC and Pizza Hut, and 2.) a tonsillectomy and repeat throat surgery that reduced all my dietary intake to liquids for about 6 weeks. I’m not sure I would recommend the latter as a weight loss method, but hey, it worked for me!

Jazzercise

Good thing I still had my red Spandex suit in 1990!

As a young mum of 2 in my early 20s, the flavour of the week was Jazzercise. My children still shudder at the thought of the windowless crèche I callously thrust them into 3 times a week while I sweated to Madonna, M.C. Hammer and Tone Loc. (MAN, I miss the 80s…Funky Cold Medina, baby!) I attended so regularly, I was made class registrar and ended up getting my classes free. Woohoo! The teacher’s pet in me was oh-so-pleased; my children were somewhat less impressed.

Still, I would look in the mirror, all 126 pounds of me (9 stone), and felt I was rather on the fluffy side still. Why, oh WHY was I so big?

P-LEASE!!! Spare me the whining, sister!

Come to think of it, the day I gave birth to my first child, I was crestfallen when the nurse weighed me in at a whopping — yes, First-World ridiculous — an ENORMOUS 150 lb (10 st 10)!!! Seriously? Seriously. Cry me a river, babycakes. I haven’t seen 10 stone in nearly a decade! Hence my rant about wanting to have some stern words (you will note no reference to slapping) with the younger, more stupid me. She had absolutely no idea how blessed she was at the time. None whatsoever. She WASTED all that thin time feeling fat.

Having said all this, after years yo-yoing in a 40lb range up and down the scale, initially succeeding but in the long run failing at pretty much every diet out there once I returned to eating/drinking my old self-indulgent way, it should come as no surprise that I have embarked on yet another weight-loss journey. This time, on a low carb diet, the enemy is anything white, apart from perhaps cauliflower, which may be consumed only in moderation. sigh.

Nooooooooo…. not my pancaaaaaaakessssss

Honestly, over the last 3 decades I am pretty sure I have lost at least my body weight a couple of times over. I should, in theory, be microscopic; a black hole exerting some mysterious gravitational pull on my surrounding universe. But again… let’s be honest. If that were indeed the case, it would only be a matter of time before a plate of pancakes or a pint of beer got drawn into my gravitational field and spoiled it all anyway. So why not just be happy as I am?

Carpe diem, everybody!

Your Fluffy Friend,

Mother Hen

© motherhendiaries 2014 all rights reserved

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