Fat Chance

Well, here we are. Five weeks into 2021 and I think we can all agree that it’s really no better than 2020 was. This lockdown feels a little different too. Worse. Its winter. It’s cold, it’s shit, and this is seemingly never ending. I don’t seem to be bombarded by social media posts about Zoom quizzes, I’m yet to see a single banana bread on my Instagram feed and no one really seems to have taken up any self-improvement in order to fill our empty calendars. (You are going to tell me you’ve taken up crocheting and learned Mandarin aren’t you? Nice. Well, January has been all Bridgerton and biscuits for me. We are not the same.)

The lack of self-improvement at this time of year seems strange and probably just shows how jaded the pandemic has left us. Facebook in January is usually Janet from accounts starting Slimming World for the 47^th time, determined to keep it off for good this time (course you are love). Or your best mate starting couch to 5K and your cousin doing dry January (even though you know full well that come 5pm on a Friday, Samantha is chugging the vodka back like Russia is running out) But this year it all seems quite muted. Some people manage to do it and really stick to it and I admire them greatly. For others, it’s just another annual ride on the self-improvement train that usually lasts until (ironically) Lent, at best.

I have lost count of the times I have been a “New Year/New Me” W@nkr. I even wrote a blog post in January 2019, eulogising about how I was going to shift the weight for the last time but I was going to be kind to myself blah blah blah…. God, I make myself cringe. And here I am two years later, a stone heavier than I was then, and still feeling like rubbish about myself, having lost and gained another 30lb in that time.

I also wrote a blog post in June 2020 about how not being particularly pretty was a privilege and how I am grateful for being a plain Jane. I was two stone lighter. I wish I felt like that now. This post will come across as horribly fat phobic and, indeed, I am trying to come to terms with, and correct, my own prejudice. I look at famous fat people and think they are stunning – Ashley Graham, Tess Holliday, Lizzo to name but a few. Also, if it isn’t my body, it isn’t my business. But when I look at my fat body, I am assaulted by poor proportions, varicose veins and skin the colour of spam.

So, I should just do this “New Year New Me” stuff, right? It is incredibly difficult to explain the complexities of being fat and deeply unhappy with yourself to someone who hasn’t been in that position. It is not as simple as “don’t eat the donut, go for a run.” OK, so it is that simple. I’m not a total moron. Calories in/Calories out. I know. I have done everything. Slimming World, Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, calorie counting…. All of it. I’ve done it and I cannot do it again. I cannot face the step of shame. I cannot do another week of sitting round in a circle confessing that your kids did your head RIGHT IN, so you stood in the kitchen and smashed that entire box of obscenely expensive Godiva chocolates your boyfriend bought you for Christmas. I cannot listen to someone recount their food diary, reciting recipes that I’m supposed to take in via osmosis. No Susan, I cannot remember every single step of your bloody recipe so can you just say you’ll put it in the Facebook group please and we can all move on? I want to get out of here – the chippy closes at 8!!

I don’t want to be a victim here. No one has ever forced a box of Cadbury’s Roses down my gob or threatened to kill my dog if I didn’t eat 56 Big Macs. (I don’t have a dog for a start) But my weight has a huge impact on my life and it has been that same old vicious circle of emotional eating. As Fat Bastard once said “I’m unhappy because I eat, and I eat because I’m unhappy.” Funny cos it’s true, right? My weight has prevented me from going on nights out, from meeting old friends and has made me feel like I’m not good enough for relationships, including my current one.

I was 23 when I first dated my current boyfriend, shortly before he went travelling. I had lost a considerable amount of weight at that time and was around about three and a half stone lighter than I am now. We met up again in 2009 but I was a chubster once more. I remember feeling dread at seeing him. He would never find me attractive because I was so fat. We remained friends until we finally got together again last year, with me about two stone lighter than I am now.  I am convinced he will dump me any day because I am a porker. Only, the ridiculous thing is, way back in 2006, when I was a small size 12, I couldn’t believe he found me attractive. I still thought I was fat and in no way cool enough for my beautiful, long-haired indie boy. When we met up in 2009, we snogged, despite me being a whale, convinced he would never look at me. And now, in 2021, almost six months after getting together, I am really quite fat. Again. He doesn’t appear to have an issue with my gelatinous mess of a body. Nevertheless, I spend ages trying to find angles which hide my double chins when we FaceTime. It is easy to not be arsed about someone’s weight when you have only communicated via video call for the last month, though.

I guess the point I am making here is that, actually, my weight has never been an issue. Not for people who matter, anyway.  My weight is a manifestation of my insecurities and a total lack of self-respect. When I diet, it is because I am convinced I will be happy when I weigh ‘x’ amount. Like the number is the issue. I have been nine and a half stone and I have been 14 and a half stone and I have been miserable at both ends. I am a reasonably intelligent person. I know that numbers do not make you happy, unless you are Carol Vorderman, I imagine. But the thing that makes getting going with losing weight – be it for health or happiness – is caring enough about yourself to make a change. And for quite some time now, I haven’t.

I know it’s lockdown and we’ve all let ourselves go a little.  I haven’t blow dried or straightened my hair since before the clocks went back and my leg hair is so long, I could give it a curly blow. But being a bit of a scruff in your leggings and hoodie because there is nothing to go out for is one thing. Wearing leggings and hoodies because you feel grotesque and don’t want anyone to look at you is another. I relented a few weeks ago and bought size 18 jeans. Denial is futile. Denial means I can’t breathe and I play fat whack a mole, trying to tuck a new roll of fat in as another roll springs out.  I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to spend hours trying to hide my chins, dreading face time calls with my boyfriend because I hate seeing my own face. I don’t want the back ache and the sore knees and the breathlessness.

I do not know how to love yourself. I’m not going to tell anyone how to do that. I am not saying you are not worthy of love or cannot love yourself and be confident at any size. But I want to stop feeling the shame and that judgement that comes with being over-weight. I want to stop feeling like a failure and a let-down and hating myself because of my fat. Losing weight won’t solve all my ills and add to myself worth, unless I work on my self-esteem. However, if I am healthy and not fat, it is one less thing to worry about.  

I am always going to battle with my weight. I need to accept that. But I also need to do something about it to at least try and win the war. It just can’t be throwing more money at a Slimming Club (Jemma’s total slimming club spend to date: £56,786,345), in an industry based on failure.  So here I go again, New Year (Well, I turned 38 last week so it is kind of a new year), New Me. Let’s get crackin’ Gilbo. Shift the timber.