I’ve always been an ‘are we nearly there yet?’ kinda gal.
When I was about 9 or 10, my dad took my brother and I to Devon. The summer was scorching, as it always is in childhood, the drive was a good 6 hours and air con hadn’t been invented yet. Well, it wasn’t standard in a white VW polo circa 1992. Maybe we went in the sky blue Nissan Sunny. I can’t recall. A lot of the detail bleeds into other memories as time passes and the lines become ever fainter. Either way, there wasn’t air con. It was fucking boiling and the argument over who sits in the front was won by the cool box. Mainly because it didn’t threaten anyone else with violence or whinge “it’s not faaaaaiiiiir.” (Do people still use cool boxes? I have no recollection of seeing one past 1998)
We stopped at a service station somewhere in the midlands. Although, it could have been as close to home as Warrington. And to be honest it could have been in Newton Abbot and this story could have happened on the way back up north. As I say, details-shmeetails. I’m perimenopausal. Brain fog.
My dad allowed us to purchase an enormous bucket of popcorn for the journey. We were bored fat kids. No devices because it was the 90s. Only a well worn cassette of Queen’s 1981 Greatest Hits album to entertain us. (To this day, if I hear Another One Bites The Dust and it isn’t followed by Killer Queen, I feel seriously discombobulated) So a giant bucket of popcorn was the next best thing to keep a pair of bored chubsters entertained. (I was chubbier than my brother, just for context, but now he is good looking, I am willing to bring him down with me. Remind him where comes from)
But even for us, 6 hours of popcorn munching failed to entertain and Fat Bottom Girls don’t make the rocking world go round quite so joyfully on the 45th play. Also, my dad had to break in concentration to turn the tape over. Remember when that was a thing?!
We hung our heads out of the window like dogs trying to catch some much needed cool air and entertain ourselves. I am not sure which one of us started it. I want to blame my brother. I always wanted to be the good girl but it is highly likely I was a little shit at times too so let’s just say it was me. In sheer boredom, I pinged pieces of popcorn out of the car window. Pop. Pop. Ping. Out onto the motorway.
“What the bloody hell was that!” My dad yelled as he was whacked in the head with a flying kernel of corn. I definitely hadn’t aimed it at his head. I wouldn’t be so stupid. I chucked another bit out of the window.
“Ow!!!” He exclaimed as he was hit again, clearly pissed off.
I did this a few more times. My brother and I chuckling away as we realised that, instead of being whisked away down the M6, the popcorn was caught in some kind of whirlwind that lashed it back into the car via the driver side window, pelting my dad in the ear/head. It was hilarious for us but not for him and the fun was killed when my usually mild mannered father became pretty irritated as he realised it was us. The funniest five minutes of a 6 hour journey. Then a loooooooong boring ride home, asking dolefully:
ARE WE NEARLY THERE YET?!
So, I have never had patience and have always tried to liven up a journey with some kind of reckless decision.
I’d say my decisions are marginally less reckless these days but I find long journeys incredibly difficult. And everything is a fucking ‘journey’ now thanks to Simon Cowell and X Factor.
I mentioned in a previous post that I am in my “healing era.” It’s going ok. I feel good. Good vibes. Zen AF. Namaste and all that shite. But one part of the journey that I am really struggling with is body image. No amount of chucking popcorn into a vortex on the M6 is providing relief.
“Ah you look gorgeous!” My work friend will say to me at least once a week. Usually, I don’t and I tell her so.
“My hair is greasy. I’ve had this top ages. It’s from vinted and cost £3 and it makes me look massive. Have you seen this massive spot on my chin? I’ve not had hormonal spots in ages but it’s erupted just before I have a date. This make up is too orange isn’t it? I look like a satsuma.”
She flares her nostrils and raises an eyebrow at me. “What have I told you? The correct answer is thank you.”
I get awkward and squirm and say thank you through gritted teeth.
My friend is amazing. Long blonde hair, brown eyes, tanned, slim, glamorous. She is perfect. How could she possibly look at me and think I look ok?
I can’t style my hair and I leave it months on end betweeen haircuts. Rick Parfitt eat your heart out. I can’t do make up either. My mum is 61 and always looks red carpet ready. I wonder how I am her daughter when I struggle with eyeliner.
The botox I got last year has worn off and I am back to having a face like a crumpled Gregg’s sausage roll wrapper. As for the rest of my body…
I am the colour of spam. My tits are shit. I mean really shit. Floppy and long and weird. I have a gross varicose vein in my right leg that I can’t bear to touch because it always feels lumpy and weirdly hot and, in moments of neurosis, I worry this means it will need to be amputated. (Is that a thing? Do varicose veins lead to amputation?? I am too scared to Google) I won’t wear a knee length dress without tights anymore because I don’t want anyone to see it and I wont wear sleeveless tops because I have keratosis pilaris on my arms. (Bring on the summer!) My stomach hangs over and I have an arse like the Pilsbury dough boy after he sat on a crumpet. When does it get easier to feel good about these things?
I do my daily affirmations. I follow loads of body positivity advocates on Insta – Alex Light, Laura Adlington, BodyPosiPanda, Lizzo. I read the books. I do the work but will I ever not want to be slimmer? Will I ever wear a swimming costume and not want to hide? Will I ever walk past a mirror and not want to throw up? Will I ever look at my friends and my family and celebrities and not wish I looked like them?
Now, I know comparison is the thief of joy. I know my internalised fat phobia is vile. I also know I am not hideous, like some monstrous Disney villain. My face is fairly average. Logically, I know my body image is ridiculous. My body has survived two healthy pregnancies, a miscarriage, seizures and 41 years of general abuse. I can walk and I can cuddle my babies and kiss people I regret ever meeting. I can overthink and remember daft things like almost causing a major pile up on the M6 by firing popcorn at my dad. I can see beautiful sights (with the assistance of Specsavers) and I can hear my own children bemoan “ARE WE THERE YET?!” when travelling 15 minutes to a play centre whilst I have a migraine. But I still struggle to accept my body as a thing of beauty.
How do I know the process is working? How do I get to the point where the thought of intimacy with another person doesn’t make me wince because I am revolting? How do I look at people of all shapes and sizes and think they are beautiful and also see that in myself?
Can someone please tell me AM I NEARLY THERE YET? Because I feel like I am stuck on the M62 at rush hour after a 10 car pile up. Please can you give me a map?Is body image just a journey and not a destination? Is it just a Utopia? Is recognising the insanity of how I perceive myself enough? Shall I just aim for accepting, not loving, how I look?
Answers on a postcard please! Give me anything, please!
Although, probably don’t give me a bucket full of popcorn on the M6. Just saying.
The Jeminist 