4 August - My First Fat Summer

Remember that movie ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’? Well, I have come to think of my mini break in Majorca as ‘My First Fat Summer’. Prior to now, despite various physical flaws, namely cellulite thighs, I have never had a problem donning a bikini. Surely, there’s always been plenty of babes on beaches that I could never measure up to, but I never have had the ‘Oh dear, time to wiggle out of the clothes and be naked’ fear. Hell, back in 2000 I scored the absolutely bestest/handsomest young man on the beach in Haad Rin. There may have been one or two toned Israeli soldiers on leave that gave him a run for his money but I think he was in the top 3. And he was, and will always be a decade younger than me.

But I digress. All this to say that it can go on record that August 2008 is when I finally thought, this is hopeless, this body of mine is just not responding to orders and instead of considering as my peer group the 30 somethings, I know only had eyes for the 50 and 60 somethings looking either fat and plump or fat and saggy or worse, skinny and saggy. This being the north posh side of Majorca, some of these women were ‘nice’. But the best remaining thing about them was probably their hair. How often has anyone walked behind a woman with lovely hair and thought she was 30, only for her to turn around and it’s your mum? When one is in a bikini, there is no such surprise, the body below the hair is what you see, an old body. Maybe I am weird but few things horrify me more than that sagging skin women (and men) get on their backs below their bra and on their waist viewed from the back, even the slim ones. Thank god for easy tanning skin is all I could think, at least I was not bloated and white, but merele a water retentive body in a soft, nice hue.

Clearly nobody else cared about me as much as I do. Toph’s standard reply is ‘You look great for your age, better than lots of women younger than you are’. Which is nice, but it’s besides the point. There may be an element of staving off return unspoken criticism in any case as he (and our host friends) also are no longer the shape they were ten years ago. By which I mean, if they’re nice and complimentary about me, I’m less likely to say ‘jeesus, can you do something about the manboobs and the pockets of fats that are growing on the side of your waist?’. I seem to have little patience for people who simply pick at the fat and vow to do something about it but then go grab another beer from the fridge.

But it’s true nobody seemed as tormented by these thoughts as me. Add to this my friend’s son who’s 11 and tall and perfectly tight inside his skin as a boy that age is, and I was pretty much having a Death in Venice moment every day. When we were sat drinking and eating our tapas one evening in the square and son was engaged in an impromptu game of football with a bunch of other kids around his age, I was practically ready to cry at a sort of ‘It’s all gone, gone, gone’ mood that took over. It seems most of my peers just drink another glass and eat some more and think it’s not worth the fight. Maybe there isn’t just the Tibetan Book of the Dead to read? Maybe if I searched on Amazon there would be an entire sub section to console me? I thought the TBOTD was about accepting death but perhaps it has handy chapters about accepting the 50 years prior death that you’re still living, but not in the package you liked?

I wonder if it’s much different for people who always had the hung ups? Do they notice less? After all when an ampler g/friend heard my concerns about the mini spare tyre she said she’s always had one so it’s not something she’s just had to notice now?

Anywway, before anyone says 'body dysmorphia' to me... I have checked the symptoms and to be honest I only have two: - Obsessive thoughts about perceived appearance defect. and - Compulsive skin-touching, especially to measure or feel the perceived defect. So am not depressed about all this yet, just annoyed, so no need to check with a head shrink yet. I'd rather spend the money on lipo dissolve or something... HA HA.

24 July - Is it a month?

I think it's just over a month since the middle age spread has poked its ugly fat through my normally taut skin. So I colllared a gym instructor who's seen me at her cardio/tone classes for a good year at least.

I ask her if there's anything specific I should do, given that my musclees underneath the belly flesh are pretty solid. She says no, that my core is indeed strong (she can see me doing the stuff) and that it's just the way it is. Well, no it isn't. She's smiling and sympathetic, but I can't help thinking that being under 30 she simply doesn't know how awful this all is. She's also a size bigger than me (though super toned) so she probably thinks, as they all do 'What have you got to worry about, you're thin'. But it's all relative.

And anyone out there who wants me to shut up about this, get in touch, donate the necessary £££ and am off to the lipo pronto. Am prepared to overcome my revulsion. In the meantime I'll have to go buy those reprehensible tab style weeklies that feature non stop pics of famous people unguarded and looking awful. Just saw Uma Thurman on the cover of one and boy that was ... bad. But am not interested in feeling less bad because it's a common problem. If that worked, all anyone would need when feeling an ugly moment is to whip out a picture of Donatella Versace, or Meg Matthews, and just feel better (money never fixed her, and she must has spent some).

Oh well. I can see how if I did have money and time on my hands, any quack out there could mint me by making me try all sort of potions and lotions and surgery...

28 March - Advice nobody wants

Ok it had to happen. I finally told a friend who’s overweight and self pitying about the world giving different rewards to beautiful and ugly people (not a good thought to hold even if you think it’s true), that it was time to tackle her ten year old problem of going up from size 8 to 14/16, instead of letting it ruin her self-esteem. And that as it was only a stone, stone and a half max, it was not a huge obstacle, could be done in a couple of months starting with a detox and/or a holiday in Thailand and that I was on hand to help and support and use all the tricks in the book – no booze, no bread, exercise mate, but that she probably had to commit some money to herself for the trip/some one to one training, some good stuff like powerplate or bootcamp pilates or some quick psycho or hypno-therapy to tackle the root of the problem ie. comfort eating and those vicious cycles of staying in a rut and suffering from mild depression.

Of course I said it nicely, choosing my words to express caring, not judgement. At the end of the day ‘(it’s night’, says my friend S. when she hears this cliché’) I don’t care how my friend looks, she’s my friend and her weight doesn’t affect me, but it affects her happiness and ultimately her health, and I thought she deserves to be happy and it all starts with small steps blah blah. I have several other friends of various ages who are overweight, four spring to mind immediately, but because they don’t ever express that it makes them miserable in any way (except the odd moan about not finding good clothes) I have never thought of commenting at all.

What do you think happened? She hasn’t spoken to me in nearly 3 weeks. Am still waiting. And I’ll wait. Have considered ringing to say ‘Oh come on!’ but would make it worse no doubt. Someone pointed out that as friends we’re required mostly to just listen and nod. That may be so, but it’s not and never will be my way. Or rather it is, for long periods of time and then I think ‘Let’s do something’. Shame.

A little later, work colleague announces ‘I’m so disgusted with myself, can’t fit into my clothes, that’s it, I have to lose some weight, diet next week, gym every day’. The one next to her says ‘Great, my husband is away for 2 weeks and I want to detox, I need to lose 5kg’. So I feel I have to join in as this is said towards me and I say ‘Cool by me, I can do with having healthier stuff, I need to lose 1kg round my thighs, look how tight my trousers are on my legs today’. They look at me and say ‘You don’t need it, you’re so tiny’. But I know best than to accept and agree. That would seem self-satisfied and smug, so I continue ‘Shall I just buy us a lot of fruit and veg next week, we could eat half a grapefruit before lunch to speed metabolism and bulk up on vegetables….’ One interrupts and says ‘No, I can’t do it quite so full on, I will just cut out some stuff like chocolate’, the other one says 'I can only do veggies with humous dips'. Liker er... humus doesn't contain a ton of oil and fat. I let it pass. I think it’s best if from now on I re-act the well tested man’s way which is NEVER, EVER to say anything and ignore any issues to do with food /weight as I had to stop myself there as was about to say ‘If you’re not serious about it then what’s the point?? What do you mean you won’t eat veggies and fruit by the truckload, how do you think the fat’s going to dilute and exit your body? How do you think avoiding pasta if you still have beers after work is going to make any difference?' Cleary, am hopeless. Shall stick to the blog.

9 April - Bikers & Dogs

Social experiments can be conducted very easily. Take the Londoners our of London and they panic a little bit. I convince Toph to go to Southend on bank holiday Monday because it’s the closest coast line to London and especially easy to reach from north east London. He really doesn’t want to go but I’m in no mood to compromise seeing as my other suggestion (to go cycling down the river to Greenwich or to Richmond) cannot be implemented as his bike needs a front brake that he hasn’t fixed yet. I have energy, I have zest and I am not staying in London for the 4th day in a row despite the fact it’s been great to catch up with a variety of friends and some European visitors. Funnily enough a Greenwich/Blackheath friend was doing a tour of places in London she doesn’t know: Upton Park, Portobello Rd, Golders Green – not all on same day.

“It will take just over an hour” I promise, and we set off at 10.00. On the way we notice lots of bikers and then a few signs pointing to the ‘Southend shakedown’. Hurrah, we shall have some entertainment laid out for us. I’m driving so Toph is free to read the Independent and regale me with more fisking opinions which he shares on the whole 90% with said writer, and with observations about the bikers who overtake us or I overtake. So sweet, all these bum cracks to look at … fat ones usually and the classic g/friend and b/riend - same costume combos, you know same helmet, same colour and pattern and brand jacket and so on. Oh and the funny ones who’ve gone and glued Mohicans or bunny rabbit ears to their helmet. Hours of fun! Toph doesn’t do bikes or football so this is a new breed we’re observing. One that we assume would not look out of place on the terraces. Sure, there must be chic people at matches (in fact we know a few) or at bikers shakedowns but the evidence here points to the contrary. Thankfully at least there’s no Posh look-alike on a Chanel bike or something…Toph seems to mainly notice the out of the ordinary bikes with some 4 times the width tyre or customised body or peculiar paint colour. He’s such a kid! Why do these ordinary Brits (by the look of them, I don’t see any continentals or Americans) buy so much into the skull and bone thingy? Ok maybe the Brits were the original pirates but all the Hells’ Angels stuff is … just alien. Thank god not too many have adopted the ZZ Tops facial hair, but the overabundance of tatts is worrisome.

Until… we get there and see that the locals are far, far scarier. I was sort of expecting WAGs but it's total chav. And I thought they'd be exaggerating on TV.
As we park the car in a back street we see the following combo, skinny feral bloke with Burberry chav baseball cap, young fat girl with Vicky pollard hair and pram, other teenage girlie with white trackie bottoms and pink vest and dog of the regulation bulldog breed. I am not making this up for the sake of the story. Oh no. this is what we saw when we parked. Suddenly our Indian fabric bag was a unique fashion statement (and believe me I do know that no self respecting real Indian would go around with such bag, it’s a ‘I’ve been to India and I didn’t have enough containers for what I brought bag and so I bought this and I never really use it as it’s naff but it’s a good size to carry a towel and a few newspapers and books to the beach’.

The back streets are empty. The main drag is absolutely awash with bikes revving up slowly. More bikes are parked on the pavements and owners having a drink with friends or alone… waiting for someone to admire their machines. The scene is a sublimation of owners’ ugliness into bikes’ beauty. They are gleaming, you can eat off the engine I’ ashamed of the state of my cycle at home. Always muddy, always dirty. ‘But there’s the beach’ I thrill gaily. The beach is ‘awful’ says Toph. I don’t think so, I think it’s nice long stretch. He won’t have it. I think coffee is in order but where? Eventually a little oasis appears, a caff shunned by the bikers and with a sign promising cappuccinos. But there is no coffee in it. Or maybe Nescafe. Toph points to the coffee grains to be ground on top of the machine. I refrain from asking if they’re there just on show. Repeat there is no coffee in it. The fish and chips is good, the tea is bad, the rampant obesity surrounding us makes us feel frail and stick like. If this mob surges, we’re dead.

But thankfully we have a mission: to walk the longest pier in Europe, a full mile of it. It’s am ugly pier so it doesn’t make sense to me till I get to the platform at the end and turning around you can see miles of coastline. On the left of the pier rests the nice part of town with a few of the original Georgian terraces and a new shopping centre, am sure that one has a Costa coffee. Not that I like chains but one is allowed by Ms Taylor’s town and country planners. It has to be said that Thames estuary way the view is not all that much: a power station of some kind is blotting the landscape and some commercial vessels. Not a pretty boat in sight.
Toph is on the phone to his mother. “It’s hideous!” he tells her. Well, he did escape from Salford so this is close to home, spiritually. I have more exotic beginnings surrounded by medieval palaces and castles so this is not scary to me as in ‘it could capture me back, I could end up my days where I began and had escaped from aaarrrgghhhhhh!. So I agree that we can leave.

Driving home, there are hardly any bikers on the road to distract us from the ugliness of the housing flanking the A12. Yes, only Eastern Europe looks worse than this. I have to acknowledge it. Once we pass Walthamstow, even Holloway rd looks ok, the people we previously thought badly of, seem paragons of stylishness and composure thought the dogs are out in force here to. Compared to what we’ve witnessed, even Queen’s Park is fine. “The Salusbury is over there’ points Toph with a degree of ‘Am safe, there’s a good gastro pub there’ in his voice. Never mind he never goes to the Salusbury ‘cause I think it’s an impostor. .
We reach M’s house exhausted by what we’ve seen (bear in mind I subjected Toph to the Gilbert & George at the Tate the day before and he’s seen enough to damage is retina, he hates them). The garden is full of kiddies at the tail end of her barbecue. They have lovely faces and no hint they’ll grow up obese. They have some of those new wave wooden bicycles with no pedals so you have to walk everywhere with them, pushing yourself off and away. But who’s to know. They may rebel to the edamame beans one day. But London it is. H. tells me a story about her niece wanting a goodie bag before she went home from H’s son’s b’day. H. hastily concocted one by taking a few odd things out of drawers and putting them in a carrier bag and sent her on her merry way. Am sure in Southend they get plasma screens in their goodie bags.

12 March - Sizes & Bigger Sizes

New woman joins us temporarily at work. So we have a Philadelphia (cheese) moment talking about her impending wedding in August. And looking at the engagement ring. Bit small and insignificant if you ask me but she says she wanted something unflashy. Oh dear, I must be up there with Puff Daddy on the subject of bling. Never mind. Only earlier another colleague asked me a propos one who was standing next to her ‘How much weight do you think D could lose?’
The look of horror on my face as having to be put on the spot like this meant she elaborates ‘D says she wants to lose 20kg, it’s too much surely, how much is that in pounds anyway?’ Whilst I register all this and think that 15kg she could easily shed from her tall frame, I say, as ever, and this is a good trick, that I prefer to talk sizes, so I say ‘Er D, what size are you? A 12? (I always make it one size smaller than they are anyway, which is also a good solution to not getting them to hate you forever). There is a brief smile and D says ‘No, a 14 creeping up to 16’.
So, kindly, as if speaking to a patient I say ‘But you were not always a 14 right, what were you last year?’ - didn’t know her then but it’s also always a good ploy. She answers she’d gone down to a 10 for her wedding last Sept. ‘There you go,’ I soothe, ‘that’s 2 sizes to go, but you could aim for one less, just set a goal of size 12, that’s not too difficult to achieve, you eat well and you exercise, so I can only assume it’s the booze? Do you drink with every meal…?
She says not much (dead giveaway that she does), but that when she does, when she’s out, she really goes for it. Yes, can vouch for that, the few times we've been out together after work. Yes, damage done, I think smugly as I definitely don’t do that and feel sick just looking at women downing pints of beer or wine. Nobody ever seems to correlate the contents to a bag of sugar. Thankfully someone else who wants something ‘now’ comes to interrupt this potentially ruinous exchange and when he’s gone, we don’t resume the conversation. Phew!
As the resident size 8 (one of 3 similarly built vs. 5 x size 14 to 16 and an 18 around me, I feel the pressure. If I had a fiver for each time someone says ‘but you’re so skinny!’ or a fiver for each time I refrain from saying ‘Yes, believe me it’s hard not to eat pains of chocolat each day, followed by a bap sandwich and crisps and cola, but you know the two are correlated to getting to your size! Oh and by the way, if you never exercise, forget it’ I’d be rich. Thing is, even the v. happy, v. sorted, v. regular shagged by boyfriend size 18, brings out her old photo from 2 years ago when she was a stone lighter and begs me to look at how she was… I mumble something about ‘You’re just not happy here, go on holiday, change job, it will all fall off you’.
I don’t know… me, something I don’t like, I try to change it. Can’t be that difficult? Or rather, I know that it is folks, but allow me to occasionally rant as it's frikkin' hard work staying PC around so many people with weight issues. And if this pisses you off, let me make it even worse by saying 'Don't go into Topshop and moan you can't find anything if you're a size 14, stick to other shops, they do exist'. I was called 'large' once in a shop in Tokyo and couldn't find a skirt that fitted in Thailand so I realise the frustration, but it's not their fault.