Skip to main content

A Fat Inheritance

Tonight I am getting dressed for dinner. It's the 8th anniversary of the day The Prince and I got married. And I know it sounds like a bore, but I can't find anything to wear.

I have always had a body image problem. Always. Even when I weighed practically nothing. And I don't anymore. And so I sit here and see the pear shape at the back, and the arms soft, and my stomach not allowing my skirt to sit on my hips where I want it to sit. And I just don't feel like me.

And that's not the worst part.

The worst part is I am raising a daughter. A beautiful, proportioned daughter who hears her mother get angrier and angrier because she can't find anything to wear. Now, I'm not stupid enough to use the word 'fat' around her. But it doesn't matter. She's bright enough to see what's going on with me. That I hate my body. Because it doesn't look the way I want it to. No. Because it doesn't feel the way I want it to.

I miss my toned arms. I miss my stomach -- the one that could hold V shapes in pilates for minutes on end. I miss my shoulders. I miss my back -- nuanced with tiny muscles. I miss feeling strong. I miss feeling like me.

So this may sound like the opposite of what I should do, but I am tonight getting back on the scale and going on a diet. Not a diet, diet. A diet in the way I used to be before I found it very easy to complain I did not have the time to anymore. This is a diet where I exercise (yes, in my own home does count Mr. Prince). This is a diet where I don't eat the left-overs from the Rabbit's plate. Where I know that coffee is not a sustainable liquid.

I suppose it would be easier for me to just accept the way I am and teach her to be happy with herself. But I am not comfortable in this body. I just don't feel like me. And I feel what I should teach her is that however you are, if you are comfortable with yourself, that's fine. And how anyone else is, if they are comfortable, that's fine too.

But I don't want the Rabbit to inherit my poor image of myself. And I think the way that starts is by making it okay to make myself me again.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …