There really aren’t many F-words that scare me. Bring them all on:
Even:
doesn’t get me down. And yes, that is a real word, because the dictionary says so. And as soon as I figure out how to pronounce it as quickly and easily as “wheelbarrow” or “marmalade” I’m going to start using it ALL THE TIME. And I will floccinaucinihilipilificate anyone who doesn’t know what it means.
But back to the point at hand. There is one F-Word that scares the doughnut right out of my hand…
And before anyone starts ranting and raving that someone who’s average-sized isn’t allowed to bitch about getting fat – that is just one part of my love-handle-tingling fear. Apparently it’s not PC to tell people that you hate how FAT you’re getting unless you are already obese. That’s bullshit. It’s also not PC to call people FAT, even if they are and they know it, and everyone around them knows it too. Calling someone fat when they are isn’t an insult, it’s a statement of fact.
But it’s not nice to describe someone as “the fat one”, even if everyone else is thinking it too. It might hurt their fat feelings (sorry if you’re reading this and I just hurt your fat feelings). I never really mean “fat” as an insult, just an observation, just a descriptor. If you’re fat and happy with it, that is AWESOME. And I don’t care. I just think it’s scary as all hell.
Personally, I am finding the worst part of being on the bad side of 25 that my thighs seem to be acquiring a peculiar desire for growth. Nothing has changed. I’m not eating more, or less, or worse (the opposite, in fact, thanks to my organically-minded Unicorn), I’m not exercising less (as some of you know, Mary Warren does not RUN), I’m even getting around to a yoga class every now and again. But my thighs decided that they would not go along with my good intentions. They will not be constrained to those cool black skinny jeans I bought last year. They will not go back to being 15. (Remember being 15? Before your hips had ever heard of the term “child-bearing”…?) So this poses a bit of a problem. See, I like my lifestyle. I don’t think there are any issues with my diet. I’m only going to be on this earth once (I think) and I want to eat something really, really good once in a while. I hate exercise. It makes me feel LESS alive, not more so. I would really like to carry on with sex being my primary source of cardiovascular exercise (okay, I’ll have more of it and even out that slice of carrot cake I just had – fair, right? Then I can have my cake and eat it too…or something to that effect). So if I don’t want to change what I do and what I eat, I guess I should just come to terms with the fact that I am going to slowly expand into an altered, plus-size version of myself.
But I can’t just docilely accept that! Acceptance brings with it horrible things like having to buy a whole new wardrobe and throwing out that skirt I’ve had since I was in high school. It would mean no longer wearing shorts to music festivals or donning a bikini at appropriate occasions. I would stop loving nakedly roaming the house and buying cute lingerie as a surprise. It would lead to me becoming a food-addicted hermit living with a hundred cats and slowly getting more and more…blobbish.
Screw that. As much as I like my lifestyle, I like my life a little bit better. So my first mission is to start doing a job that does not bore the living shit (and desire to be a size 32) out of me. I am going to stop sitting at a desk all day where I need to occupy myself with slowly decimating the contents of my lunchbox. I want to be so pleasurably busy that 3 o’clock rolls around with a grumbling tummy because I had no time to eat. I want to be forced to pound power smoothies because you can drink and do anything (it’s the ultimate multi-tasking tool).
Also, I am going to make my dogs exercise me. I now live next to a river and I will walk there. In the daylight. When other people are walking there too. With two big dogs. (This is Joburg, after all.) And I will DO MORE YOGA. I will meditate myself thinner. Hey, don’t say it’s impossible without any concrete evidence! My VintageStrawberryBlondGirl looks like a completely different person from all the yoga she’s been doing. Okay, so that also entails a weekly regime of 12hours+ of intense physical exertion, but they meditate a lot too, and I’m pretty sure that’s the key.
And in the meantime, I am not going to bitch about my spreading cellulite or my flabby thighs anymore (except for this gratuitous post, of course) and I am going to play by the “think it into existence” approach. Because if I don’t admit to getting fat, it’s not true, right? Yeah, until I pass a mirror and accidentally look at myself again…
But when I do start to admit that I have reached the point of official fatness, I am going to call myself just that. FAT. And you should too. It is what it is, man.
Here’s a bit of humour from someone who agrees with me: God Damned Tubby Young People
ChameleonGiraffe's Blog 