See, here's the thing. I can't work out WHY I am hating myself at this weight so much. The very fact I am experiencing self-loathing for the very first time, at 44 is weird.
At school, I was the odd girl out. I was the only one that DIDN'T have an eating disorder. I managed to avoid the teen age angst of yo-yo diets and Israeli Army lunch boxes. I ate whatever I pleased and stayed the same size (9st 2oz).
Then I had my children. And over the course of 5 years, I doubled my weight. But I had discovered feminism by that stage, and so the weight gain bothered me on a health level, but certainly NEVER on a physical "I repulse myself/ I am not attractive/ my husband won't like me" level.
My husband at the time actually DIDN'T like me, but that a whole 'nother post!
I gave up the 2 a night wine, and cut out sugar in my coffee and within months, was at a healthy weight range (AUS size 12), which I maintained with no effort until the day my daughter started high school. I was wearing her size 12 jeans that day.
That was years ago. And in the interim, I've been divorced, re-married, turned 30.. turned 40. I navigated my daughter through her own minefield of adolescence and PCOS. And yes, my weight has fluctuated but never once did I experience anything like the self hatred I am going through at the moment.
I AM PHYSICALLY DISGUSTED WITH MY BODY.
I feel like I went to bed some time last October (the month I gave up smoking) and woke up being anally probed by fat-firing alien gamma beams.
No matter what I eat, I continue to put on weight. I can feel myself physically spreading before mein very eyes.
This is not just middle-aged spread, or a bit of a muffin-top. This is hard core McValue Upsize Supersize Mc Muffin Muffin Top (Royale, with Cheese)
I can no longer fit into most of my clothes, and went on a week long crying jag over Summer, when I realised that I simply HAD to buy a pair of elastic waisted pants.
Come on.. this is me.. PG.. Self-esteem Girl... the one all my friends look up to BECAUSE I REALLY DON"T CARE about my weight... crying like Tammy Fae Bakker over the numerals one and eight.
When I wear low waisted jeans I look like a warfie, or a garbo. And when I wear higher waisted work pants, I develop this weird double-bulge. Like twee English villages, I have named them Upper Pork-Gut and Lower Pube Porch.
Anapurna I and II are currently residing in my hideous new bra, fashioned by ex- Nazi industrial engineers. I refer to it as the Spandex Monster, and it makes me feel about as sexy as an outbreak of smallpox.
And the other symptom that I am noticing, is the fatter and more repulsive I get, the more I crave crap.
While the above lo fat dish is sitting in my 'fridge, I am fighting the urge to slam my face into the tub of leftover Pizza Hut Oven Baked Creamy Pasta that some pillock has left in the 'fridge.
Seriously, I had this reaction after Furry's heart attack. While he was lying in the cardiac ward, I had craving after craving for KFC. And this time, it's the same. The fatter I get, the harder it is to resist racing out and buying a Chicko Roll.
I will NOT go back to smoking. But any head way I have made, health-wise, by giving up the fags, has been eaten up by this massive and continuous and UNEXPLAINED weight gain.
I look like the love child of Jabba the Hut and Demis Roussos.
I'm on Fat Highway, heading North.
And, for the first time ever, I feel like the fat chick at the school dance.
And I am certain that everyone is looking. And sniggering.
I fucking hate it.
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