The other day I was watching ANTM and almost had an aneurysm when a British size 12 was referred to as plus size. What alarmed me most was that at a British 10, I’m only a few inches away from being plus size, if Tyra be believed. Actually, I can bet my lungs (and they are very precious to me) that if I went on the show, I’d be flung, without question, in the plus size camp.
The definition of fat is subjective but regardless of your personal benchmark for measuring fat, I’m convinced that the average human being does not want to be regarded as fat. Don’t even try and deny it, I’m not listening!☻
It’s stupendously easy to gain weight. The worst thing about it is you don’t really realise when it’s happening and when you eventually do, your mind decides denial is the way forward.
‘It’s not that bad.’
On the day of reckoning, when your mind can fool you no longer, you wake up and it hits you like a ton of bricks. YOU ARE OFFICIALLY FAT!
I’ve been there.
Once upon a time, I discovered KFC. Colonel’s Meal. £1.99. £2.09 if you throw in a pot of barbeque sauce . It was love at first taste. I ate it (and a few donuts here and there) every day for the best part of a year and slowly but surely, my cheeks started to inflate.
‘See your cheeks!’ my mother would exclaim.
‘Whatever,’ I’d relpy, ‘it’s evidence of good living!’
‘See your ikebe!’
‘Yeah yeah. Like big booties don’t run in the family.’
My brothers started calling me Fatima. I wasn’t amused. Not in the slightest. I ignored them though. It was just something else to add to their long list of ‘Ways to Wind MEE Up.’
The day of reckoning came one morning when I was getting ready to go to my A-Level Statistics class. I had a pair of size 14 jeans my mum had insisted on buying me months before. Apparently I would ‘grow into it.’
Yah. If you say so mummy. *rolls eyes*
That fateful morning, for reasons I cannot remember, I decided to try it on.
I put one leg in and then the other. I pulled it up. It wouldn’t go past my hips.
Did I wash these jeans? How come they’ve shrunk?
I tugged and tugged and finally, the waistband aligned itself with my waist. I couldn’t button it though. There was no amount of tummy sucking that would make the button and button hole meet.
‘Mummy o, enemy of lepa. There is power in the tongue!!!’
I yanked it off, donned my tracks and a t-shirt and headed straight to the gym to sign up. I went to that gym seven days a week. Twice a day if I could manage it. One day one of the trainers called me to a meeting room.
‘We’ve noticed you’re in the gym for long periods everyday. Twice a day sometimes. You need to slow down or you’ll hurt yourself.’
I looked at his six pack and toned arms and thighs.
HISS. I returned to the treadmill.
Three months later I tried on that pair of jeans again. I buttoned it and watched it slide down my hips, forming a pool of denim at my feet.
‘Now that’s what I’m talking about!’