That’s me, Fatty and Skinny.
I used to be quite small and now, all of a sudden, I am fat.
I look in the mirror and I still see me, the small me, I look no different at all. If I turn sideways, there are definite rolls but when I squint and avert my eyes, they disappear. So visually, I am the same.
Last night my Christmas dress was delivered. I was blase about the fit, I had ordered one in a size larger than I thought I needed because I know posh dresses can be less-than-generous in the cut of their gib, so when I went to try it on, not to check the fit but to see how I looked (fabulous, I imagined), I was mentally unprepared for the following:
I could not do the dress up.
Not even nearly.
There were acres of space between each side of the zipper! It was like I was trying to fit two of me inside the blasted dress. I went downstairs to enlist the opinion of Jonny. He gallantly (and very courageously I thought), took a purposeful hold of the dress (with me still inside) and yanked the two opposing sides of boned material towards each other. My ribs creaked unwillingly and I let out a scream, but despite Jonnys vice like grip and determined grimace, we were unsuccessful.
I let the dress slither to the floor like a shriveled and discarded old skin where I hoped the dog would find it and turn it into a make-shift bed.
Then I went upstairs to wrestle with self-loathing.
I briefly fantasised about getting up at 5am everyday between now and Christmas and sprinting up and down the lane. I imagined I would not not eat for two weeks and get sprayed a serious shade of orange (I’m convinced orange people look thinner). Due to my inherent laziness when it comes to exercise (I like skiing and horse-riding and absolutely nothing else), this fantasy will not turn into reality. But thinking about it, imagining I am capable of such feats, will make me feel slightly fitter.
So what’s a girl to do? I have no psychological issue with buying bigger clothes (a financial one maybe), but unfortunately I am now a square with two legs sticking out. And they’re fat too. My wellies are actually tight. Tight! A couple of years ago I had to buy socks to wear with them to fill the gap between calf and boot because they made such an obscene slapping noise whilst I walked that my friend was getting an erection. Now I lose sensation in my ankles within two minutes of forcing my trotters inside the Hunters. My thighs rub together (hello talcum powder), my underarm boobs have merged with each round the back (wtf?) and my chin has joined my chest.
No clothes are made for this predicament. Skinny jeans (utterly ridiculous, what happened to the boot-cut, or even better, the ruddy big flare?) pinch, dresses don’t fit (see above) and onsies give me a camel-toe. It is out of season for tent-buying and so I am ridiculously grateful that this year it is de-rigueur to wear a novelty Christmas jumper. I will be searching for a knee-length one!