First things first, a disclaimer of sorts: Please don't leave this blog thinking that my weight loss venture had anything to do with finding a man, or anything to do with a man other than the fact that I had to prove my father wrong on shapely calves.
No one should HAVE to lose weight for any other reason than for his or herself, and if you are, then you’ll never you succeed. Stop. Now.
I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I love my ass. My ass went from being a site big enough to host a family to a semi-tight, somewhat flabby and round butt. I won't go as far to say that Beyoncé better step back, but there's a good handful, well a good two hands full, of booty there. It's the saving grace when I need to distract myself from my boobs, who by the way, decided to jump ship in the first 10kgs.
Three years ago, you'd have walked right past me. That's if you hadn't caught my over-compensating-joke or too-loud laugh, because fat people have to be happy, right? But, that's another topic for another blog post.
But 53kgs later, I have a runner's butt, no cellulite and boney shoulders (I still gots the hips my mamma gave me), and men do notice. Perhaps they notice a little too much of me when I walk past. This isn't a post berating men and their seemingly irritating dislike for chunky women - a clichéd remark for very ignorant women since there are men who love meat on bones, but we won't go there.
The better half of three years, a train wreck of a Kelly (waves hands in air, ‘Here I am’) tried hard to find her confidence; tripping over the Mr too-insecure, getting bitten by what my friend Dineo calls 'Fuck boys', the father-of-three-kids, and the ones that restored my faith in the male gender. Train wreck to say the least, but I can only blame the naivety of myself and the constant back and forth battle with my insecurities that led me to such horrendous relationships.
I have no shame in saying that I have had bathroom visits that lasted longer than relationships I have had - it's sad and it's horrible; perhaps even, discouraging.
Now I find myself in that post-life change limbo, where men like the feel of my body, that is until my top comes off. It seems that after 53kgs of weight loss one doesn't automatically look like a Cosmo cover mount.
It's all sagging skin, rippled-snaked stretch marks that river over my belly, parts that wobble hello in greeting and have I mentioned my lack of breasts? The meaty round lumps of lust when in a wonderbra changes instantly to strips of streaky bacon when said bra comes off?
I am too hard in myself - sometimes I know that - but it's what I do.
But I look at this body, bacon strip boobs and silvered stretch marks, and I love it. Oh god, I do. It's mine.
It's testament to the journey that proved me wrong every time I gave up and stopped running or chose the brownie. This is a tough act to follow any man. It's daunting and god-help me, powerful as all hell. I can't expect anyone to understand what I love most about the sagging lump on my abdomen I named 'Ike'.
So it's this sense of self accomplishment that makes dating incredibly daunting for me, I feel I am ready (all that bullshit, you are supposed to feel when asking the universe for something new). I can't exactly read this post on a first date? Or can I? Does one say: “Hi, I am Kelly, I used to be fat, now I am not, my tits are fake in this bra? Should I try the steak...?”
People love hearing the 53kg weight loss story of success it inspires them and I am glad, but do they understand that I won't look like a porn star in bed, I won't eat pizza late at night, I'll pass on drinking binges because I am detoxing, and I would opt for a run over a movie any day. Are they prepared for the frustrating vigils on the scale every Saturday, early weekend morning runs, the stubbornness of counting calories and the incessant insomnia.
No one should HAVE to lose weight for any other reason than for his or herself, and if you are, then you’ll never you succeed. Stop. Now.
I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I love my ass. My ass went from being a site big enough to host a family to a semi-tight, somewhat flabby and round butt. I won't go as far to say that Beyoncé better step back, but there's a good handful, well a good two hands full, of booty there. It's the saving grace when I need to distract myself from my boobs, who by the way, decided to jump ship in the first 10kgs.
Three years ago, you'd have walked right past me. That's if you hadn't caught my over-compensating-joke or too-loud laugh, because fat people have to be happy, right? But, that's another topic for another blog post.
But 53kgs later, I have a runner's butt, no cellulite and boney shoulders (I still gots the hips my mamma gave me), and men do notice. Perhaps they notice a little too much of me when I walk past. This isn't a post berating men and their seemingly irritating dislike for chunky women - a clichéd remark for very ignorant women since there are men who love meat on bones, but we won't go there.
The better half of three years, a train wreck of a Kelly (waves hands in air, ‘Here I am’) tried hard to find her confidence; tripping over the Mr too-insecure, getting bitten by what my friend Dineo calls 'Fuck boys', the father-of-three-kids, and the ones that restored my faith in the male gender. Train wreck to say the least, but I can only blame the naivety of myself and the constant back and forth battle with my insecurities that led me to such horrendous relationships.
I have no shame in saying that I have had bathroom visits that lasted longer than relationships I have had - it's sad and it's horrible; perhaps even, discouraging.
Now I find myself in that post-life change limbo, where men like the feel of my body, that is until my top comes off. It seems that after 53kgs of weight loss one doesn't automatically look like a Cosmo cover mount.
It's all sagging skin, rippled-snaked stretch marks that river over my belly, parts that wobble hello in greeting and have I mentioned my lack of breasts? The meaty round lumps of lust when in a wonderbra changes instantly to strips of streaky bacon when said bra comes off?
I am too hard in myself - sometimes I know that - but it's what I do.
But I look at this body, bacon strip boobs and silvered stretch marks, and I love it. Oh god, I do. It's mine.
It's testament to the journey that proved me wrong every time I gave up and stopped running or chose the brownie. This is a tough act to follow any man. It's daunting and god-help me, powerful as all hell. I can't expect anyone to understand what I love most about the sagging lump on my abdomen I named 'Ike'.
So it's this sense of self accomplishment that makes dating incredibly daunting for me, I feel I am ready (all that bullshit, you are supposed to feel when asking the universe for something new). I can't exactly read this post on a first date? Or can I? Does one say: “Hi, I am Kelly, I used to be fat, now I am not, my tits are fake in this bra? Should I try the steak...?”
People love hearing the 53kg weight loss story of success it inspires them and I am glad, but do they understand that I won't look like a porn star in bed, I won't eat pizza late at night, I'll pass on drinking binges because I am detoxing, and I would opt for a run over a movie any day. Are they prepared for the frustrating vigils on the scale every Saturday, early weekend morning runs, the stubbornness of counting calories and the incessant insomnia.
Surely a girl like me can have detox dates?
