The New 'F' Word

We have been having this ongoing debate in a Whattsapp group dutifully named The Awesome Foursome. The debate always centers around the forcefully and rather emotionally charged use of the word 'fat'. I am talking the obese kind not the cool kind.


The conversation starts:

Me: OMG, she got fat
Friend 1: Why are you commenting on her body weight?
Friend 2: because she has?
Friend 3: LOL
Friend 1: maybe there is something else happening, you shouldn't judge her on her weight.

Now, I'll stop there, because reader you will lose faith in me as the post goes on. I have always championed women and the right to say what happens to their bodies, I am pro choice for abortion, because I feel, as women we reserve the right to know the limits of our emotional stability and physical well-being. I also feel that marriage isn't for everyone; that women can earn more than men, that women should have a life outside their significant others, and love is different for everyone: for some it's the simple breath of knowing someone is there at night, and others it's the constant reassurance.

I am not saying men have no place in our lives, far from it, they are the most undeniably interesting creatures I have met; the short, the stubby, the dumb, and the smart - it's fantastic. Yeah, ok, some of them haven't been the most diligent when it came to my feelings, but eh, nothing a good kick to the balls can't fix.

The world of women and the view of their bodies is as complex as chemical engineering; society has programmed us to gravitate to smaller and thinner, in all aspects, food portions included. However, I am not of the view that women should be judged on their bodies, but they should be judged on how they treat their bodies and the way they present themselves.

I am going to cause a hellish raucous chant here now. I commented on her weight because there is definitely something deeper going on. As a strong gender, we as women should have enough power to treat ourselves with respect; we certainly make a big hoo-ha when we want it from others?

I am probably talking from a corner that has just been deserted, but hear me out. I spent the greater half of three years demanding the respect I deserved from men, my family, my job; it wasn't until I demanded the same standard from myself that I found the groove.

So what was my thought process behind the fat comment? 

Sure, OK, I was grumpy, probably had a bad run, or the guy didn't call, sure, I could have said it better nicer. But she had got fat? Having been fatter, and uglier, I deserve the right to use the word that was thrown at me on a playground. Perhaps I shouldn't use it to describe others, and for that I apologise, women could do with less bashing each day. But why hasn't she said to herself: Why is this happening? I need to take control? Give myself the chance to be better? Eat cleaner?

Fat shouldn't describe the weight on her hips, it should be the word used for the lack of respect she has for her body. Health implications aside, because we all know where that leads. It also boils down to the way we shun from the word fat; we brag about "Last night I got so drunk" but never once have I heard around the office "I was so off my face on Cadburys bubbly last night"? Are we ashamed? Are we scared people will call us fat?  I am going to be brash here, but if you have to ask the question 'Do these pants make me look fat?' then you have your answer.  No, self respecting woman allows people to call her fat, she has done it herself, fully embodies it, and does something about it?

It was Caitlin Moran who said in How to be a Woman:

'I can't help but notice that in a society obsessed with fat – so eager in the appellation, so vocal in its disapproval – the only people who aren't talking about it are the only people whose business it really is’.

Why aren't we talking or shouting the word fat? Huh? Ladies... Why do we allow blame to be pointed at the food industry, the magazines, or at men? Perhaps a good run and a lettuce leaf is needed. Insecurity turns to blame. 

Take it from someone who has been there, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, I mean the good, strong, healthy skinny that wipes your brow and proves how hard you got to work for it. 

Be a fat bitch, be it on your own terms.

‘You saved yourself by running’ – Lood.

 

 

I started this blog to give me a sense of direction when it came to my body, my life, and my eating – ultimately anything that makes me feel, hear, or embody Run, Fat Bitch. I wanted this blog to cover topics that were real issues, recipes, even rants that we lifestyle-changers-binge-eaters-gym-goers-training-runners face every day; the mundane to the downright irritating.

My best friend, Lood, signed up for a gym contract two weeks ago; a short time in the grand scheme of lifestyle change, he is merely an embryo in his new journey. He loves it. Our conversations have stilted and shifted from penis sizes, wine labels, and relationship advice; to exercise routines, supplement advice and specific goal areas. We are those friends that now cease a conversation the moment we have laced up our shoes and head to our workout; it’s the silent rule ONLY CALL ME AT GYM WHEN YOU ARE DYING/OR ARE ABOUT TO DIE AT YOUR GYM – holding the same weighting system as ‘Never date my ex’. Simple as that.

So during one of these said conversations of in-depth routine comparisons, I mention that running saved me, and because he is my best friend, and the only man who can call me fat, he replies: ‘You saved yourself by running’

It’s almost poetic. It needed a blog post; one that rang stark annotations to the art of running, and being saved with each hard step shuddering up your body. Runners are hardly ever quiet about how great running is, how it saves, behaves, raves and extends us past our graves (see, what I did there). There are articles in abundance on how running has saved lives (see articles, here, here, and here).


After an amazing run (which are few and far between), I posted this on Facebook:

Q: “Kelly, why do you run?”

A: “I run because I can, not because I am good at it (because I am not). The 'run' doesn't care what my hair looks like up, down, straight or curly; or if my dress makes my ass look big or even asks my dress size; it never expects me to 'give it up' after dinner; nor does it hold grudges, or call me a bitch when it's moody; it doesn’t care if I wore the same pants twice that week; it never asks when I am getting married; or why I ate that chocolate brownie for lunch. The ‘run’ only cares if I turn up and run, be it slow or fast, long or short. I run because if there is one thing I can do right each day, is not disappoint myself and give up” #RunFatBitch. [sic]

It was a very emotional post, if I do say so myself. Yet, it’s true.

Running saved me from me. I faced my scariest moments while running, staring the hard truth to heartbreak in the face, that insurgent moment of clarification in something bigger than yourself. My day would be a calamity of broken disorder, but the run would somehow blend it to perfect sense; I became my own person. I went from feeling like the loneliest person in a crowded room, to a person who could strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger 8kms into a race.

The physical changes didn’t matter, because running completed me. I lost the cellulite on my thighs, my butt, do I need to keep harping on about my ass. Oh, it’s lucious. People. LUCIOUS. (Ok, moving on – swiftly at that). I made friends, training schedules, pushed pace, learnt when to pull back, and when to push through. I wish I could give ‘the run’ more credit. It has seen more tears than the Oprah finale. It’s heard profanities flung at it for no reason but for it being there. I have hugged it, not intentionally, as I hit the floor with a bang. I don’t even dress up for it. It doesn’t care what I earn, or if I still live at home. I barely have to impress with a light blush and flick of the hair.

I really could bluster on and on, and on, and on. It’s the one thing that truly does give me the credit and control all at once. It is mine, and I love it. It doesn’t always treat me well – just putting it out there. 

 

So if you are looking for that extra ‘gees’ go for a run, the rest will follow.

#Runfatbitch