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.

The First 53 Dates/Kilos...

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.

Surely a girl like me can have detox dates?

Don't school me in eating...

 

 

 

I have a few pet peeves when it comes to healthy living, some involve the selfishness of gym goers (machines and all), some involve the skinny girls calling themselves fat, most of it involves the stupid line “I just forgot to eat” – yeah, I forgot you’re a dumbass; and the rest involves food.

It really isn’t the food that pisses me off; I love food, if I could take food to Vegas and marry the crap-out of it I would. The world would be a better place if we all just had enough food to go around. What does piss me off is when I am told what to eat – I found this out very quickly when I started to change my habits, that and my gluten intolerance. I hate being held to a register of what-nots and have-nots of food. So when the grace of Diet-God bestowed upon me my fantastic dietician whose savoured line is: Rather be Fat and Fit than Thin and Unfit. A mantra of fully-fledged responsibility of what you put in your mouth as a fat bitch, and walk out as a skinny monk.

I really don’t take my eating seriously; in fact, I must be the world’s worst eater. So I never hand out advice like slaps in the face – the world can do without being bossed around for ten minutes more. Let’s get back to my pet peeve, imagine this: You’ve just started a healthy-living lifestyle, you’ve found your groove its working wonders – I commend you for this, I really do. So once you’ve found your groove don’t, I repeat, DO NOT sit and yabber on excuses about my eating habits. I found my groove, so back off bitch.

This is the pet peeve, being lectured about what I am doing wrong. I stand there and take your whining about how me not eating breakfast doesn’t work for you. Wrong. I don’t. It’s tedious and frustrating and frankly got nothing to do with your metabolism and mine, because unless you’re my best friend or my mother you don’t get the right too. I highly doubt you’ve seen me cry at the foot of a scale, or heard the horrible things I have said to myself while tugging at my naked body fat in the mirror, nor have you heard names I was called on the playground, or have you seen me cry while running my first 3kms, and I know you weren’t there when my world shifted and I wanted something different.

So yes it ticks me off, rubs me the wrong way, gets my goat and truly-honest-to-the-heavens pisses me off.



Now that I have that off my chest – I better get something to eat, all this ranting has made me hungry.

Run, fat bitch!
 

Kelly talks Tips

I won't go as far as to say that I am the Dalia Lama of dieting, but you can't go three years without picking up a few tips and tricks to ease the pain of hunger.  Dieting is the vanguard position in the war against food.  You hold out until the enemy attacks and poof, starvation cripples you and you double over wondering what to do next; so help you God if you have to eat another dry-tasteless-lack-lustre-rice-cracker.  Hey, I've been there, while my hunger pains couldn't match those of upper Africa, I have certainly met my maker when it comes to food. Food isn't the only enemy in the journey of being healthy - if you are goal-driven like I am - the scale holds me by the emotional tendril and isn't afraid to tug. So here are my five top tips for coping with a newly formed healthy eating plan...

 

1) Cut out Bread and Sugar

There is nothing in the world that gets me fired up more than a toasted chicken mayo sarmie? Try a low GI option, Pita Bread, or Provitas as a replacement.

 

My biggest was addiction was coffee... SWEET coffee - the type with three heaped spoons. I know sweetners are found to contain a specific 'cell' that activates cancer cells, forgive my brashness, but life is far too short for bitter coffee.  Sweetner works for me, but a healthier option with half the calories is honey...

 

2) Join the gym - get a gym buddy

I won't ever advise any diet/eating plan that doesn't include some form of exercise. Join a gym, or go for a run in the neighbourhood, take the kids, dogs, parents, even the fish if you must. Remember: Sweat is your fat crying.

 

3) Carry water with you

Water is the best detoxifier your body needs, it thrives off it, and in most cases your body isn't hungry but thirsty.  I drink 3litres of water a day - 2litres is the required, so pack a big bottle in your car and sip away.  Treat yourself with a diet cold drink every time you finish a litre.

 

4) Eat a chocolate when you feel like it

Did you know that 400g of raw almonds has the same amount of calories as 400g of milk chocolate?  The issue with chocolate is that it carries more guilt than calories - so when you crave chocolate, it means your body is telling you something, have a block.  Don't hold out until you rip the only slab from a crying pre-schooler and devour the entire thing.

 

5) Invest in a tape measure

The scale is the devil. So is water weight. When your body changes it's 'process' (i.e. eating plan) it's default is 'fasting' and thus stores everything morsel it can get it's hands on.  For me the safety deposit box is my hips.  So, yes, track your weight once a week BUT also track your centimetres.

 

I hope these tips help - they aren't medically proven, just a small form of my own personal meandering.

 

Remember, this weekend: Run, fat bitch.

Hi, my name is Kelly and I am fat.

Hi, my name is Kelly and I am fat.

 



 

I am fat. I am. Or at least that is what my hips tell my brain and my brain assumes the position of Switzerland as my eyes gape in disbelief. I always have been fat, and never known any different except when I ripped a 'thin' cousin's dress while playing dress-up.

 

In the last three years I have managed to lose approximately 50 kilograms, an entire child.  My clothes are a good ten sizes smaller than they were three years ago, but the journey wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, easy aerobics classes, and days of fulfilled hunger that had me gnawing on my desk.

 

It also didn't help that my family, loud and brash, are a family of food. Feelings equal food. Love equals food. We're the family that plans Lunch at Breakfast, Dinner at Lunch, and Breakfast at Dinner. We eat, munch, consume and talk about eating.  My dad's favourite: "You are so skinny. I'll snap you like a chicken bone - EAT SOMETHING!"

 

But that isn't why I am here ("You are the success story - the Messiah of diets"), I wanted a place that told me the good, the bad and the ugly God awful truth about finding the healthier lifestyle.  We all know it's the higher road, the better road, the road travelled, the yellow brick road, but not all of us have the stamina, urge, or even the tools to get there.  Enter Kelly.  This is the blog where you can laugh at yourself, weigh yourself, cry yourself to sleep while tugging your love handles, and debase all those crazies drinking goji-berry air.

 

Convene the Fat Bitches.