All my life I’ve been what you might call enviably proportioned: ickle slim wrists, voluptuous boobies, pert muscular buttocks and a waspish waist. I’ve been the kind of girl who can gurgle lard, sat motionless in bed watching back to back episodes of The Comeback for days on end, and still rock up to a party looking like I spend my leisure time training for competitive sports.
I’m not being boastful, it’s a fact – and, if it makes you feel better, it’s not like I haven’t had other problems to contend with: acne, an ice queen mother, straggling mousy hair that only looks fabulous cropped, covered in peroxide and styled with cheap chemicals that are bound to cause my early death, spending habits that will very likely lead to financial ruin, a psychotic ex lover, alcoholism, a kitten allergy, hay fever.
One can’t have everything.
Still, I know what the ladies are like (I am one) and if despite my myriad misfortune you’re still well jel – fear not! All that body beautiful looks like it might be a thing of the past. Whether it’s my age or my recent discovery of the steak’s prowess as foodstuff the reult is the same – my waist is definitely looking more womanly than waspish.
My thighs, which were once held taughtly apart, now flop against each other with a soft thwack as though filled with glutinous custard. Swiss rolls of tummy flab impersonate a waterfall over the waistband of my Levi’s. My back, once graced by jutting vertebrae, now wobbles (my back! I didn’t even know you could get fat there) as I step from the shower and boogie to So Solid Crew tunes in the mirror. Granted, my wrists are still sparrow like – but that doesn’t look so hot now that my upper arms resemble just-fluffed pillows.
The evidence would suggest that I’m succumbing to fat.
Who ate all the pies?
I did. And they tasted fucking good.
Fat: an inevitable but unfortunate milestone in the trot through life, signifying the End of Youth. For most vain women, this would no doubt cause panic.
Not for me though.
I’m well not bothered.
For the stylish, flab is easy to cover with loose fitting outerwear and flesh control panties. Plus, I’ve still got killer fingernails, scarlet lipstick and a wit that delights my mates and leaves my enemies curdled.
And if that doesn’t convince you, I’ll tell you this: it turns out the podge is a lot more enjoyable than it looks.
There are loads of Good Things about a bit of extra weight. My skin seems better than when I was slender for a start. And I’m actually warmer than I was last winter. Even though its -9 outside the layers of self love I’ve accrued, in the days since food replaced sex in my life, act as a lover shielding me from the warmth.
Also, there’s no chance that fat will leave me and emigrate to China to teach rich children with some daft bimbo it met at work.
So it’s already one up to fat on the fat vs lover scorecard.
Fat wins a second point as I realise it will only embrace me more tightly if I decide to lounge nude on the settee shoveling a lukewarm Burger King Chicken Tender Crisp inside my gob.
Fat won’t even mind when I shift my bum bum so as to salvage the last chip, which I appear to have sat on, and pop it in my mouth to join the masticated chicken burger.
What’s to dislike?