Heavenly Beverley : Further Observations of an Overweight Luddite.

I have been grappling with the title of this post for a couple of days. The content has been ready to launch, but I have had difficulty coming up with a short sharp, snappy headline. I think that part of my problem is my brain's frequent ability to Exit Stage Left for seemingly unrelated interpolations. In the end, the whole package may fit well, but I am left floundering for a relevant title to tie the whole post together.

Suggestions and comments are always welcome.

Anyway, I have digressed. Again. Back to the post at hand. Size and shape are my topics of choice. Along with a lack of space in the new modern environments, we keep creating. And maybe some other opinions. Meandering is second nature to my blog.

I am a short, round middle aged woman. Actually, I'm fat. There. I've said it. The sky didn't fall down and I don't feel any different. I haven't always been fat. I kept the weight at bay until my late forties with bouts of dieting and exercise. I discovered running in my late thirties as a means to an end. Ten years later, my ankles were wobbly, my knees were protesting and the Beagle ate the wiring of my treadmill. Twice. This was obviously a message from God.

Since then, I have been a haphazard walker. Like someone who identifies as having a faith, but only goes to Church at Easter and Christmas. I enjoy my walks but they are nowhere near as fast or frequent enough to shift any kilograms whatsoever. And I adore eating and drinking.

The result is that I am fat. Probably for the long haul. Every now and then, a doctor may implore me to undertake that exquisite agony of Visiting a Dietician. Like a guilty child, I will attend a few sessions, be completely honest about my intake and attempt to ramp up some additional output. All the while, the dietician is a twenty-something, tall and slim young woman who Eats Right and Exercises Right. There is absolutely no way I can relate to somebody like her. So I endure these appointments as infrequently as possible and breathe a huge sigh of relief when the outpatient clinics close for the year or the dietician is transferred or I simply have better things to do with my time.

This doesn't excuse me from being self-conscious of my shape. However, regardless of weight, most people in the Known Universe seem to have similar body issues. How we deal with our personal Physical realities is unique to each and every one of us.

Take Buying a Bra, for example. Due to the vast over excess of destinations women can purchase bras of all shapes and sizes, we should be able to just waltz in and pick the Perfect Bra off the shelf. Except most of us are not standard sizes. In spite of my body's expansion, my boobs have remained stubbornly difficult to fit. I used to fall between an A and B cup. Now I am between a B and C cup.

Hence my desire to attend an Intimates (I just love that word) Department which still employs other women who know how to join a bra and me into living happily ever after. Vanessa looked at me aghast. "Mum, why don't you just go to Target and buy a bra?" This coming from my gorgeous daughter who has been a reliable C cup for all her bra-wearing life.

So on Monday afternoon, totally ignoring Vanessa's advice, I duly trotted into Myers to meet my destiny. The counter was remarkably, unbelievably absent of customers. I had the full attention of the Bra Fitter. She didn't even measure me. She just looked at me, asked a few questions about my preferred material and wired versus unwired and then pulled a bra off the racks for me to try. She was one cup size out. But I was still impressed. Fifteen minutes later, having been attentively and expertly fitted, I was on my way out the door, armed with four spanking new bras.

There is not a chance in hell I would have chosen the bras she picked out. For a start, I had moved into the realm of Size 18. If I had been on my own, I would have been horrified by the concept that I was that fat. So I probably would have fluffed around in the totally inappropriate Size 16 range and ended up with yet another bra that didn't fit.

Because I was Taken in Hand by a skilled operator, she made absolutely no fuss about the size. She just fitted me. I was comfortable. And that felt good. The bra was relatively pretty and I didn't end up with lots of bulging flesh, which is another horror I can do without. Suddenly my size seemed less of an issue. Services like Bra Fitters in Myers are invaluable and should never disappear into the ether. There is no way I will ever venture into one of those boutiques that are staffed by Bright Young Things who know nothing about Old Boilers like me. Anyone else?

Wednesday afternoon, we were once again in the Big Smoke, this time, to see Michael's vascular surgeon. I chose to undertake a spot of shopping in the dreaded supermarket. Michael had dropped me to go and see his Dad, so I had plenty of time. Browsing up and down the aisles was almost pleasurable. Then I approached the checkouts.

The scene resembled a demolition derby. Two checkouts were actually staffed and multiple trollies were piled up behind them. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to try the new fangled self-service option. Never Again.

The self-service checkouts are simply a passage with as many checkouts as humanly possibly jammed into a very limited space. Just parking the trolley was a nightmare. And as for somewhere to stack the bags once I had filled each one, there basically wasn't. Fortunately, Michael came to my rescue, secured another trolley and loaded that as I finished packing each bag and passed them to him. In the interim, we created a gigantic traffic jam with an extra trolley in an area that had difficulty coping with any trolleys whatsoever. There was just not enough space.

Self-service checkouts are neither quick nor efficient. And they are certainly not designed to allow a single person to pack and stack a week's shopping on their own. Plus there is the guilt caused by the lack of space, as there is no way more than a couple of trolleys can adequately be parked. Which means I was constantly infringing on other people's allotted space and continually apologising to other customers who were just as frazzled.

Bugger self-service. Next time I am faced with not enough operators of staffed checkouts, I will politely and loudly insist that another checkout or two be opened. There are some of us, now including me, who have been scarred for life by suffering the torture of the self-service checkout.

Finally, enough size and space are ongoing niggling annoyances who those of us who are not short and slim. I am talking about aeroplane seats. Does anybody actually find these instruments of bodily restriction comfortable ever? And in a world where we are all becoming taller or larger, why do airlines insist on packing us into flying sardine cans? Because we put up with these conditions. Because we all secretly think we should be this size and shape.

Wednesday night, we were watching a little gem of a show "You Can't Ask That". This programme has concentrated on groups of people who may not fit societal expectations of the norm. Whatever that is. And some of the questions that these ordinary people going about their business get asked are unbelievable. Some of these questions would peel paint off walls.

The group of people being interviewed were all fat. The segment was titled "Fat". And the questions were as jaw-dropping and as cringeworthy as ever. One of the interviewees was an extraordinarily open and beautiful woman, who wore her size like a badge of honour. She had Michael and me in hysterics at the hilarious and searing brutality of her answers. Like most of us, she had battled with her weight all her life. Now she was happier and freer than she had ever been. She had embraced being fat.

She shared a story of being on an aircraft with a couple in the seats next to her. She regaled us with the young woman typing on her Ipad to her partner, which was clearly visible to our heroine. "Why do I always get seated next to the fatso?" To which my idol remarked out loud to maximum effect "Why do I always get seated next to the aresehole?"

I aspire to her level of glory. Thus endeth this lesson.