I had an epiphany this morning. I lumbered out of bed with all the grace of a beaching leopard seal and waddled to the loo complete with my phone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I read my phone on the lavatory...Because I am an old fart, I usually start the day with the latest news from the ABC. Comedian and fellow fat person, Magda Szubanski smiled back at me from my phone whilst explaining her reasons for the production of her new show on the telly - Magda's Big National Health Check.
I was instantly riveted by her comments. She could have been talking about me and my life choices. Unlike my brothers who were all tall and lean, I was the shape of my paternal grandmother - short and round. I also use the terminology "short and fat" but well meaning friends have jumped down my throat for describing myself in what they believe is a derogatory comment.
I have struggled with my weight for my entire life. Apparently, as a smallish bottle-fed baby, Mum added extra formula to increase the calories in the amount I drank. I grew up cringing at photos of myself in bathers. I also had curly red hair, heaps of freckles, buck teeth and eczema. I can't remember a time I was not self conscious about my appearance.
With our chaotic upbringing, I had to think very carefully about which issues I might mention to Mum, which didn't help with my food choices. I hated banana sandwiches; hot, sweaty banana sandwiches had the same effect as a nuclear bomb in clearing everybody around me at lunch in the school playground. So, I threw them out and said not a word. I couldn't tell her that I didn't like the clothes she chose for me were always too big or the banana palm hat stuck into my skull. I was also hideously carsick as a little girl and was always terrified if we travelled after a meal.
My eating was disordered by the time I hit high school. I was a chronic insomniac and often didn't wake up with time for breakfast. The tuck-shop was my best friend and food comforted me after some bully or another would have a go at me. I moved schools at the end of Year 10 and Year 11, so I was frightfully anxious about making any friends at all. Then when my brother David worked out I was growing up and ogled my friend Suzi's voluptuous shape, he also suggested I go on a diet. Unlike Suzi, I had almost no boobs, a wobbly tummy and short legs.
I started eating very lightly in Year 12. This was an exercise that I would repeat in cycles throughout the decades. If I wanted to fit into a particular dress or a tight pair of jeans, I would revert to one meal a day to lose any pesky kilos.
At the age of thirty-eight, I decided to "eat less and move more". I began running on tarmac to keep my weight under control. Plus, I would not eat before I exercised, which often was late in the morning after I'd finished the chores or even in the afternoon whilst Alex was supervised during a therapy session. I lost twelve kilos in ten months.
With this regime, I remained quite slim for a number of years. My first marriage ended when I was in my early forties. I then embarked on a few disastrous enterprises - moving east to be in "the bosom of my family", returning west with my tail between my legs and then beginning a love affair with the Sicilian Sociopath ( a serial married offender).
I was just beginning to gain some weight when I met Michael. I was still exercising but I had bought a treadmill, so I could run regardless of the weather. Ruby, Michael's Beagle ate the electrics of my treadmill. Twice. As I was spending every spare minute with Michael, I stopped running completely in favour of walking with him.
Menopause and sleep apnoea were, unbeknown to me, interfering with my general well being. I was chronically tired and hot. Plus, my earlier running was playing havoc with my joints. I have had one knee replacement and I am now staring down the barrel towards my second knee needing surgery.
The good news about middle age is that I have become aware of my body's foibles. Pain necessitates visits to the chiropractor and the copious use of heat /cold packs, along with the regular use of Panadol Osteo. Sleep apnoea has been eased by my sexy CPAP machine. I think I have come out the other side of menopause so my feet are no longer on fire. The podiatrist looks after my exceedingly dry and often cracked feet. I am medicated for my mental health, my high cholesterol, my ectopic heartbeat and my hostile vagina. And, believe it or not, I really do want to have my right knee replaced.
I want to have my knee fixed so I can be as fit as possible. We love going bush and having any discomfort with our legs really cramps our style. We are planning another Northern Expedition in the winter, so the time has come to deal with this troublesome joint.
Fitness may not mean huge weight loss or any weight loss at all. I think I describe myself as round because "obese" is such a dreadful term. Who wants to be obese? And God forbid, who would want to be morbidly obese?
I know my shape has been influenced by both genetics and decades of fiddling with my metabolism. When I was seriously exercising, my favourite activity would be a run followed by a glass of vino. My sleep specialist has informed me that I am unlikely to improve my sleep apnoea through weight loss unless I could shed thirty kilos. That is highly unlikely to happen.
My goal is to be as healthy as possible whilst being realistic about weight. I have researched exercise bikes and am purchasing one to assist with both Michael's and my rehab post-op. I am never going to be the weight I was in my forties, as I interfered far too much with my body's processes. I would hope that the current trend of "fat shaming" with its programmes, pills, potions and lotions becomes less aggressive towards those of us who are overweight. Who remembers Ford Pills?...
I have tried dozens of diets. I have used medications such as Duromine, Ozempic and Trulicity. Duromine worked the best but I discontinued that tablet due to possible interference with my ectopic heartbeat. I lost only six hundred grams in a month on Ozempic and Trulicity just caused intense fatigue and nausea. The last time I was under seventy kilos was when Michael nearly died in April 2014; my eating was chaotic and I was bounding up four flights of stairs several times a day for three weeks. That regime was obviously not sustainable...
What does this kind of criticism say about those who dish these comments out? Should we be sorry for them as they might have had a deprived/depraved childhood? Are they just trying to bolster their own self worth? Are they lacking an "acceptability" filter? Or are they just nasty? For any of these reasons or for none, we all need to stamp out this bullying, this discrimination, this cruelty.
Because what people say, games people play are not just confined to those of us who are fat. Any body shape can be a target for ridicule or shame. And we can all be guilty of these comments in any number of instances. I was mortified when I was reminded by a good friend that I had doubted her diagnosis of autism. What a thoughtless and careless comment I'd made as a result of my assumption. The "throw-away" line needs to be avoided at all costs.
Today, I was in the Gallery when I met a delightful couple from Katanning. They had just bought a block on the site of the old tip. I was green with envy. We chatted for quite some time and they promised to collect rusty items for us. How wonderful and generous.
Russell, one of the chaps, then confirmed that they are a gay couple. I sensed that they almost regarded this statement as an excuse or an apology. My reply to them was this - "So? I am a short round sixty year old woman with IBS!"
They roared with laughter, Russell responding that I sounded just like his Mum. What a compliment.
Another good day for this fat girl.
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