Slipping on my stretchy black leggings that have become my entire wardrobe, I poke the belly fat that has decided to pour itself over the elastic. As much as a prod, poke and grab, it continues to hang, spitefully. My body and I are again at war.
I read an article many years ago where a woman wrote that her body went against her when she turned 28. It seemed quite unbelievable to my then 21-year-old mind that her body decided that was the year to wreak havoc. Not 38,48 or 58. Just 28. My dad warned me of such things too. Laying on the sofa, stretched out in a permanent plank position with the mother of all bellies, he would retell his tale of youth. A time where he drank men under the table, ate 8 meals a day, snacked non stop and never put on a pound. In fact his tall skinny frame was the stuff of legends. Until he reached his late 20’s where it all went wrong. “Mark my words” he would say, taking a giant gulp from a can of larger “you wont stay slim forever”.
Unlike my father it did take some work to remain relatively slim, although not a lot. I could knock off a few calories from my daily allowance and the pounds would fall off. A few inches on the thighs could be trimmed down with an hour here or there on the treadmill. All in all it was a fairly easy job. Until now.
For some reason unknown to me, my body has firmly decided that it will not continue to work with me or even cooperate on a friendly basis when it comes to losing inches. Miss a meal and it merely sniggers into its belly pouch. Pounding the treadmill or the dreaded cross trainer and the fat continues to hold onto my thighs like a long-lost love. I’m trying desperately to break up the fat party gathering on my hips but my words of criticism to the point of bullying are no longer being heard. Needless to say I am furious. Part of me wants to ‘just let go’ and leave my body to do its natural thing but then again that might be all the encouragement it needs to turn my arse into buffalo size. The strange thing is, when I look at other women I usually appreciate a woman with curves and have always thought that if I were a man, my eyes would be firmly planted on Kim kardashian’s arse, no matter that she leaves me rolling my eyes with her antics. For my self though, I like the lightness that comes with laying off the buttered bread roles and chocolate pudding.
My journey to fatness came when I decided to join the gym whilst I working in the corporate jungle. I would feel smug when I planted my butt in my desk chair after pounding the treadmill for 45 minutes in my lunch hour. Co-workers would look in wonder when I’d come back looking like I had put my head in a preheated oven, all red and sweaty. ‘My, I wish I had your commitment’. They would say. So that is what I did during my lunch hour or after work, even going as far as cycling home in the blistering cold. Yes, I worked hard…Only to get fatter. You may think I was eating more but it wasn’t the case. I researched weight gain from gyming it, and was furious to discover that pounding treadmills and general cardio exercise could be a breeding ground for fat molecules to get all pissy and start holding on for dear life, due to the dreaded stress hormone released whilst exercising. To fight the war, as there was no way I was being defeated without a fight, I decided that Body Combat was the way forward. A good combination of weights and sweat. What I didn’t take into account is that my thighs need no encouragement into getting bigger. So while I was doing those squats and proudly adding more weight to the bar, my thighs were packing on the pounds, deciding to take on the world with the aim of domination.
Needless to say all that thigh fat is a bitch to get rid of. Pleading, crying, anger, physical abuse and gentle words of encouragement are ignored. My soft flesh meanly hangs, with no signs of moving on no matter how many eviction notices I slap on. One year was all it took for my body to give me the finger and declare that it would no longer be putting up with over exercise, false promises of food and sugar-free goop. It finally took a stand and said no more, much to my dismay. Now my mind and body just scream at each other to the point of defeat. This usually happens when I plan to leave the house, trying on multiple outfits, huffing and puffing in the mirror before settling on the first outfit I tried on in the first place. Maybe I should start smothering my fat with love….It may get all rebellious and decide to leave like a teenager seeking independence. We shall see.