Weight goes up. Weight goes down. If you carry enough excess weight, you can move it all around (especially if you’re on a trampoline or using a pneumatic drill). Unfortunately, clothing doesn’t have the same fluid elasticity as the human body. I should know. I’ve been zigzagging back and forth between the same three stone for the better part of a decade.
I was always a plump kid. I hid away in my green and navy tartan school kilt, swathing myself in black as a very unconvincing goth at weekends. Then I had a boyfriend. Then I went to college. Then I broke up with said boyfriend and dropped the weight almost as quickly as he found someone new to play with, thanks in no small part to the Arts Student Atkins diet of low fat Subway subs, Edam and kabanossi (with Tesco Value vodka to serve). That Jared guy had nothing on me.
As I got smaller, my clothes got smaller too. Pencil skirts morphed into tiny playsuits. The cleavage I revealed was now bountiful as opposed to cartoonish. I wore bodycon (!) and skinny jeans (!!) and may have managed to pull off the most hallowed of hallowed – the crop top (!!!).
Fast forward five years and I’m back to square one. I’m the same weight I was when I was sixteen and now half my wardrobe no longer fits me. I keep the clothes as symbols, as memory jogs, but mostly because I hope to lose the weight and be all, y’know, cute and small, because feeling like a heffalump has a majority share in my emotions bank at the moment (but maybe 51% – the rest of the time I’m good).
I would like to lose the weight and get back into that playsuit, not just because of the physical validation that women are indoctrinated to feel, but for a variety of reasons; to feel better about myself, to prove that I have self control and determination, to become fit and healthy. Also it’s a darn cute playsuit.
Being overweight is not fun. Here’s why. 1) The clothes you like may not look as flattering as you want them to and 2) it’s unhealthy. Really, really unhealthy.
No-one likes listening to other people harp on about weight loss, but we love reading about crash diets. It’s absurd. I told a friend once about models that ate cotton wool soaked in orange juice to keep their weight down – and she actually tried it. Surprise, surprise, it was unsustainable and she ended up fainting on a bus.
I have a pair of jeans from my slim phase that I will wear once I lose the weight. Almost every women has one secreted away. Since I don’t want to embark on the old regime of hard cheese and cured Polish meats, I’ve had to go for the healthier, slower, less vodka-soaked option.
Once I fit into those jeans again, I will let that be my marker. My mother, who has maintained an enviably slim figure despite three square meals and four children tells me that her jeans are her marker. If they’re getting tight, it’s time to eat right. Sound advice from Mama Waldron, as usual.