I didn’t think I’d find inspiration for my first proper blog post quite so quickly as I have. You see, I only set this blog up last night after much pushing and shoving from various well meaning friends around me. I’ve dabbled with writing before, I started a commuting blog a few years back which was way funnier than it sounds, trust me. I’ve done this mostly to shut them up. I haven’t really done a proper introduction, so let me tell you about me. I’m Miss Brown. I have many nicknames, but my Dad might read this and I swear a lot, so I go with mysterious and stick with Miss Brown because I’m a well shady fuck.
I’m 35, I’ve lived in London for about 8 years, which qualifies me as a proper Londoner apparently. I work in a creative industry and can often be seen cycling around London on a blue Bobbin. I’m Scottish, I swear a lot, I’m filthy and I have a mane of red hair. I’ve often got about 72 projects on the go at any given time and rarely finish any of them. I’m hoping this blog might help me with some of that and give me platform for just about anything I damn well like. Styling up outfits from the 50’s or double denim when I feel like a hipster wank.
Introductions over, let’s get right to the point. I’m fat. Fat, it’s not a dirty word. Plus size if you prefer, but I’m okay with fat. I’m a curvy size 16. I think I do a relatively good job of hiding maybe how fat I really am under clothes. I’m lucky enough to have some petite features, but past the milky swingers, I have a big old belly that I can’t quite seem to shift. I’ve affectionately named it Slimer as it resembles the flubbery mass of ectoplasm from Ghostbusters. I’ve tried various ways of shifting it from almost starvation, drinking lemon water to now properly tracking macros and hiring a personal trainer. I’ve been pushing on and pushing on with desperation to lose the rest. How can I be skinny, how can I have a flat toned stomach, why aren’t I prettier or taller. I started torturing myself with “when I’m skinnier, life will be better…” I placed so much hope and expectation on seeing the numbers 1 and zero on a clothing label and in that order.
Well frankly? Fuck that. It hit me this morning like a bingo wing to the face. I have an active and healthy lifestyle mostly. I eat well, I work out and I cycle to work a few times a week. Lets not discuss the fact that I can chug red wine down like Denise Brown can take a floppy haired Hugh Grant’s cock. I lift weights, I cycle, I skip, I do Pilates. I do all this because it makes me feel good, but mostly? I do it all in the hope of fitting in, of being skinny and being deemed “normal” in society. This morning after my cycle to work, I went to the gym to shower and get changed. This is a big deal for me. The showers at my gym have no concept of privacy, the cubicles are completely clear. If I look down, I can see a row of vag, flaps, tits and arse. It fills me with dread that someone else might spot the fat chick showering with Slimer next to her. I used to have a sanctuary you see. One where I was completely alone with not another soul to bother me. Where I didn’t have to worry about rogue twat hairs poking out or thighs slapping together when I dried them. Sadly, the sanctuary is no more since an office move with limited facilities. So I’m forced to effectively shower with 10 other women.
I packed my bag this morning and made sure to pack my dressing gown. This way I wouldn’t have to worry if the towel didn’t wrap all the way around. I could save other women the horror of having to look at me and me the shame of trying to stretch bits of towel round my belly. It added extra weight to my bag which was already bursting at the seams. I started to undress, I tried to remove my clothes as though I was in a smartie tube to minimize any skin being on show. In reality I looked like a T-Rex trying to scratch it’s chin. I headed for the showers with the towel (just) wrapped around me. A woman of about 70 came out of the pool having just bashed out a few lengths. She had little rolls of fat around her stomach, wobbly thighs and could have done with a bikini wax from the knee up. Here was a woman with the same imperfections I was so hell bent on hiding and these were just the things that made her so beautiful. I was transfixed and soon started to notice all the other women around me. I noticed their imperfections, the things that made them who they were. The things that defined them but didn’t at the same time. These women were ROCKING their mornings. They were swimming, running, cycling, lifting weights. SWEATING as if their lives depended on it. I saw them for what they were. Amazing, strong machines. I saw past the toned stomachs and the arses like two cherry tomatoes and instead felt so incredibly humbled and grateful to be able to spend time getting ready for the day with them. I’m not sure I’d want to go back to my cold and lonely sanctuary in the basement of my office building.
I showered, I didn’t care if the woman next to me looked at my stomach. It’s my stomach and what anyone else thinks about it, really isn’t any of my business. I lathered myself up with soap and I really fucking enjoyed that shower, not quite as much if Rufus Sewell had been there, but close enough. I got out, dried myself, got dressed and I smiled at every sweaty bitch in that changing room. I complimented a woman on her leggings and she beamed at me like I’d just made her morning. She told me my hair was beautiful and she made mine. I went to work and I really fucking good day. I laughed with my team, we cracked inappropriate jokes and the day just felt easy. Realising that I don’t need to be skinny to feel validated, to feel included or happy. I don’t need to be skinny to feel worthy. I am worthy. We all are. I’m not saying that I’m suddenly going to jack in all my fitness pursuits in any way shape or form. I enjoy them, they give me energy and make me feel in control of my life at times when I feel I’m careering through my 30’s badly. I don’t need them to make me thin. I need them for a healthy mind, a healthy body that will hopefully see me into my 80’s, maybe even 90’s. I don’t want to feel shackled to the gym because it will enhance my appearance. I want the gym to enhance my mindset.
After work I went back to the gym for a workout. I almost pulled the door off it’s hinges on the way in, sass level 11. I lifted my weights, I grunted, I sweated and managed full push ups. I wore the new trainers that I bought partly because I needed some support after an injury but partly because I thought they’d help me feel I belonged there, rather than feel like I had to be there. I winked at the nervous looking woman who ventured into the testosterone fulled weights area on my way out. I walked out with a feeling of euphoria like I’d just fucked Tom Hardy. I walked to my bike to unlock it, where another woman was locking hers up. We smiled at each other and made small talk about how it was a pain carrying your life around on a bike, but how we’d never want it any other way.
We wished each other a good evening and I cycled home like I’d just been on a first date, didn’t have to pay and got a poke waiting for the bus.