Most of the old content that I unearthed was excruciatingly embarrassing, but there were one or two posts that I read back on and was amazed that I had written them at just seventeen or eighteen years of age. It would've be a shame to delete them (I'm hopelessly sentimental) so I thought I might throw one or two of the better ones up here, for old times' sake.
The following is a piece I wrote at the very beginning of Sixth Year. I'd been self-conscious about my weight for years and at the ripe old age of seventeen, decided to join my local Slimming World club and start dieting. My younger self's take on weight loss is surprisingly shrewd, but I can't help but feel quite sad reading what I'd written about myself at such a tender age. I was still only a baby, and really believed I was overweight and hideous. (I was probably slightly overweight, but it couldn't have been more than puppy fat. I also had this immense fear of looking as heavy as I felt so tended to wear big baggy clothes in big sizes which only really made me look even bigger. I was probably never bigger than a ladies' UK size 12, but dressed in size 14 and 16 jeans, shorts, skirts and tops. Present-day me is shaking her head.)
Five or so years on and I'm still locked in battle with that pesky number on the weighing scales and the reflection in the mirror, although I've come on in leaps and bounds in terms of both my weight and my self-confidence. I can also finally dress myself in clothes that flatter my figure. I reckon this old blog post could be a poignant reminder of just how vulnerable and insecure young girls (and guys!) can be at a time that should be happy and carefree and one of self-discovery. I've figured out over the last few years that there is so much more to me than units of measurement or what the labels on clothing say, even if some days I really have to work hard to remind myself of that. There's more to you, too.
Enjoy!
Fat Fighters
Losing weight should seriously be made easier. There should be some sort of miracle solution out there that isn't expensive, gimmicky or doesn't involve flying to Hungary for a cut-price gastric band.
Losing weight is bloody challenging when you have an addictive personality, a serious diet-impairing crisp habit and a loathing of good old-fashioned exercise. It's a constant uphill battle; a battle which entails hunger pangs, an ominous, booming voice in your head telling you to put the Maltesers down, litres of water to stave off aforementioned hunger pangs, guilt and crying when you've caved in at one the morning and you can't open the childproof lock you installed on the biscuit tin as a deterrent.
It entails becoming a slave to magazines with articles about every diet under the sun; and cutting out recipes which call for brown rice and mung beans, ingredients I will more than likely never use. I even stuck a "fat photo" of myself on the fridge.
I may as well be honest. I absolutely loathe the way I look, and feel like a disgusting whale in every single solitary item of clothing I own. It has gotten to the point where I can't go anywhere with out worrying what I look like, and whether this shirt/pair of jeans/skirt/cardigan is flattering or not. I will not reveal my upper arms or chest area, and tights are my saving Grace when it comes to the leg department. I guess I've always felt a bit hefty, at least since the age of twelve or thirteen, but it has only been since Christmas '10 that my weight has shot to the top of my hypothetical list of worries. (I say "hypothetical" because having an actual list of worries strikes me as a rather depressing thing to have lying around.)
Around April this year, I had a bit of a shock. I was bored one evening, and decided to Google a BMI (body mass index) calculator, as BMI had been mentioned by Dr Christian on Embarrassing Bodies (big EmBods and Dr Christian fan - if only he had a practice in my area) and I was curious to find out what mine was. BMI works by taking your height and your weight and multiplying them against each other or something like that; I'm not much for the technical side of things, but that's the general gist of BMI anyway. My BMI was 26, one outside the healthy range of 20-25. OVERWEIGHT screamed out at me in giant red font. It wasn't hugely surprising, I suppose, but seeing written there so crudely in black and white (or red and white, rather) still managed to take the wind out of my sails.
Come summer, I was sick and tired of not only feeling circus fat, but also feeling like I couldn't change how I felt. I decided to carpe diem, take the bull by the horns and join WeightWatchers, and ultimately commit myself to a healthy new lifestyle of veggies, jogging and calorie-counting (calorie counting was something I did anyway, though) and never look back. Ha.
My mum, ever supportive and wonderful, decided she could do with shifting a few pounds too and promised to sign up with me. She had previously been a WeightWatchers member and it had worked really well for her, so I had high hopes. We even drew up the "declaration of a healthy new lifestyle", signed it and stuck it to the microwave. Unfortunately, other commitments got in our way. First it was that we had to go to Germany in June, and then it was me heading off to Irish college in July. We figured there was no point in joining up if we were going to be away or without one another, as you have to pay for the weeks you miss and possible endure a scolding from the club leader, and anyway, what use would we be without each other for moral support? Now it's August and we've both resolved to join the minute I go back to school in September. Famous last words, the sceptic within me chuckles.
I'm a crap dieter. I have absolutely no willpower, but I'm determined to see this one out. My original target was to have lost a stone over summer - that obviously didn't happen - but I really don't know what weight-related goals are attainable to me yet. I need some ever-cheerful, authoritative WeightWatchers leader to tell me. The idea of standing on a scales in front of a perfect stranger fills me with dread, the kind of dread that makes me want to burrow away in my room and live off meals on wheels for the housebound for the rest of my life.
I'm going to go very corny on you all now and quote something inspirational: if the journey is easy, the destination is worthless. This journey of mine is surely going to be anything but simple, so I'm sure it will be worth it. Even though there will be no Maltesers allowed.
Originally published August 11, 2011 at https://aislingwrites.wordpress.com/
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