There’s a woman sitting near you in a restaurant, on a train, in a school meeting, at your kids’ sport, on a nearby desk at work, or walking past you in the street, feeling lousy about herself.
I have embraced. Locally, I promoted and hosted Taryn Brumfitt’s documentary last year. I wholeheartedly support the #bodyimagemovement. On the socials I like, comment, support, applaud, share and encourage women of all sorts that are joining the body positive chanting. This embrace-thy-body mindset is undoubtedly overdue. Women (in particular) are constantly hammering their confidence into the ground one blow at a time; often to a point where their self-hate can make leaving the house feel like a confronting task.
It absolutely should not be like that.
But despite all of the roar-roar-roaring and hashtagging in the right direction, I, ah, um, well…
I feel fat.
I feel fat and I am on a mission (a gentle mission) to lose some weight.
Is that me un-embracing? Have I just said a dirty word? Will I be cast out from this beautiful, jelly-belly loving tribe?
This is the first time that I’ve felt not-so-happy with my bod since the #bodyimagemovement turned from a ripple in the ocean to a brilliant tsunami. Prior to that, it was pretty much a daily (wait, maybe hourly?) occurrence. The difference now, is that me and my extra k.gees are totes calm about it all. I can look back over the year and see that some injuries sidelined me from a lot of my favourite physical activities. I can see that along with embracing my child-beared body, I also embraced a fair few “clean” and not so clean treats. (My husband and I found a local supermarket that stocks Cadbury pineapple chocolate ALL. THE. TIME. Friday night ritual: on point).
Me feeling fat right now, isn’t body shaming myself. I feel fat, because I am carrying more fat than I have in a long time. There are a lot of lovely, logical events that landed me with this extra layer, but I’ve reached a point where it’s just not comfortable for me. It’s kind of like buying a beautiful pair of shoes and finding out that, despite dogmatic persistence, they rub your heels raw. I don’t hate my current body, I just can’t wear it for long.
For the first time since Mark Zuckerberg became an answer to a trivial pursuit question (un-researched, but confident that it’s fact), my fat-feels are not because of women I see on Instagram flashing their impossible abs at me (which for the record, I have a well-programmed reflex to do the insta-equivalent of swiping left on, because of the super power they have of sending me down a hate-myself-hell-hole).
In fact, probably not since I put a Dolly (R.I.P) issue Alison Brahe poster on my bedroom wall and longed to be just like her (blond, tiny framed and dating Cameron Daddo…I achieved none of the three) has my desire to lose a bit of weight been so intrinsic.
This overweightness that I feel right now isn’t because someone or something made me feel this way. My motivation is not because of @sixpacksusie (not a real account. Yet.) or the adorable Alison Brahe (I bet she is still adorable) (wait, I just googled her. She is). It’s all me. I’ve embraced myself at this size and all the glorious pineapple chocolate that it took to get here. But it doesn’t feel quite right and I’ll just change a little bit here and a little bit there, until I feel comfortable again. Whatever that may be.
With a healthy, level-headed, gentle approach, I’ve come to the conclusion that “fat” isn’t a dirty word. You can embrace yourself and change yourself at the same time. I still have my arms lovingly wrapped around my additional lumpy bits, and I’m hopeful that even as I try to lose a little weight, I won’t be voted off the body lovin’ island.
Continued on from previous post Hi 3309, it’s me again.
Last week, possibly painfully, I explained what life could have been like, had you made it to the Melbourne Marathon. I detailed the atmosphere that you would have experienced, the emotions that you would have witnessed.
But I wasn’t entirely honest. You didn’t get the full story.
You see, 3309 I’ve never been particularly sentimental about my bib-numbers. They have normally suffered a long day; safety pins and tired movements have gradually torn their corners, Gatorade guzzled desperately at the final drink station has made them sticky, and sadly, you would have been superseded by a medal that endured nothing more than a production line and the helpful hand of a finishing chute volunteer.
The truth is 3309, if it was indeed your destiny to travel the 42.2 kilometres of the Melbourne Marathon, I am afraid it was also your destiny to end up in the hotel room bin.
Instead of experiencing the Melbourne marathon, your Sunday 16th October was spent as just another average Sunday with me. We went for a short run, along one of my favourite courses with one of my favourite friends. We enjoyed an overdue brunch (the smashed avocado and poached eggs were delicious) with some old school mates. We whipped up some wholesome feel-good foods for a beloved pal who had had an emotional couple of days. We lovingly prepared and proved pizza dough ready to feed the family their favourite weekend meal. We did a spot of home maintenance and we got the groceries in for the week ahead. We finally gave in to my 9 year old son and agreed to play, albeit poorly, a new Xbox game with him.
Just another Sunday in the life of me.
I’ve often questioned why I run the marathon. Why I can’t just tick it off the bucket list and move on. I usually arrive at the answer that it somehow validates me. It justifies me. It makes me feel like I am doing enough. That I am enough.
Completing the 2016 Melbourne marathon with you would have, of course, given me a great sense of achievement. But strangely 3309, this year it almost feels like a bigger achievement to have not run the marathon; to have had the sense of self, the belief that I would be quite okay to not do it. To recognise that my life is full, that there are other experiences to enjoy and other elements that make me the person I am; to appreciate the other laurels I have to rest on.
I may run the marathon again. I may not. Whatever the case may be, I feel that I no longer need to cling to it.
So strangely, 3309 you are pretty significant. You represent a certain maturity, an inner strength. You represent a new found comfort in being, rather than doing. You tell me that with or without the marathon – I am enough.
It’s ironic 3309 that you might just be the one bib-number that I do keep.
A good majority of my facebook and instagram posts lately have been in reference to the cycling community and the response to the gut-wrenching, devastating, infuriating and unfathomable incident that saw the husband of my good friend viciously knocked from his bike. You can read some of the details of the incident here. Not only is the incident sickening, but so too is the mindset that exists towards cyclists.
Over the last few years we’ve seen uproar over the king-hit; aptly now referred to as a “coward’s punch”, thanks to tougher penalties, increased media coverage, zero tolerance approaches and greater community awareness. The “cowards punch” is a punch made without warning, allowing no time for preparation or defence on the part of the recipient (Wikipedia).
When a cyclist is purposely tormented, threatened, provoked or struck by a car, I consider it the coward’s punch of the road. It doesn’t matter if you a driving a Morris minor or a 4-wheel drive, you’ve immediately got more muscle power than anyone on a bike.
Getting angry at a cyclist for the way he or she manoeuvres around traffic or hazards on the road, and using your car as a way to frighten, shock, send a message or make your point, is bullying and cowardly. Supporting the belief that that cyclists need to be taught a lesson by way of driving aggressively or carelessly around them is just as bad.
We wouldn’t accept the same behaviour from truck drivers towards cars. We wouldn’t accept trucks tailgating, overtaking at close range, throwing rubbish or hurling abuse, sounding the horn abruptly or over a long distance or leaving so little space at an intersection that cars have to jump up on to the sidewalk. It happens, I’m sure, but we don’t accept it. We’d see the truck driver as the bully, the bad guy, the arsehole, the reckless driver.
So why any different when it’s car versus bike?
Just like motorists, cyclists have endless quick-thinking decisions to make on the road. Sometimes cyclists do make bad judgement calls. But so do car drivers, bus drivers, truck drivers, motorcyclists, tractor drivers, policecars, ambulance drivers and pilots. The only difference between cyclists and those drivers, is that on the road cyclists have no time for preparation or defence against a road rage attack. There is nothing, nothing, between them and the brunt of a vehicle. They are vulnerable, defenceless and will undoubtedly come off second best.
If you use your vehicle to send a message to a cyclist you are delivering a coward’s punch.
Slow down when you see a cyclist.
Give cyclists space.
Overtake when it is safe to do so.
And stop supporting the notion that the coward’s punch of the road is acceptable.
(And it's time that this behaviour received the same attention as the Coward's Punch. A Coward's Punch can carry a maximum jail sentence of 20 years. But driving dangerous causing serious injury? - 10 years. )
Hi. My name is Naomi and I am a scaleoholic. I have been scale free for 17 days. I am not sure when the fascination with weighing myself began. I can always remember having scales on the bathroom floor when I lived with my parents. I can remember (with complete horror and panic) having to be weighed at secondary school for fitness testing. So I guess it was only natural that as an adult, I equipped our house with a set of digital body weight scales.
Despite putting my scales in a different bathroom and understanding that it wasn’t necessary or conducive to my health, weighing myself somehow became a daily ritual. I couldn’t start the day without seeing the magic depressing number.
Seeing some alarm bells late last year, made me resolve (for New Years – how original) to only weigh myself monthly. That (as New Year’s resolutions tend to do) crept back to weekly and then almost back to a daily occurrence.
Regardless of if it was daily, monthly or just randomly, the result of the scales had the power to change my entire day (I always weighed myself in the morning. Habitual weighers always do mornings right?). My mood, meal plans, clothing choices, exercise efforts, confidence at work and the way I treated my 2 children was all tied up in the number that came flashing up. And it was rarely a positive outcome.
A friend suggested I ditch the scales. Smash them! Throw them out! Get rid of them! I nodded my head, I roar-roar-roared! I took charge and agreed that I would! Next week.
Eventually, the pressure of the scales got too much for me. I hated weighing myself but I hated not knowing what I weighed. I would stand butt naked at the scales (and in front of a mirror – awesome confidence booster for the day) and ask myself if I was strong enough to see the number today. I would answer yes. Then I would step on the scales. I would see “the number”.
Cue: World. Crashing. Down.
I wasn’t strong enough after all.
I’d pick myself up, get through the day, vowing to eat better, move more… get that number down. And like Groundhog Day, it would all happen at 8am again the next morning.
So, finally, I did it. I got rid of them.
Instantly I felt lighter. I felt empowered. I felt free.
But the next week I felt lost. Like a junkie, I needed a “hit”. I found myself seeking out scales in the pharmacy. I wondered if it would be weird to visit my friends and ask if I could use their scales to weigh myself. I mentally compiled a list of possible reasons I could go to the doctor and get weighed there.
Now at week three, I am reflective on what I have learnt about myself, without my “insecurity blanket” so to speak.
I have learnt:
No single food is responsible for my weight.
I used to jump on the scales and if the number had increased by any small amount (or even just stayed the same) it must have been the extra slice of cheese I had, or maybe the big handful of goji berries. Or possibly, the two freddo frogs (gasp!). This then lead onto a constant battle with the enemy-food: a love-hate relationship; a binge-guilt affair; doom.
Since ditching the scales I don’t blame any particular food for how I feel. Some foods, over an extended period of time or eaten in excess will make me heavier. But I have days where I just eat a little mindlessly and I don’t feel great for it. It feels much gentler to remind myself how overeating any food makes me feel, rather than what “number” it equates to.
We are governed by numbers
Imagine a world without numbers. A world where we just bought clothes for how they looked and felt. Imagine getting up when we felt recharged, going to bed when we felt tired. Imagine eating when we just felt hungry. Imagine running at a pace that just felt good and continued for as long as you felt good for. Imagine your age being measured by the state of your health. Image trading goods in return for other goods so both parties felt they were on the receiving end of a fair deal. Even imagine driving the car at a speed that just felt safe and courteous to other drivers. How old would you be if you didn’t know your age?
How comfortable would you be buying jeans if you didn’t have to consider the size? How heavy would you feel if you didn’t know how much you weighed?
We have forgotten to FEEL. Our society is governed by numbers. True, we can’t banish some of them. But some of them we can place less importance on. And the number we represent in weight, is one of them. It feels incredibly light and delicious to not have to think about that extra number in my day.
I have great skin
If I had just weighed myself I would look in the mirror and see “the number”. As I got dressed into my clothes I would see “the number”. I would eat my food throughout the day and see "the number". In the middle of discussions with friends, I would see “the number”.
The greyscale of “the number” in front of my eyes blurred my ability to see any other good in myself.
Since ditching the scales, I can see the good in myself a little clearer. Turns out, I have pretty good skin.
Fat days happen
I could have eaten “right” for a few days, done a stack of exercise and been feeling trim and fab and ready to don those skinny jeans for the day.
Then I would weigh myself.
And my “skinny” day would plummet to a “fat” day. I’d pack away the skinny jeans and pull on the sloppy joes. I’d dress how the scales had made me feel.
Without scales, I still have fat days and I have days where I am not. I deal with the fat days (and attribute them to tiredness, time of the month, the weather… could be anything!). And I embrace the "not feeling fat" days. Ain’t no number on a scale going to take that away from me!
I feel good.
After 8 days without my scales, a close friend said to me “You are looking good! Are you feeling good?” My response: “I don’t know. I have gotten rid of my scales.”
I realised what I had said instantly. I didn’t know how I felt without knowing what I weighed.
Now my response would be different. I. FEEL. GOOD.
My kids are right.
My mum had body issues. She often told my sister and I that she thought she was fat, frumpy and unfashionable. She compared herself to other mums. I never thought my mum was fat. In fact, if she believed in herself a little more, she really could have been quite banging (and I am not sure why I am talking about her in past tense…. She is still very much alive and quite frankly could still be banging, but the low confidence she has in herself is a tough cookie to shake). But I started to believe her. I started to believe she was fat. And I guess I started to believe that she represented fat.
So as I grew from a girl to a woman of a similar build, of course I saw myself as: fat.
Now that I am a mother myself, my kids tell me that I’m not fat (and it should be noted I am very careful about shaming myself around them and stopped weighing myself in front of them long ago, but somehow it still comes up). My kids tell me I have a wobbly belly (I really do). But they also tell me that I am beautiful and strong.
With the scales aside, the self-hatred is fading and I can start listening to my kids.
Do you have an obsession with weighing yourself? Do you feel like it is something you could live without?
Ed Note: This article was written over 12 months ago. While I still don't weigh myself, I have at times found myself drawn to a set of scales at a relative's house or the gym. Thinking I am now immune to weigh in results, I have used them. But, apparently, I'm not. The struggle is real people.
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