I bought skinny jeans yesterday. And it felt goooooooood. But I’m not supposed to say that, because I should love myself no matter my size.
Well, guess what? I love myself even more when I’m thin. Go stick that in your pipes and smoke it fativists.
Just in case you hadn’t heard, fativists are the size acceptance, fat liberation, fat activism, fativism, or fat power movement. In America there’s even a National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.
Fativists get very agitated whenever they think someone in the media is stigmatising being fat or “promoting anti-fat rhetoric.”
Ironically, it means they end up promoting an anti-thin rhetoric instead. And I think it’s a bit mad.
I’ve shed almost 10kg since Husband packed his bags and left in February.
I look – and feel – much better for it.
At first the weight slipped away because I felt too sick to eat.
Then I started working out with enthusiasm rather than simply because I thought I should.
And eventually I tackled eating – with gusto – again. I’m talking daily chocolate bars in my new job. Junk food vending machines are quite the occupational hazard.
And somehow I’m still thin. Not super thin, still curvy. Thin-ish. (I think it’s the post-separation stress and giving up wine.)
I thought “thin” was an adjective that would never be used to describe me again. Although, I refused to buy jeans to fit my size 14-16 shape, in the vain hope a miracle would occur and I’d start shedding fat with zero effort.
Well, I bought jeans, but I didn’t invest in them. They were utilitarian $8 numbers from KMart. I wasn’t going to waste proper money on a pair.
Yesterday, I went to the sale rack at David Jones and started trying on designer jeans. It was a bit hit and miss at first, as I tried to establish my new size. But I got there in the end and walked away with a bargain $65 pair.
I feel bloody fantastic in them. I was almost giddy with delight in the change room as I examined myself from every angle.
And not because – I can hear the fativists chanting – I finally conform to society’s unrealistic expectations about size.
No, because my body feels firm and fit. It’s not perfect – there are scars and squishy bits and veins and dimples – but the mirror no longer reflects a person who’d stopped caring about her appearance because she felt so overwhelmed by her life.
I’m sending an email to my gym instructor today to thank her for the help she doesn’t realise she gave me. Six months ago, I went to her Sunday morning pump classes feeling so, so low. An hour of her enthusiasm and the exercise endorphins meant I walked out a little better prepared to face the world.
Now I start those classes smiling.
And I know my size shouldn’t matter when I walk out of that class. But there’s a certain fark-you-ex-husband pleasure in walking out of it feeling and looking so good after the pain his betrayal has caused me.
Bring on the trolls …