Fattie Fattie Fattie Oi Oi Oi

A few moments ago I was having a scroll through instagram, embracing a little downtime after doing a metric tonne of laundry and ironing a bundle of things too. As I sat down for a little break in the early evening sunshine, my notifications popped up. As I clicked through, I spotted that a comment had been left on the picture above. The picture's over a month old, which is why I think I even noticed - most of my recent notifications have been on the slew of pretty Italian scenes I've been sharing. Man, Italy is gorgeous. 

Before I continue with the tale, a little aside on the image above.

I happen to love the picture, not because I look good, or it's especially clever, or even a great insta-shot. I look a bit mad, to be fair - I'd been up since 4.45am to get on the Eurostar, my hair is clearly having a moment, I'm grinning like a loon and the Arc de Triomphe shot I was aiming for has just been obscured by a van. However, I also look happy...because I was. And because I am.

So back to the comment. The comment left, coincidentally, by someone who had followed and then promptly found a selfie to leave his oh-so-special and important tuppence worth of opinion on. The comment? Fattie Fattie Fattie Oi Oi Oi.

I mean. What critique. What wit. What a way to get straight to the point and present me with some brand new information. Because obviously, being the size and weight I am, this fact had never been brought to my attention. I mean, when you're larger than the average/ fat/ obese/ plump/ voluptuous (pick your flavour - I've been called them all and I am them all) heaven knows this is never pointed out to you! The culture and time we live in never objectifies people, let alone women.

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A numbers game...

Yesterday was a gorgeous, sunny autumn day here in London.  These days of September and October sunshine are always amongst some of my favourites of the year - the city is so beautiful in the sunshine, and without the scorching temperatures and busy crowds of high summer everyone is a little more chilled and a little less rushed, particularly at two on a Saturday afternoon, post-brunch, pre-evening.

As I walked from Angel to Old Street to Moorgate to Liverpool Street, cutting a swathe through the City, I had a good think about posts I wanted to get written this week.  I want to write all about Smart Women Week, visits to the zoo, the books I've been reading, the baking event I attended a couple of nights ago.....it struck me that I should also do a 'Wednesday Weigh In' post.

And then I realised.

I have no idea what I weigh right now.

This fact, when I realised it yesterday, made me feel almost dizzy.  I always know what I weigh.  Down to the decimal point.  To not have that number in big, bold, ten feet high letters in my mind was....odd.  A little scary.  And pretty darn intoxicating.  Since about the age of eleven, I have always know that number.  I've always felt the horror and shame and self-loathing of a bigger number; the pride and ego and fragile fear of the number shrinking.  I've spent twenty-three years of my life letting that number dictate an awful lot to me - how I should feel, how I should act, how I should be.

And right now....I have no idea what that number is.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the healthkick is off, because this year I am all about getting fitter and healthier.  I've been walking, and eating salads, and swimming, and gymming, and sleeping, and trying to keep portions small.  But for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what I weigh.  That number, with all it signifies and makes me feel, is off the table.

I kind of like not obsessing over it.

So in October, I'm going to continue this trend and will next weigh myself on November 1st (because I'm nosey and I think by then I'll be dying to know if the good habits I'm trying to espouse are helping me to shrink, even if just a little).  No more daily weighs.  No more spreadsheets plotting what I need to lose.  Just hard work, good fun, and a set of scales hidden in the box room.

That number has been so key to my self-image for so long.  But I don't think it's the most important number about me.  So I thought I'd close with a completely different set of numbers, each of which probably tell you a little more about me than the one on the scale....or will at least offer a little amusement.

13

US states visited.

22

The number of homes I've lived in. 

17

Times I've read Pride and Prejudice.

13

Months since I've been to the dentist.  Must fix soon....

89

Days till Christmas.  SO flipping excited.

1

Fillings I have. 

26

Age at which I passed my driving test.

3

The amount of times I've sung the seminal 'Pass Out' by Tinchy Stryder at karaoke sessions.  Like him I've been to Southampton but I've never been to Scunthorpe, so I feel a kinship...

26.2 (miles)

Longest distance I've walked in a single period.

14

Number of bridesmaids I had last year at our wedding.  My friendships are one of the greatest treasures in my life.

I'm re-learning how to play the numbers game a little.

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Talents

"What are you good at, Miss Thornley?"

Ah, the directness of the eight year old. All question, no fluff. I paused and looked at him quizically, and I saw him rethink the query and try it again, like a pilot trying a landing for a second time, all concentration and nerves.

"I mean, what are your talents? What do you do that you love to do and that you are good at? I know you like teaching and I like your lessons, but what else do you do?"

Clarity.

I don't often think about my talents, truth be told.

I spend a great deal of time thinking, worrying, obsessing over what I cannot do (run, sew a hem, wire a plug, are the tip of that particular iceberg, in case you're wondering!), but it's been a good long time since I sat down and focused on what it is I can do. After all, if someone as eternally cool as the divine Maya Angelou can say "I believe that every person is born with talent," it's surely a thing worth pondering. And in this season of contemplation, as the embers of the old year die out ready for the approach of the new, it seems the perfect thing to do.

So (teeny tiny drum roll, please), here are what I think are my talents.

I can make good cupcakes. Sugary and silly and ultimately very homemade looking, but yummy.

I can read stories well (this entry is 4T approved).

I can write interesting newsy letters and make decent care packages.

I can sing, not in a showstopping way, but in a 'hey, she can carry a tune' way.

I have an encyclopedic knowledge of cheesy pop and 1990s/2000s teen movies.

I think I'm a pretty good hostess, in a mumsy sort of way.

I can walk a long way.

I can keep secrets well.

I give good hugs.

I can forgive.

I can make children feel at ease, and I can teach them and listen to them and encourage them.

I can dance the 'Saturday Night' dance with real panache.

So, lovelies, what are your talents? I'd love to find out.

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Sunday Self Portrait, Sunday 15th May

(Yes, I know it's Tuesday)

(But I wanted to get back into my Sunday self potraits)

(And on Sunday I wanted to write about the Moonwalk)

(So I took this Sunday evening)

(But am posting now)

(Parentheses FTW!)

PS This was Sunday at 10.30, the evening after the Moonwalk. I was shattered!

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Sunday Self Portrait, Sunday 18th April

Tired, crazy hair, but wicked proud after a BIG training walk (also with vaguely crazy eyes due to the whole trying-to-angle-so-pedometer-could-be-read-and-I-could-be-seen-and-using-iphone-in-mirror factor).

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(Belated) Sunday Self-Potrait

Fresh from the shower, ready for a sunny Sunday, grinning like a loon as ever.

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Sunday Self Portrait

I spend an awful lot of time worrying about how I look.

I feel fat and unattractive and weird-looking an awful lot.

One thing thrown up by my newfound love of working out is that I feel pretty darn disconneted to my body. These eyes, these fatty thighs, that wonky smile, the mad hair....they are part of me and yet sometimes I look in the mirror and have no idea just who is looking back. It's like I'm trapped in a body I don't know. And I don't like.

But sometimes, just sometimes, there's something I like - a curl, a dimple, a patch of smooth skin unblemished, and I think that's worth celebrating. On this journey of getting healthy and trying to be fitter, this journey of growing and accepting and owning, I want to celebrate the victories, face the demons, and deal with all the flaws too.

So every Sunday, I shall snap a picture of myself. Might be a close up, might not, might be a foot or an elbow, or a waistcurve gradually revealing itself....but really it's just me capturing a moment and trying to feel like less of a stranger in my own body. Here's to the journey, I guess.

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Happy Snaps: June 10

Because sometimes Wednesdays are just made for goofing off with a camera and a bathroom mirror....

Once again, check out how tired. I look as tired as ScarJo does on the front of the current French Elle!
My cameraeye.

Fogged mirror.

The last two are me jumping up and down and snapping sporadically. And evidently having a whale of a time!

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Shipshape.

I don't quite know where that title came from...probably the fact that my class think I look like a sailor today. But it also fits with what I have to write about today...body image and getting used to your own looks.

There's a great French phrase that goes along the lines of bien dans sa peau (I guarentee I've misquoted that. I swear, you don't speak a language for more-or-less a decade and decade and suddenly you can't fathom it....), which I love. It's about acceptance and self-worth and feeling comfortable with who you are and how you are.

It's also something I have a HUGE issue with.

You see, for so much of my early life (hmmmm, make that up until I was in my early twenties), the overwhelming message I got from the people around me (whether overtly or covertly) was that I was ugly. Fat. Weird-looking. So naturally, when you hear this enough, you start to believe it. You get so good at being horrible about yourself, so quick on the draw with the poisonous jibe (always self-directed, natch), so filled with self-loathing that you feel (and are?) all the things you're told.

Gradually, in my early-to-mid-twenties, I realised that I wasn't ugly. Few people truly are. And yes, I was (and am) fat, but that's no crime. And it's something I can change. It's something I am changing. As for weird looking? Some things are just genetic :-).

So I'm gradually learning to accept myself for how I look. I could write an essay on what I don't like....but I'm starting to leave that behind and looking at what I DO like instead. It's a big shift. And it's a learning curve. It also brings new challenges. If you're not ugly anymore, then people might like you, and all those other messages you were sent (worthless, stupid, a waste of space) reel straight to the front and centre. Demanding attention.

Growing up is freaking hard sometimes.

Anyhow, in the spirit of acceptance, I'm doing a mini project, where I'm going to attempt to take some self-potrait shots which I feel reflect me and I don't hate. Wish me luck I guess! Above is the first batch, just me and the camera, after yet another long day at school. More will follow if and when the moment takes me...

Love,
Cxx

PS Thanks for all the song feedback on the last post - it's a Bonnie-Aretha fight at the mo.

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