Being fat, when you really don’t want to be.

On Wednesday I went to a gym class and did 10,000 steps. On Thursday I ate a salad for lunch but had 2 pints of San Miguel in the afternoon. Today, I ate four (might of even been five) mini rolls and did 6,000 steps.

I’m not good at dieting. I’m not good at exercising. I find them both really hard. I love ‘healthy’ food, but I also really love pasta, chocolate, bread, cake, loooove da cake. I also really like exercising but find doing it so hard.

I have very little self control and when it comes to exercise, I give up when I feel like I’m pushing myself – just to save myself the embarrassment of not being able to do it.

My beautiful friend Molly and I in Berlin aged 15.

My friend invited me to join her at Zumba Strong on Wednesday. An intense class, but I could take it at my own pace. I tried to think of an excuse not to go, but I didn’t really have one. It’s a whole 45 second walk from my house and Papa No + Ro would be in from work to have the children. I had a few reasons not to go:

1. I couldn’t find my sports bra

2. I don’t have cool gym gear

3. I had a blister on my foot

4. I ate the kids left over potato skins and I’d probably get indigestion

I was being snappy with Papa No + Ro before I went. He didn’t do anything wrong apart from just have a cracking metabolism that meant five mini rolls has no affect on his body aesthetics.

I got out of the house, I was so nervous. My hands were clammy. I couldn’t stop looking at the other people about to go into the class, was I going to really embarrass myself? I stood at the back of the class, the teacher immediately spotted my new face, “go at your own pace sweetie”, so she had now drawn attention to me. That’s fine, calm down Erin, no one in here gives a shit.

Pre baby Nono. Loving the super thin arched eyebrow.

Twenty minutes passed, I was still alive. I couldn’t breathe all that well, but I felt good. Thirty minutes passed and the excessive burpees are really pushing me now. Then the (lovely) teacher says, ‘you doing alright sweetie?’ To the hot sweaty mess at the back (me), except I can’t reply because I’ve lost use of speech because I’m kinda hanging my tongue out of my mouth like a fecking mastiff. So I just nod frantically whilst also trying to give her the eye that says ‘you’re really nice but please stop drawing fucking attention to me’ but, anyhow, I made it to the 45 minute mark and I didn’t die.

Body image is a struggle, like it is for so many. I am so pro YOU DO YOU. Be proud to be any size, any weight, any anything. But then I hate my own figure so much. Except after a couple of G&T’s then I’m like ‘YASSSSS slay curvy mama’ in the Wetherspoons toilet mirror. A lot of my issues come from teenage years when my weight was often used against me, which hilariously at the time was well within the healthy BMI range, but hey, kids are pricks. I dabbled in purging, didn’t make much difference. I tried to starve myself, but turns out hunger pains really hurt and then I had Noah. And it’s like, you can’t do that stuff when you’re pregnant, because that makes you a really selfish mother then doesn’t it?

Always did love a Wetherspoons toilet.

I had also left school when I had Noah. So s’long fat jibes. Except one guy who called me a ‘fat cunt’ on the tube in Hoxton. Not sure why he did that, but I was probably being a knobhead of some sorts. My body confidence after Noah strangely grew. There was nobody to knock me down. I disliked my stretch marks but knew that in time they would fade. I was proud of growing a small hooman.

It’s different after I’ve had Roman, I don’t look as good, I’m not as young and I eat more, I’m also more knackered, which means I eat more shit at unholy times. Chocolate really helps sitting up at 3am with a screaming baby. I’m getting married in June, so I’d like to feel good on the day, and not like everybody’s staring at the whale bride.

Pre baby Ro – also spy the long hair!

Then I heard it yesterday, and it hit me like a tonne of bricks. Someone who was a relatively new friend, but someone I would consider a ‘good’ friend, was glad I went to the gym ‘cos I really need it’ and honestly it’s crushed me. It’s made me never want to eat again, but to also lock myself away and eat everything in sight. It’s made me want to live and breathe the gym, it’s also made me wanna throw the towel in already. I feel so conflicted. It’s also made me feel incredibly lonely. Lonely because I thought this was a friend, and she looked at me and thought ‘you should go to the gym’ when I sat and ate a cornetto in front of her, she probably thought ‘put it down you lardy cow’. She’s invited to my wedding. Will it be her looking at the whale bride? Sneering at the mahussive newlywed?

It’s knocked my confidence hugely. Many people will read this and think I’m overreacting, maybe I am. Some might read it and GET IT. I can’t believe the level of distress it’s caused me, I thought I was over this, I thought that was long gone with my teen years, but clearly not.

This is not a plea for clothes btw, I do own some that still fit 😉

9 thoughts on “Being fat, when you really don’t want to be.

  1. Erin, you are wonderful. Brave and wise and witty and perfect. That is life. You, your kids, your family, your friends. Your mind. You look fantastic, but that doesn’t matter anyway. The man you’re marrying, does he love you? Of course. I don’t go to the gym, I look like a melted haribo, I’m 40, and I’m universally accepted as gorgeous. I believe the cool expression is “fuck tha haters.” but it’s true. You’ve always shone. Smelly. Xxxx Tom


  2. You’re as funny as ever and this is so brave! People are often nervous when speaking in depth about how they really feel about their body but I reckon so many people can relate to this so it’s needed! Also you are a hot, hot mama


  3. You are who you are.. you cannot excuse peoples dim comments just brush them off n be thank full of what you have! From one larger-than-I-want-to-be-but -I-like-gin-too-much -muma toanother muma you are beautiful as you are! 💕


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