An original poem about the loss of a love that was never really yours.
First comes the heat and then come the hard bodied posers…immediately followed by the soft bodied haters and self-loathers. Which group do I fall into? The hard bodied, of course, you ugly lards! Not really. Without even knowing what I look like, it’s pretty obvious that I’m a softie. A softie who hates the summer time. Like it isn’t enough that being ugly makes you feel ugly, come the summer, it feels as though every single piece of you is up for scrutiny. Every roll, every second chin, every bingo wing, every crease where there shouldn’t be a crease, your front and your back boobs, from muffs to muffin tops… That shit is on show!! And it’s all warm and sweating. (Sexy.)
The stupid part is, we all know the summer is coming, so something can always be done to avoid this annual frumpy feeling. It’s not like, “Oooh, fancy it being warm at this time of year!” “What’s all this sunshine business? I wasn’t expecting that at all!” “30 degrees, you say? What’s that like, one corner of a rhomboid?” NO, it’s not! Saying that, living in the UK, it can come as a bit of a surprise, a hot summer, but, you know, there’s always a strong chance that we’ll get a day or two. Some of us just never learn and never prepare.
It wouldn’t be true to say I’ve lived a totally gym-free existence. I’ve been before. At least twice, actually! The first time I got cramp in my leg stepping ON the treadmill, the second time there was a free buffet lunch! (I really wish I was making this up. Shame on me.) I just feel like there are better things that I can do with my time than going to the gym. Like going to the pub… No. It’s great to be healthy, if that’s your motivation, but for me, the gym comes with too many levels of judgement, comparison and strangers with limited boundaries. So instead, I convince myself that it’s all just vanity anyway, which I have no time for, so hide myself away in winter coats and jumpers. Then, the next thing I know, it’s HOT and I’m ringing out the armpits of my t-shirt after walking ten feet to the bus stop, while my attractive neighbours wretch at the site of me and I regret every damn office Krispy Kreme I ever ate. RAGE! (I also need to move to an uglier part of town. You know how you get those ugly parts of town?)
I’ve previously tried to get over my gymphobia/people weirdness combo issue by working out at home. Initially, it had no effect whatsoever, then I switched the CD from slow jams to something a little more up-tempo and I was on my way. I was kind of getting it too, that exercise adrenalin thing. Sometimes you’d be buzzing after! Pumped! Psyched! More often than not, though, I was just fucking knackered and ready for bed! (At 7am). I did, however, keep it up for a while. And then something stupid happened. (Stupid? Me?) The more I worked out, the more justification I felt for eating that doughnut, or that cupcake or that whole tub of ice-cream…straight after chowing down a whole 12 inch pizza!! Urrrrgh! I was cancelling out all of my own good efforts so, really, what was the point?
The crux of the issue is, I love food too much. In fact, it’s the only context in which I can say the word “love” completely without effort, without cringing, tensing or breaking into a cold sweat. I love food! Sometimes, if I’m really enjoying eating something, I’ll do a little dance to the rhythm of my chewing and make up songs. It comforts me. It’s a treat after a shit day. It makes me feel warm and snuggly inside. It’s sweet sometimes. It fills a need. It is sustenance. It satisfies cravings. It’s there when you’re all alone. It’s something familiar when you’re feeling lost. It’s a tiny (cheese?) hand to wipe away the tears. It’s a dispassionate voice at the end of the phone. It’s someone you once loved and no longer recognise. It’s an anxious pang. It’s a feeling of loss. It’s the fear of the unknown. It’s the confused desperation that occupies your mind. It’s the dark when all light fades. It’s the loathing of self that devours your waking thoughts. It’s the horror that haunts your dreams. It’s…
So…THE GYM? Third time’s a charm???
But, no, jokes aside. I reject the ideology of the body beautiful, and both love and embrace beauty in its many and varied forms. I’ll come to love myself too, eventually. For now, though, I’ll call it a slow courtship.
Today I decided to write a blog…. Haha, no, I won’t start like that.
Do you ever do that thing where you get dressed in the morning, look in the mirror and think, “yeah, I look nice in this,” only to leave the house, catch your reflection in a car or shop window and then think, “WHAT THE FUCK?” but you’ll be late for work if you go home and change so you just have to roll with it? Pretty much every day, I do that thing! Only today, as I’m crossing the road and dry heaving at my reflection in the stupid café-where-everyone’s-really-attractive window, I hear a little voice calling my name. (Of course I forgot my headphones today. OF COURSE.) To be fair, it was two of my best friends calling me, but still, you know, in that precise moment of reflection heave, you do not want to see anyone! Especially not someone you know really well who can then continually retell the story of that time they saw you heaving at yourself one morning. Urrrgh. But whatever, I had a sense of smugness about me this morning because, as it was such a sunny start to the day, (“sunny start to the day” – already talking like a div) I decided I was going to walk the half-hour walk to the tube station and get some pre-summer exercise. YAY ME!
No, not “yay me” in the end. Nothing to “yay” about at all! It was sunny, yes, but super windy!!! The weather forecast didn’t say nothing about no wind! So my coat kept blowing open and flashing my dry-heave outfit to all and sundry walking past and going by on buses. You’re probably thinking, “why not just do up the coat?” Well, I couldn’t because the coat is a little tight. YES, that’s right, I’m chubby. (Skinny attractive girls don’t blog, come on. They’re busy beating off all the attractive men…not beating off like wanking beating off, like beating off with a stick beating off…all the attractive men that buy them gifts and call them pretty and “like” whatever dumb shit they post on facebook…… or whatever the fuck skinny attractive girls do! They don’t blog anyway! Bitter much? HAHA) Anyway, back to the wind making my top cling to my belly rolls and flashing my chub to passers-by, it just was not pretty at all. And also embarrassing for me, but, you know, I’d started so I had to keep going. Plus, how will I get rid of the chub if I don’t walk? (Eat less, drink fewer pints? AS IF. I used to know a guy called Asif! No I didn’t.) I did keep going anyway. Top lip started to perspire, but I did not let that stop me. Forehead started to perspire and drip cocoa butter in my eye, but I did not let that stop me either. I did alright, to be fair and I’m glad I walked. I just need to burn this top that makes me look like a male body builder in a ripped sweatshirt.
I was even early for work in the end, and bumped into a lovely colleague and neighbour with whom I chatted all the way up to the office. That was nice…for once. Hate the tube in the morning, but I’ll appreciate today and say nothing more about that.
Work was uneventful, on the whole. I did read a lot about Anne Frank, which has entirely NOTHING to do with the work that I do, but my boyfriend told me he was reading her diary and there was “a lot more lesbianism in it” than he was expecting! What??? He’s not totally wrong, it turns out, but he is largely wrong. The fool. The foolish boyfriend that I still can’t talk to about my feelings. The boyfriend that I still think is too good looking for me which cripples me with insecurity. The boyfriend with a million questions over his head, none of which I can ask. But I CAN bloody well moan about over a pint (four pints) with friends.
After the rest of the day at work, hating on half the office in my head while smiling in their faces, I decided not to walk home from the tube station. Partly because I realised that the inner thighs of my trousers had started making a high pitched whistle sound with every step, but also because I just couldn’t be fecking bothered!
I’ve spent the evening home alone, stuck in my own head about ridiculous things. Not the boyfriend, he’s really very sweet. But I think a lot about other people. Friendships, relationships, how alone I feel despite having lots of friends. “Friends” – it’s hard to define friendship in a city like London. It’s a hard place to live, despite being one of the best places to live.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of FOOLISHNESS…”
Haha. Dick(ens). I think I’ll leave it there for now, shall I?