Fat Chance

There are a lot of things I can tell you about myself with ease. I’m 5 foot 6 and I have size 4 feet. One of my thumbs is larger than the other from years of sucking. I can crack the knuckles in my toes. My favourite fruits are strawberries and pineapple and I don’t like the texture of kiwi. My favourite vegetable is sweetcorn. I can’t see anything without my glasses and I’m allergic to the solution contact lenses come in. I have nice handwriting, rounded and firm like a teacher, but I’m terrible at drawing and painting. I’m left handed. I can’t sing without sounding like a cat going through a mangle. One of my eyes is higher than the other. I’m a UK Size 16, but I can’t tell you my weight. It is a closely guarded secret.

It is fair to say I am a large person. Not thin- very far from in fact. Fat, in my eyes. I am an unusual body shape- although I carry my weight in the classic female areas- my chest and hips, I have absolutely no bottom to speak of. My hands and feet are extremely thin. I have enormous upper arms (cardigans all through summer) and thighs. I have a thin neck and a very round face, with a large double chin. I have always had a fat face, even when I was relatively thin when I was younger. I don’t have much of a tummy, thank heaven, but I do have enormous love handles. Me and my friend have given ourselves the nickname “The Wobbles” and we sing “over-bum, under-bum, wobbling free” as she carries her weight on her hips and bottom, and a saddle-bag like cushion under her bottom- I carry mine above my bottom on my back and the sides of my hips.

My female friends come in a variety of sizes and shapes. I’ll refer to them in initial as I can’t say if they wish to be identified or not. C is extremely top heavy, her broad shoulders and large chest leading down to tiny narrow hips and slender legs. N, as mentioned above, is a classic pear shape- very narrow shoulders and ribcage with wide hips and sturdy legs. S is a UK Size 24, and fills her clothes accordingly. She carries absolutely no weight on her tiny hands, which looks odd in comparison with her large body. R is shaped like me, an hourglass. A is as slender as a boy, with a tiny waist and hips, and legs like strands of dental floss. They are blondes and brunettes, curly and straight hair, brown eyes and blue eyes, bleached blondes and in one case- dyed pink and red.

Most of them don’t see what I see when they look in the mirror. R does not see her perfect symmetrical features, meaning she looks beautiful in any photo taken of her. C does not see those enormous all-seeing ice blue eyes, framed with lashes so long she may be related to Bambi. S does not see her perfect smile and full, lush lips. Even A, who models and regularly appears on stage with pretty much nothing on, has her insecurities and worries. She doesn’t smile in photos because she thinks her teeth are disgusting.

We are taught from an early age to worship at the altar of beauty. The girls in Disney films- a diet of which I grew up on, are ludicrously thin and perfect, with miniscule waists and perfect heart-shaped faces. They always get the man because it is assumed they deserve it.

I’ve often wondered, as some large lady in a wrap dress in a bad newspaper will often complain, if the good-looking do prosper, more so than the overweight and unattractive. Do they have better jobs, and therefore better income? Do we assume they have better lives? Some of my friends are models and burlesque dancers, and I can’t help but notice if I am out with them, the admiring glances they get from passers-by, as they float past with their shiny hair and stunning faces. However, upon talking to them, they seem to have the same issues I do- problems at work, fights with their mothers, issues with their partners and boyfriends, complaints about how long the queues are at the supermarket. They don’t drift through life in a perfect bubble of “I’m gorgeous”, as far as I can tell.

My friend C moved to Scotland as a UK size 8, and had three men offer to carry her case for her at the train station. When she moved back to her home town, after a bad break up as a UK Size 16, not one man offered to help her. This could be merely a coincidence, or it could be something more.

There isn’t a single female I know who is entirely without body hang ups. A colleague at work is a UK Size 6, and has the body most women believe they want. She has a tiny waist, a perfectly flat stomach, slender legs and arms, a heart-shaped face, and you can see the bones in her delicate wrists and the deep dip of her clavicle. I came to work one day wearing a dress with a low V neck and a nipped in waist. She touched me gently on the arm and breathed “I love what you’re wearing! I could never wear that, I’d look ridiculous!” I was shocked for a moment then realised- actually, you’re right. You would look terrible. I can’t wear what she wears, the hipster jeans, the crop tops, the strapless and sleeveless t shirts, but then she cannot wear what I wear, the pencil skirts, the blouses, the clothes designed for those with hourglass figures. The grass will always, always be greener, no matter what you have.

A recent incident at work left my colleagues feeling nothing but contempt for a girl we used to work with. I’m not blaming them in the slightest- what she did was unforgivable, but I can’t help but notice whenever they speak of her now, her name is preceded by “fatty” or “jug ears”. Yet if a colleague they like comes in with a new haircut or jacket, we all tell her she looks beautiful. You’re ugly if we hate you, and beautiful if we love you. I tell my friends all the time they look beautiful- because it gives me pleasure to make them feel good. Would it be different if I told them “you’re lovely” or “you really make me laugh”?

I can’t think of a single person in the public eye who is attractive to absolutely everyone. Take Angelina Jolie for example. My other half genuinely finds her unattractive. He thinks her eyes and mouth are too large, whereas I think she is beautiful. My colleague at work thinks Jennifer Aniston is stunning, whereas I think her face is too bony and angular. My other half loves rounded figures and pale skin- he is a big fan of Nigella Lawson and Christina Hendricks, whereas my colleague at work finds any woman over a UK Size 8 simply “fat”.

Men obviously do generally speaking have a lot more flesh to look upon. Some women will take their clothes off and pose for racy pictures. My friend P is very attracted to the classic “pin-up” look, perfected by Pamela Anderson, the large breasts and hair, tiny everything else, sleepy come to bed eyes and pouty lips. But then he thinks Lily Allen is stunning- which she is, she has a beautiful face.

Women do of course admire (I may mean perve) over delicious men. I have extremely unusual taste in men and have to admit I’m attracted to some very odd characters. If Brad Pitt was to wiggle in here at this precise moment- take a look at me in my pyjamas and no make up and try to lead me to bed, I’d tell him to take a hike. His bland blondeness does nothing for me, and I don’t find muscles attractive. But to many women and some men, he is the epitome of beauty.

Benedict Cumberbatch is a prime example of unusual. Look at him critically, and you can see that his jaw is too long, and his eyes are too far apart. But isn’t he stunning? Those cheekbones, that tall, regal, English carriage. I find elements in so many people that make them beautiful. Andrew McCarthy has a heart-stopping smile- the way his face will suddenly crack into an ear to ear grin. Tom Hardy has amazing lips. Dylan Moran has an adorable child-like face, Greg Davies, the excessively tall comedian, shouldn’t be beautiful but in my eyes he is- those endless legs and perfect eyes. Colin Firth has a cold, flinty stare that I love. I’m a humungous fan of Christian Bale, not for his body as muscles are not my bag, but for that perfect face- those heavy eyebrows and luscious hair.

I feel mean not mentioning my other half in all of this. In my eyes, of course, he is the most beautiful man in the world. He is short (an unusual departure for me, I’m helplessly attracted to ludicrously tall men) and has dark skin that tans in a second in summer. He has hair the colour of black coffee and unusual grapey-green eyes. He is well built but neither fat nor muscular. He has fine wrist bones and slender hands. He has broad shoulders and a large neck. He can pick me up and carry me around like I’m made of clouds. I’ve no idea how other women see him, and I don’t really want to know. I see him as beautiful because I think he is, but also because I love him.

I am sure I am not the only one who will read a story about an actor or other public figure and suddenly be more attracted to them. The actor Rupert Everett, who is a good-looking man by all accounts anyway, moved up quite a few notches in my humble opinion because he moved miles and miles to warmer climate and a bigger pool because his vet told him it would ease his dog’s arthritis. That’s beauty. The actor Pierce Brosnan nursed his wife all through her illness and then married the lady who helped him care for her. That’s beauty. The actor Philip Glenister (whom I adore in his Gene Hunt creation, what can I say, I like an old-fashioned sexist) said upon meeting his wife “She talked incessantly and chain smoked a packet of cigarettes”, but they fell in love and had a family. That’s beauty.

Young girls in the world from my generation, and younger and younger are starving themselves to achieve beauty. Exercising compulsively and binging and purging, all in the name of being attractive. The reason most celebrities have tiny toned bodies and stunning skin are because they have a personal chef, trainer, beautician and make up artist. Some celebrities are absolutely shocking without their make up on. There are of course exceptions to that rule- Beyoncé, who in my eyes is amazing looking, looks just as beautiful with or without make up. It doesn’t make her a better person because she is beautiful, but we have to admit we look upon her with kinder eyes because she is. I know I do.

Airbrushing and other computer magic has a lot to answer for. We all know that magazines do it, and most actually have a disclaimer now saying that they do. But we still look upon the images before us and crave that our bodies and faces would be the same. I remember the now infamous advert for a designer clothing range where the models waist had been airbrushed to the extent that it was actually smaller than her head. What kind of lunacy is that? Why would anyone want to be that physically bizarre? But we do.

I recently posted a picture of my face on twitter. A follower replied immediately with the response “YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” all in capitals like that. I was delighted. She probably was only saying that to be polite, and it wouldn’t be in her nature to respond with “You’re odd looking, you four eyed weirdo” but it still made me feel good. Over the years, I have learnt to brush off and laugh at the comments some people make- in one particular job a colleague referred to me as “the gorilla” as apparently I am fat and hairy. Another colleague told me “I’m glad you’re not good looking, I’d never get any work done”, which was fine by me because he looked like a varnished suitcase. My younger brother has called me fat on more than one occasion, but then he has all the people skills of a tin of salmon. I’ve been told over the years, “you would be gorgeous if you changed your hair/lost weight/ got contacts” and so on and so on. I am fat because I eat too much and I don’t like exercise. It’s that simple. Yes, I have a medical condition that contributes, but I could be thin if I chose to be. I could have hair extensions and fake tan and all manner of creams, potions and lotions applied to my face and body daily in the effort to be beautiful, but I have neither the time nor the money. I could join a gym and live on a diet of lettuce and apples, but I don’t wish to.

I take comfort in the things I know about myself- I am funny, I do know a lot of useless information and I can impersonate nearly anyone. I am useless at mathematics; I have no interest at all in cooking or cleaning and all the maternal instinct of a melon. Babies terrify me, I don’t get on very well with other women, and I have a lisp because my teeth are crooked. I used to bite my nails but then I quit. These are facts. Beauty is not a fact and cannot be seen by everyone. My boyfriend thinks I’m beautiful- and that matters to me. He likes me with my hair in a ponytail and no make up. I prefer my hair down and a good thick inch of slap covering my face. Some men will admire me openly, one commenting I had a “walk like a ballet dancer” and others will find me repulsive, commenting I walk “like a fool.”

I can never pretend I don’t wish for beauty. I think every woman does. From the girl who is wearing 6 inches of foundation and 2 inches of lycra, to the tiny mousy lady in men’s jeans and a baggy fleece. We associate beauty with happiness. Beauty is wherever you find it- in the faces of your children, your pets, clouds, Guy Pearce’s bottom, wherever you think it is. There are going to be men and women all throughout my life who call me fat and ugly, and there are going to be those who call me curvy and beautiful. It isn’t about how you look; it is about how you feel. Your body is just the shell and it will not last forever. Life is too short, I feel, to spend it on a treadmill and waxing your toes. But if it makes you feel good to do these things, then you carry on. My weight does stop me from doing certain things- like buying clothes from some retailers and wearing a bikini, but it doesn’t stop me running up stairs, dancing at a party and getting served first at a bar if I’m wearing something daringly low cut. My hands and brain allowed me to write this, and that’s part of my body. It may not be perfect, it may be a mix of scars and stretch marks, nice bits and ugly bits, but it is mine, and it is a map of the life I have lead. I am a journey my parents have been on- I have my Mothers apple-shaped face and green eyes, my Fathers long nose and pale skin. When I get into bed at night and my boyfriend curls his hand in mine and kisses my forehead, that has to be beauty. In his eyes, I could never be ugly, and that is exactly what I need.

Beauty is merely a concept and an ideal- but one so many of us strive to achieve and put ourselves through hell to do so. When I come home from work, I throw my handbag on the table and walk into the spare room. My pet rat, Bob, comes waddling out from his bed and to the top of his cage. I lean into him and say “Hello, beautiful” and he strains his little nose towards mine and closes his eyes. He is beautiful, despite living in his own toilet essentially and smelling like a enormous bin, because I love him, like so many people in my life. That inner beauty, the kindness in the things that they do for me, like remembering my birthday and retweeting my writing (hint) are what makes them beautiful, inside and out.

I suppose I am building up to some kind of conclusion here, but I am not sure what. To my friends and family, and to my boyfriend, my ever-fixed star, thank you for loving me. You are what makes me feel beautiful- not a bottle of foundation and a push up bra. You’re the reason I bother to get out of bed in the mornings, the reason I run a brush through my hair and pluck my eyebrows, ready for another beautiful day. You’re all amazing in my eyes, and I wouldn’t change you for the world.