The Way I Am
My life is OK.
Alright, so that's not a glowing endorsement, but I bet it's as good as most people could do.
Generally, everything is in the right place. My job is OK. My home life is OK (except for hubby, J, - he's great). And I look OK.
I'm no supermodel, but I scrub up pretty well. Like everyone, I have good points and bad. I'd like to be smaller, but I do look slim-ish. I'm pretty, albeit in an old-fashioned, curvy way. I have a tummy and my bum is too round. But I have big boobs and a nice shape.
Overall, I am pretty happy with my life. Which means it disturbs me when something comes along to upset the balance. And lately there have been some pretty strange things going on chez Rach.
I have been having Issues with my neighbours. They have always been noisy. And their dog annoys me. Cute, but she barks all the time. She harasses my cats - not just from her garden. She will run all the way under the fence and into my house. And if she comes into my garden while I am out, the neighbour comes round to get her.
The fence belongs to the neighbours, so legally I can't mess with it so the dog can't get in. So I should just talk to them. But the trouble is, I am really bad at confrontation. I would rather bury my head in the sand and hope the trouble goes away. If it doesn't, I tend to live with it (while complaining protractedly and energetically to my husband).
My other issue with my neighbour is a weird one. THE WOMAN HAS STARTED HANGING HER CLOTHES ON MY LINE! Yep, you heard me right. Not content with invading my space to collect her precious delinquent of a dog, yesterday, when I looked out of the window, I saw this woman's jeans on my line. And I am not one to judge (please don't hate me), but they were huge! She is a very large woman, you see. I only have a short washing line, and quite frankly, the gigantic arse of her jeans was taking up most of it.
I can't believe I still didn't do anything. I just don't like to make a fuss.
Until last night.
When my crazy neighbour stole my trousers.
Yep. She was wearing my pants.
She must have sneaked into my house somehow.
Yesterday evening, I was sitting on my couch, happily tucking into my dessert, and without warning I glanced up and saw it. My neighbour's round, hard, buttery thigh dressed in my nice midnight blue velvet track pants. Stretching them.
As you can imagine, it was a bit of a shock.
Particularly since my neighbour actually didn't seem to be around.
Yep, this Huge Random Thigh, this UFA (Unidentified Fat Appendage) appeared to be attached...to me.
I panicked. You would have, too. Who the hell did that leg belong to? 'J, J!' I yelled. 'Look at this!'
J looked round from the computer, only mildly interested.
'Yeah. It's a leg.'
'It's disgusting. How the hell did it get here?'
J rolled his eyes. 'It's a lovely, lovely leg. You have lovely legs.'
I sat there in shock. It was not a lovely leg. And I'm sorry, but it bloody well wasn't mine. It was...I swear...my neighbour's leg. A Fat Person's leg. The leg of someone who has Let Themselves Go. The sort of person who is badly out of control. The sort of person I feel sorry for in the supermarket.
No. Nope. Not me. Not my leg.
I pushed it out of my mind and went back to my chocolate ice cream and The Office. But I couldn't quite forget. Because it was my leg, wasn't it? No, no, please no!
Did my leg really look like that? I had no idea. So I did what I always do when I want an honest picture of how I look.
I sat down for some Facebook Therapy. I cannot recommend this highly enough. It is effective, and free. What you do is click on the 'pictures of you' section. Skip past the ones you put there yourself. You know the lights/camera angle/good fairies are making you look misleadingly good. That's why you put them there. Click on the other ones, the ones other people put up.
God, there were hundreds of them. There was my belly, hanging over my too-tight waistband, there were my three chins wobbling as I grinned like a loon, there were my huge boobs swinging pendulously, my beloved lacy bra (already a G cup) obviously totally inadequate. And, yep, there were the legs. Fat Lady legs, attached to me.
My reaction was immediate and violent. I was sweating, my heart was pounding. It couldn't be. Not again.
I mean, being ridiculously overweight once can be explained as a temporary blip. Twice is starting to look...well...just a little careless. And like I just plain am a Fat Person.
I pulled the plug on the computer and ran upstairs. I had to put some distance between me and those pictures, between me and the fat girl.
A cup of tea, a chapter of a trashy novel and a good long look in the mirror later, I was feeling a little better. Those were just bad photos - I didn't look that bad in real life. Alright, so maybe I wasn't as slim as I had thought, but I looked...OK. My pants were size 12.
I went downstairs to seal my improved mood with some more ice cream.
But I couldn't eat it. It was cloying. Because...I was just kidding myself, wasn't I? 5ft 6 and 190 pounds wasn't 'slim-but-curvy', was it?
It was obese.
And what about those size 18 pants I bought the other day 'to tide me over'? The ones that were taking up all that space on my washing line (sorry, neighbour).
I had to try to get my head round it. It was simply not possible that the picture of myself I had in my head tallied with how I actually looked.
In my head, I look like I did at 20, with a couple of minor wrinkles.
In real life, I look like I did at 20, with a couple of minor wrinkles and 60 extra pounds.
When I look in the mirror, I focus on my eyes, my mouth - not my three chins. I unconsciously stand up straighter, pull my tummy in. I look at my nice hair, my nice clothes. So many distractions.
In shops, I consistently pick out shirts I think are right, and am then surprised when I can't get one arm into them.
I almost laugh when I look at my pants. They look like you could fit two of me in them...yet somehow when I put them on they still feel tight.
Except in my dreams - where Fat Rachel is a regular star - I rarely see a true picture of how I look. And when I do, I block it out. Like I said, I am not good at confronting things. I won't accept all those surprising glimpses - a fat thigh when I relax on the couch, a wobbly arm when I brush my hair, swollen feet when I sit on the toilet.
I will look at my thigh, try really to see it - but my mind just seems to slide over it. I can't take it in.
I just don't feel fat inside. I am the same person I always was - so why does everyone, including myself, treat me so differently?
That is a subject for another blog. But for now I say, enough. My lack of ability to face problems is hurting me. It is stopping me asking my neighbour to keep her dog in her own yard. And it is stopping me taking charge of my own (rapidly expanding) waistline.
I am not going to allow myself to deny the reality of the situation one day longer.
Pretty long blog to tell you all I am sticking a fat photo on the fridge, eh? 
Love Rach xxx 