Big, fat truth: Volume Eight

Spa Slay

I am going to a spa. Yay! 

I went to a local hotel for a pamper day, complete with a heathy buffet and ONE glass of wine OR fruit juice, for my beautiful friend’s hen. I did not want to go at first. I didn’t know what to expect, I was not happy that I would need to be touched and a healthy buffet sounds terrible to me. 

It was a very pleasant surprise to find out that I am most definitely a spa person, I was totally right about the buffet though. 

I did have a few things crop up that I want to avoid this time though, so I am preparing well in advance. 

Swimming Costume Etiquette

I was told to wear a bathing suit last time, because there is a pool. No problemo, I go swimming a lot so I actually have two. They are super comfy, practical and sporty, the kind with little shorts that those maniacs who do triathlons wear. Perfect. I did not realise that going to the spa is more like going to a Marbella pool party than going to my local leisure centre. 

You might be thinking, Bek, if you feel more comfortable in a black onesie that covers you from your knees to your chin, you should not be shamed by the flamboyant costumes of your fellow spa-ers. And you would be right, but, I love to dress up. I will not be passing up the chance to wear a thoroughly impractical two piece, jewellery and full face of make up, thank you very much. 

I’ve bought a delightful yet flimsy bikini from boohoo curve, it wouldn’t stand up to a vigorous backstroke, so it’s lucky I intend to just float around like a well dressed jelly fish. 

Bathrobe Blues

When you aren’t swimming or being oiled up by teenage girls, they let you knock about in a fancy bathrobe like Whitney Huston or the queen or something. It feels very decadent to lounge on a sofa drinking ONE glass of wine OR fruit juice in a fluffy dressing gown, or it would have if the robe in anyway covered what it was supposed to. 

I asked at reception for their biggest robe and was looked at like I was speaking Elvish. She said the waffle ones were more generous and passed it to me with a sad look. I was a size 16 at this point, but I carry all my weight in the front like a plumber, the robe barely fit and I had to reposition myself the whole time to make sure I wasn’t showing people more of my body than they wanted to see, unlike a plumber. 

I’m now a size 20 or 22 depending on the store, I don’t think even the waffle robes are going to cut it this time. I was more than a little concerned about this, what was I going to do if it didn’t close! Like seriously, what the fuck would I do? Kick off? Insist on wearing my bikini during the treatments? Sit around eating cold pasta salad in dripping wet cozzie? Bring one from home?

Oh yes, I’ll bring one from home! Thanks to Amazon I am the proud owner of a double xl luxury towelling bathrobe of my very own. This is great, I am going to be way more relaxed at the spa and I can pretend to be Whitney Huston in my own home any day of the week. 

Actually Relaxing

Unwinding and forgetting the stresses of the real world is kind of the whole point of spas, right? Well, last time I was so stressed about the whole experience that my anxiety was through the roof when I was having my treatment. I only realised it was actually wonderful to just lay there and be scrubbed and massaged by a professional, exactly three seconds before it finished. 
I am going to be chill af this time and enjoy the whole thing, I still won’t let them touch my feet though, I’m not an animal. 
So yeah, I’m all set for my day of pampering and indulgence now and I am super excited to spend the day with some of my favourite ladies. Also, I’m going to load up with a real big breakfast because a healthy buffet is as unappetising as it sounds. 


Advertisements

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Seven


Did I forget something?

It’s been a month since New Years, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. The oven is off, I don’t iron and I’ve locked the front door. I’ve got my keys, my phone and my purse in my pockets and I’ve fed the cat. What is giving me that, Mrs Mcallister realising she left her son in the attic to die, feeling? (I watched Home Alone four times at Christmas, give me a break). 

Then, when I was catching up with a gal pal and the conversation inevitably turned to weight (we are women, obvs) I realised why I feel so odd. This is the first New Years, since I was 15 that I haven’t been starting a new diet. 

I did not wake up on the first thinking about how great I will be at everything once I’m skinny. I didn’t pretend that as soon as I am a size 6 again, in just three months, if my calculations and the promises made by the diet app are true, I will have energy, I won’t be sad and tired all the time and I’ll be able to have fun and relax again and, maybe, actually leave the house for nice reasons instead of just work. 
I’ll will never be that person again. I’m not going to set myself up for failure and then berate myself for not being good enough at changing my whole personality. I will not buy fresh produce and leave it rot in my fridge while I eat out anyway. I will not download any bullshit apps or drink diarrhoea inducing tea. 

I have spent the latter half of 2016 trying to rediscover and nurture my authentic, true, happy self. I do not want to derail that by spending two toxic months beating myself up because I’m not outdoorsy or vegan or thin! Weight, or anything to do with appearance, should never be listed as a character flaw. I shan’t be buying into this bullshit again, what I will be buying is doughnuts. 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Three 


Lounging like a pro. 

Oh leisure wear, you comfy son of a bitch. I want to wear you every day, I want to spend all my money on Ivy Park body suits and PINK slogan tees, and I want to walk around like a fierce, yet squishy, advert for the sporting life. I don’t though, and there are a couple of reasons why. 

Society judges my body type so much that it can be a mine field. If a skinny gal wanders around in trackies people will assume she is about to exercise or shoot a hip hop video. If I were to rock up in the same ensemble people would assume I’m off to McDonald’s or shoot and episode of Jeremy Kyle. 

Actually, if folks do think you are going to exercise that can be even worse. The amount of times strangers have approached me, unsolicited, to give me diet and fitness advice is astounding. I could not give two fucks that your auntie lost four stone on Atkins or that big girls shouldn’t lift or they may get bulky. I not even going to the gym, I just like the feeling of being swathed in velour when I lay around my house or nip to the shops. 

Prejudice and misinterpretation I can live with, I was a teen goth after all, but the second road block to me getting my sports lux on is that brands do not want my custom. I am barred entry to these labels because they do not want me to represent them. I have heard all the excuses for not going beyond a size 14 and they are bullshit. More expensive to make? Put it at a higher price point. Creating new, bigger blocks is time consuming? It’s a one off faff that would increase your customer base forever. They wouldn’t feel confident enough to wear that type of thing? Nope, not a thing. That is body shaming, pure and simple.

Just be honest, you only want sexy, lithe, young girls to knock about in your overpriced jersey creations. Say what you like about Abercrombie and Fitch, but at least they have the balls to admit that they are only concerned with their small (literally) customer base and their projection of exclusivity, perfection and physical elitism. 

So, I guess what I’m saying is, the market is there for bigger and better sporting apparel but we need the public to chill out about fat people wearing Lycra and we need companies to make shit in our size. Really in our size! Not the habit some retailers have of stitching a size 16 label onto a garment that would be a 12 in any other store and patting themselves on the back for it. Comfort for all, no excuses! 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Two


Do not trust the hangers, they will lie to you if you let them

You’ll be surprised to hear that buying clothes when you are a size 20 isn’t without its pitfalls. Tiny fitting rooms, snooty Saturday girls and not being allowed into New Look eating a pasty, even though it’s right next door to Gregs! The biggest thorn in the side of the curvy consumer however, is this little fucker! The size cap! It seduces you, it makes you feel safe, excited that they have your size, like the retail gods are smiling down on you. Then when you get to the fitting room you realise, hopefully before you’ve put it on, that the dress is actually a size 8 on the wrong hanger. It’s like finding out Santa isn’t real all over again. 

I did trust the size cube once. It was a dark day. It was a 6 on an 18 hanger. I did not check because I was in a rush to get to an appointment. Spoiler, I didn’t make it to the appointment. I was stuck, like this, for 27 minutes. The girl kept asking me if I was ok through the curtain. She probably thought I was injecting heroine. One, because I sounded weird and muffled saying, “just making sure I like it”through a thick corduroy pinafore and two, because in Swansea people shoot up in fitting rooms a lot. I thought, This is how I’m going to die! I tried to wiggle out but my hands couldn’t bend and I was sweating like a trucker in June. I tried to rip it but that wouldn’t work. I managed to free one hand and tried to saw my way out with my house keys. To no avail. I sat down and cried. I phoned my sister to asked her to come and help me but she is a grown up with kids so she just laughed. After resolving to bite the bullet and ask the petite, 16 year old hipster handing out the tags to set me free, Jesus took pity on me and drew my attention to a hidden zip. A HIDDEN ZIP! 

After reapplying some make up and putting my wonderful, perfectly fitting clothes back on, I informed the shop girl the dress didn’t suit me and walked out like Beyonc√©. The moral of the story being, check the garment NOT the hanger and if in doubt style it out.