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. 


Big, Fat Truth: Volume Six

Outfit of the Day

I am pretty self conscious, cynical and self policing. I think six steps ahead at all times, reaching a point that PROVES I would have been a fucking twat to do, whatever I really wanted to do.

It’s hard being in my brain. It took me until I was 26 to admit I wanted to be a writer, I am 31 now and I have only just started putting myself out there. I want to tell everyone everything about fashion and comedy and telly and films and I feel like I am finally able to whop out some of the millions of ideas and thoughts that are, so often, wasted talking (thinking?) to myself like shit. I’m doing this and my stand up and making great strides at my job. I am more confident, inside and out, with every new day. Why then, am I terrified of actually showing of my styling skills? Why, when the amazing women I follow on social media and blogs, whose selfies make me smile and put a spring in my step each morning, do I feel like a numpty (sorry Non British readers, douche bag to you guys), whenever I attempt, then immediately abort, any and all ootd pics? 

Reason One: I am too cool. JK! I want people to think I’m cool at all times. Chill, not bothered, aloof, mysterious. To be these things you must shit on everything, especially things you love desperately, never try and, absolutely no earnest behaviour! Being interested and/or caring about things, trying you best and pursuing your dreams, these things are for losers and swots. Or worse, loser-swot hybrids, who happily work hard at school and relax by kicking back and playing a table top game with a hundred sided dice and wizard hats and can look at themselves in the mirror and sleep at night because they are living their God damned truth! 

This, completely toxic and false, word view is one I lived by throughout my childhood and way too long into my adult life. It always conflicted with my true urges to please my teachers and do well, to be bold and show everybody I was bloody brilliant, to dress up and show off and to embrace my talents. This is also why I left school with pretty much no academic qualifications, turned down opportunities to audition for actual tv shows (Casualty and some BBC Wales stuff, what a twat!) and wasted my time on dick boyfriends who hated me (until I sacked them off, then I was a goddess they couldn’t possibly live without. Strange). Posting awkward mirror selfies is definitely trying, earnestly trying.

Reason Two: I think I’m not good enough. I’m just going to be some creepy selfie wanker and people will know I’m not proper. They will think, I think, I’m awesome and they will think I love myself, when I absolutely do not have the right to. 

Reason Three: I really am awfully shy. I feel all sorts of sick thinking about being noticed. That’s it, just noticed. Even though I am desperate to be Instagram famous and be pals with Amy Schumer, and go on talk shows and tell my most intimate secrets to Ellen, I could also, happily, only ever leave my house if it was on fire. I am complex and interesting, right? 

Reason Four: I just screaming into the abyss. Does the word really need to see more fat girls taking shaky photos of themselves in dingy spare rooms? (Not throwing shade here, my spare room is just dingy af). 

The answer is, fuck yes! My world changed forever when I saw a documentary called Plus Sized Wars. It featured loads of kick ass bloggers and it introduced me to the idea, which honestly had never crossed my mind, that you can buy nice clothes and makeup and look pretty AS YOU ARE! I didn’t have to wait till I lost five stone to buy garments that weren’t flares and hoodies, I didn’t need to keep my ‘good’ clothes in my wardrobe for when I was thin again and I didn’t need to subscribe to the bullshit convention that was dieting anymore. Look at these queens! I followed them all, and many more, on Instagram, and I felt like I was seeing straight for the first time in ages, actually, since I skipped my first meal when I was 14 because I was a massive size 10! (I also deleted all the thinspo accounts I secretly still followed and gave Ted style lectures, to anyone who would listen, about how you think clothes look bad on fat bodies because the fashion industry doesn’t let us see them). 

So, what I have taken entirely to long to say is, little girls and big woman alike need to see more people who look like them. They deserve to feel like they are proper and that they are entitled to the space they take up. If one person sees my jolly, round face on the Internet and is motivated to give zero fucks, my momentary mortification would have been worth it.