Grandmother Guilt

My grandmother lives out near the Blue Mountains and my sister, better half and I went for a visit last night. I had left work early and prepped dinner at home, because I knew I would be hungry by the time we arrived home.

We drove the hour and a half out to Nanny and Grandad’s house and I ate a mandarin on the way, because grandmothers are renowned for spoiling their grandchildren with far too many sweets and treats (perhaps this is the reason I am in this predicament… Thanks Nanny!).

When we arrived, there was something quite different about my grandparents. They had shrunk. They were both SO thin! They looked amazing, and my Nanny who is little like me (height wise) told us that she was down to 47kgs!!! 47! That is HALF my weight! She looked amazing and attributed it to veggies, lean meat and an hour of yoga in front of the telly each morning.

If you’re expecting a nice warm, fuzzy, grandmother-y story you should stop reading here.

Nanny has always been a wonderful cook, and without fail always has something delicious only 3 minutes away from being ready. Urgh.

The smell hit me as soon as I walked in. That sweet, spicy smell of herbs and meat and roasted tomatoes. Absolutely delicious! She was cooking Spaghetti Bolognese, (yes, capital letters are warranted here) because “her girls love it!” Yes. That is correct Nanny, your two fat granddaughters would break into an Italian restaurant after hours just to get a hit of carbohydrates. My sister and I LOVE spaghetti bolognese. Love. We would stab our own grandmother to get a bowl. I advised Nanny of this, and she wasn’t very happy.

However… This little fat duck is on a clear path to becoming a sexy chick, and said no. Several times. So much in fact, that it was beginning to get embarrassing. I excused myself to go to the bathroom for the 48th time that day, and I found out later that Nanny had cornered my better half to threaten the following guilt trips:

  • Oooh, I wish I had have known that you weren’t going to stay for dinner.
  • If you don’t stay, I will be eating spaghetti for the rest of the week!
  • Oh, I’ve just made so much, it seems like a real waste.

All this coupled with the big pleading grandmother eyes, the amazing aroma and the fact that we knew that it was dry, wilted salad waiting for us at home. Urgh.

I struggled to reach the front door. (which is, of course, next to the dining room and adjacent to the kitchen – the main source of my pain). Resisting was like holding onto a fern for safety during a hurricane, or as if a giant magnet was pulling my fat cells towards the dining room. But my feet pulled the rest of my body away from the brief satisfaction and subsequent food hangover and escaped out the front door.

Good work feet, you deserve a nice new pair of boots.

We left my sister there to stay the night and bask in her carb-coma, and kissed everyone goodbye. We apologised profusely while trying to squeeze out of the bat-wing grip-hold that Nanny had on the back of my arm (seriously, grandparents have those delicate, arthritis-y, wrinkled hands that can’t open a pickle jar, or grab those little coins in the bottom of their purses, but they sure turn into Geriatric Super Heroes when they want you to do something!) and drove away still feeling incredibly guilty, but pleased that we had resisted temptation.

During the ride home, my better half had said that while the dinner looked and smelled AMAZING, if we were going to deviate from the plan, we would be purchasing a bathtub-worth of these, and parking our greasy fat bodies on the lounge in front of the TV for the weekend.

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5 Reasons I Don’t Want To Be A Fat Girl

We all know the numerous positive reasons to lose weight and become healthier – but my Top 5 have nothing to do with those reasons.

Counting down from number 5.

5. Shopping at “Fat Girl” Stores.

I’m fine walking into these stores. The plump sales assistant always smiles at me, and when she looks me up and down I don’t feel like I am being judged as a fatty, I feel like she is looking at my outfit and handbag thinking “Wow, that fat girl dresses well!”. I feel like I am part of a secret society where fat women go to bond. My problem with these stores is walking out. For me, it is like walking out of the Tool Shed on Oxford St with a black plastic bag full of sex toys that would make Ron Jeremy blush. I want to pull my trench coat up around my face, don dark glasses and pretend like I don’t fit in there, that I didn’t just come from there.

4. Underwear (including stockings).

My issue with fat girl underwear is that Myer, David Jones, and even Bra’s & Things is that the bra’s go up to a 8AA – at the moment, I am barely fitting into an 18G… And that is only because I refuse to buy a bigger one. And don’t get me started on “below the belt”! Why does anyone think that a 30 year old would like to wear these cottontails?? I don’t. I plan to one day, when I can keep up the pace for more than 20 seconds, have relations of the sexy kind again. And I don’t think my better half would like the look of those monstrous nappies. Although, G-strings aren’t too flattering with my big ol’ butt either. Kinda reminds me of a chicken roulade wrapped up in string. These aren’t a few of my favourite things.

Stockings. Stockings deserve their own section. Stupid f%#king stockings. If I am not wearing jeans (elastic waist-ed) or leggings (also elastic waist-ed), then I MUST wear stockings. Without stockings, my chicken-drumstick thighs start rubbing together in the way that starts fires. And with all that heat comes moisture (or tears, as I like to think of it), creating a sore, red, bushfire-y situation that no-one except me knows about. Hopefully.

If the next time I am running* to the shop to grab a couple of Mars Bars because my blood sugar is dropping, and there is smoke trailing from my loins behind me, please do let me know.

*truffle shuffle-ing

3. Fat Jokes.

Oh, ho, ho. Now fat jokes. Fat jokes form a big part of my life. I have a relatively close male friend that I share that special brotherly-sisterly relationship with. You know, the relationship that you try to gross each other out, and pick on each other non stop? Well, I can usually give as good as I get, but there was one time where he crossed the line. Well, he didn’t so much cross the line as Usein Bolt it past me throwing cupcakes. We were discussing what we wanted to be when we grew up (ignoring, of course, we were all very much established in our careers and some of us on the darker side of 30), and I mentioned that I always had wanted to be a lawyer. This smart ass came up with “Yeah, you could be Fatty McBeal”. Or something as eloquent. Needless to say, he had one very bruised and tender arm for a week following.

2. Having a skinny best friend.

Having a slim best friend is the pits. The absolute worst. Not only do they look amazing in everything, they are your best friend for a reason. They are lovely and caring and supportive of your weight loss efforts and even eat salad with you at lunch so you don’t feel like a lepper, even though you know they are scoffing down chicko rolls and hot chips with too much chicken salt as soon as they get back to their desk.

My best friend is a particular kind of awful. For breakfast she usually enjoys a strawberry doughnut, the big kind. Lunch will be a toastie, or some huge sandwich, or something delicious from the lunch lady who always looks at you with those judging eyes when you try to buy some of her wares. Whenever I have dinner at her house, we always have pizza, so I am going to assume she eats that every night of the week. Sometimes twice on weekends. And she washes this all down with 40 can’s of coke each day. That may be an exaggeration…

Another horrible thing is that she is beautiful. She has lovely skin, an amazing figure, and was the most gorgeous pregnant woman I had ever seen. She should have been modelling for Victoria’s Secret rather than working in an office all day.

But the MOST horrible thing is that because she is very slim, this creates the illusion that I am even BIGGER than I am in real life.

I hate her.

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1. The relaxation robe at the spa.

Now this is a major pet peev of mine. I love to be treated to a delicious massage, have my feet scrubbed and the even occasional facial. However there is one issue. Those damn robes. One size fits all, my ass. One size fits like a long cardigan on me. And when you have stripped down to your cotton tails, or chicken roulade outfit, you really need more of a moo moo than a robe to stay modest. I often spent those hours lying on the massage table being rubbed and scrubbed thinking that next time I would DEFINITELY bring my own robe, or perhaps even wear their robe backwards – you know, hospital style. Not great from the back, but at least the poor girl wouldn’t have Brittany Spears staring back at her while she finishes my pedicure.

And those form the Top 5 reasons that I don’t want to be a fat girl any more.