Family and my weight. Always been a big fucking pain in the ass.
I grew up in a land of Viking blood and robust country women, as well as the stereotypical romantic waif… I grew up feeling pretty normal, and going shopping I was always the second or third smallest size. Women skinnier than me could mostly be considered hungry bitches, except for the odd few glaringly hot specimens no amount of self delusion can make you feel superior to. But for the most part I felt good about my body, and maybe would have liked to lose a few pounds but damned if I was going to do anything about it. I ate garlic mayonnaise on my massive portions of chips, I would order a large pizza plus sizes plus extra dips from Dominos when I was hung over, as well as drink coke and eat jelly sweets and crisps and Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food and I would never ever share. I drank like a fish in an ocean of cider, and I used to go open the glass front door limping so the delivery guy so he wouldn’t think I was just fucking lazy to order delivery from two doors down. Then I came here, and I’m an extra large nearly everywhere I go. People tell me it’s “because I’m so tall”, but I’m not tall… I’m like 5’8 or maybe a half inch taller at most. 173 or 175 cm. I really can’t remember it’s been so long since I measured myself. There are lots of women taller than me in Italy, by the way. But the national average must be much shorter than Ireland, so I get to be tall here. Fantastic, except that means the men are shorter, too.
But the most irritating thing isn’t that I’ve been bumped up from “maybe a bit above average height” to “fairly tall”. That’s kind of a good thing, although it does eliminate 50% of the men I meet before they even have a chance to say anything retarded.
What pisses me off is that I get treated like a big girl. My family, for one. They comment on my weight constantly. My dad with his big ole belly used to always raise his eyebrows at my mansized portions, and tell me I needed to go on a diet. And it wasn’t just because we fought over the last breaded chicken fillet. His wife would tell me I had lost a bit of weight whenever I happened upon a skinny week. She would give me advice about cutting out all the ice cream and cheese. I never took a word of advice until now, when I’m on my Calvin Klein swimsuit mission, and they have no idea how little I’m actually eating, and now it’s all “here is a hamper of sweets and chocolate” and “I bought you a whole brie” or “I found this spreadable gorgonzola and thought of you”. And I’m like, look I’m not on a diet really, but just trying to cut out all the unneccessary fattening stuff so I can look good in a swimsuit for once in my life. I keep saying I just want to eat healthily and not be on a diet, just be one of those people who eats the normal amount and gets their nutrients on, forever.
And no. That’s not ok.
“You have to eat! You can’t starve yourself! You’ll be miserable!”
This after I have put away two plates of pasta or a serious amount of barbeque ribs, and I’m getting very frustrated. What kind of diet was I supposed to go on then? Eat everything I used to eat and then wash it down with tiramisu? I mean I’m eating dessert too when I’m with my family, but they keep on giving me bags of sweets to take home with me. And getting all worried and disapproving when I say no.
What the fuck, guys? I used to eat like a pig because I was a pig, and most of what I shovelled into my mouth just made me miserable. Two bags of skittles will not make me happy, the massive barbeque made me happy and now I’m full and have eaten like a rugby player please don’t act like I’m depriving myself! I was depriving myself this morning when all I had was a bowl of muesli and then nothing else all day but black coffee. But they don’t know that! Fuck it. I’m going to weigh myself, because I really can’t believe I’ve lost so much weight that people are starting to worry about me enough to buy me sweets. Yesterday I had tiramisu after bbq, then my sister offered me a little caramel filled wafer cone. I ate one. Yum. Then she offered me another. I had three and then the next offer, I said no. I’m fine, thanks.
Uproar! What? Eat! Eat! You can eat more if you want! There’s no need to be miserable for a diet!
What the fuck family? It’s getting really annoying.