Saying Goodbye

A final goodbye is such a peculiar hour. Today I attended the funeral of a Great Aunt. She was 94yrs old, widow to her husband who had died over four years prior. He had reached over 100yrs old; they had been married for 71yrs. They had children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and even great great grandchildren. They were adorable people and a loving couple. My Great Uncle, was the sweetest, most gentile and kindest gentleman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I remember them both very fondly. As with all goodbyes, it was a sad and sombre affair, reflecting on the loss of a loved one, but also turning the focus to your own life. The reality of death makes you ask yourself if you are living enough, if you are free, if you are doing it right.

Maybe it’s my advancing years and rapid approach to midlife, but at this service I found myself worrying about my own inevitable funeral. Should I live to a ripe(ish) age, the generations before me will likely be gone. As I have no children of my own and am never likely to, just who will be left to see me off? I won’t be remembered as that loving matriarch who had the longevity of a harmonious married life; a soulmate; a family. Okay so, by the time I die, if fate is in my favour, I may have my soulmate, I may even have that longevity of marriage, but I won’t have the family. I have never been that way inclined.

It struck me as odd today that I’m not pro motherhood, personally. I am missing the maternal gene, yet I have so much love to give, so much compassion; I think I’d make an awesome mum. All bar one of my cousins have ever growing families of their own. Despite being older than some of them I remain partnerless, marriageless and childless. It filled me with a desperate fear that I may truly end up alone; with merely a few blue rinses from the bingo at my funeral, mostly happy that with one less player there’ll be more money in the winnings pot for them.

There’s not a great deal I can do about that. Some of us are meant for certain things, others…not so much. One can only hope that at my final goodbye, no matter who is left behind, that if I am thought of half as much as those that have gone before me, I must be doing something right.

One can only hope.


Size Does Count

It is a typically female trait to dislike things about her physical imperfections. Of course, these imperfections are only ever seen by oneself. Anybody else that sees us as being less than attractive aren’t worth any consideration. So, when these are the bodies we are given, why do so few of us accept ourselves?

I have been overweight all my life. As a child I was always told I had puppy fat and that I’d lose it in my teens. In my teens I put a stone on each year until I was 19, each stone matching my age. By the time I was 29 I weighed around 24.5stone. That was my heaviest. Over the course of the last seven years I have lost weight in spurts, in fact I’d lost five stones but now fluctuate around that fifth stone; losing, gaining, losing, gaining. I really am a human yo-yo in so many ways.

I could argue that the lack of stability in my life deems it impossible to control or regiment my diet and exercise. This is partially true; but if you are that focused on a goal you should be able to make the right choices no matter where you are or what you are doing.

I could reason that it is my love of food that prevents me from losing weight successfully. What can I tell you? I love food! The sad truth is that I’m just like every other fatty out there. Greedy. I just choose to do it in private. Guilt free…..well, to an extent. Loving food is no excuse for gluttony. We can still love our food, but in moderation.

I could blame my polycystic ovaries for the ineffectiveness of diet and exercise in my life. It does actually have some credence in that it makes weight loss more difficult. Given, also, that I am too overweight to be treated for it (due to possible side effects of the drugs) I am in a catch 22 situation.

The simple truth is that I diet and I exercise, I watch my calories and I go to the gym. I just don’t do it enough. I don’t do it consistently. The scales fluctuate because my diet fluctuates. I feel worse right now than I have done in a long time. An all inclusive holiday in May has set my hard work right back and now I am clawing away at myself to regain control.

I see more imperfections in me, physically, than just my weight; but my tractor tyre size belly is my worst accessory. I have to wear it everyday. It gets in the way both actually and metaphorically.

When these imperfections affect our wellbeing, we should make changes. I believe someone once told me that and it’s true. Of course we have to reason between what really needs to change and what is just us being overly self critical. For me it’s a no brainer. I need to change.

Last night I thought about my last lover. I felt so badly about myself that it got in the way of me being free with her. I felt so disgustingly inadequate, despite being told that she couldn’t have found me more attractive. I understood the way she looked at me, I just didn’t see it myself nor do I understand the attraction. To me, there is nothing to fancy about my size.

I, somewhat, painfully resounded that I would not even entertain the idea of allowing someone new into my life (should they even present themselves) until I had lost at least half my excess body weight. It is unfair of me to burden another with my feelings of inadequacy; and whilst I believe the right person will neither care what I look like, nor how much I bellyache over it, it is an unfair exhaustion to lay at someone else’s door.

So. The challenge is on. This weight has to become my sole focus. (Particularly difficult when there is so much one needs to do in life.) I need to be healthier in my present and my future, physically and emotionally. I know that I will have much more self respect if I achieve it. And I know I won’t let anyone near me until I do. That is surely incentive in itself?!

I have taken photos this morning of me in my underwear. I won’t share them, you won’t appreciate it. But I will keep them for myself and track my progress. Who knows? Maybe once it’s all gone I’ll release them. The before and after. To shock and amaze…! Fingers crossed….

I don’t need to be super slim, infact I prefer curves on a girl, including myself; but I have gone way beyond curves into morbid obesity and it’s got to stop. I won’t ever have the perfect body, that’s not something I am aiming for; but as anything less than I am will be an improvement, I know to be comfortable in my own skin is a complete probability.

I simply can’t accept myself as is. So maybe, having dropped a few dress sizes and earned my self-respect, I finally will.