Tag Archives: fat

Run, Fat Girl, Run!

Exercise. Bleugh.

Really, that could be the end of this blog post. It would have been, 20, 10, or even 5 years ago. Exercise was something that fit people did, because they were fit. Dur….

I get it, I really do. Eat less, move more. But when you really HATE exercise, it’s not that simple.

Why do I hate it so much? It’s a complicated, many pointed star of an answer.


Yeah. Not pretty. Also, for a fat bird, it unusually doesn’t come that easy to me. If it’s unexpectedly hot out and I’m caught in a jumper & jeans scenario that cannot be de-layered, there may be a little small-of-the-back moisture going on, but mostly I just go red.

Not pink cheeked, not English Rose, but Heart-attack red.

It’s my body’s natural state of being. From the everyday resting heart rate of rosacea, to the first glass of booze on a night out and all of the mildly embarrassing or laughing too loud moments in between.

Exercising is the worst culprit – I frequently have to reassure people who don’t know me that I am not about to collapse at the end of a class and several dog walkers have stared at me with that “I’m going to need to use my first aid knowledge from last week’s WI meeting” look in their eyes.

But it hasn’t been until fairly recently that I have really been fit enough to sweat properly – you know, where you’ve got patches like they have in the movies. I never had enough puff to be exercising for long enough to squeeze the liquid out of my pores!

Although it’s not pretty, I feel like it’s my badge of honour. Like I really have worked out, done some good, shifted a few ounces.


Dear Lord, the wobbling. If you’ve never been overweight and you’re firmly in the “fat people are lazy bastards” camp, then

a) fuck you,

b) you’re right and

c) have you ever tried running with a melon sewn onto your tummy?

I take full responsibility for my gut. It’s not fair that all my weight gathers round my middle like it’s the kitchen at a fat cell party, but that’s my cross to bear. For others it’s their bum and thighs, for some it covers them like an Ant and Dec fat suit, but for me it’s the belly all the way.

However, when you have a million stone to lose (OK, not a million, but it might as well be), the hardest thing in the world is to lace those trainers up and get your butt moving.

In a class, you’ll make a tit of yourself. In the gym, the bunnies will whisper and point at you. On the road, cars will honk their horns and shout insults. Will they? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it’s all in your head, but whether it is reality or not is irrelevant. Somehow, you have to get out there, wobble your bits around for long enough and on so many occasions that they start not to wobble so much.

That, people with no wobbly bits, is fucking tough – even if it is our fault in the first place. An alcoholic drinking orange juice in a pub would be applauded. A smoker slapping on nicotine patches would be encouraged. If you see a wobbly bits person working on getting fit – do the right thing.


We’ve already made up our minds about getting out there. We’re already doing it, we’re already imagining you laughing at us and we either choose to accept it and get our heads down, or (and here is where it gets good, fellow wobblers) WE DON’T CARE ANYMORE!

Yep. I really don’t care. Mostly…OK, I do. Just don’t tell my brain.

How many fucking calories did I just NOT burn?

You’ve done it. That first Zumba class, that first step on your Couch to 5K app. And now we have the benefit of technology to let us know just how many calories we have burned. FUCK ALL. That’s how many.

Getting up, organised, into running gear, trainers on, headphones in, arm bands secured, running watches charged, water bottles filled, laces done up, laces undone again to tie your door key into them…

You’ve spent time, money and effort doing all of that exercise and the technology tells you you have burned as many calories as you could eat in 12 seconds. Bastards.

And that friends is the worst thing about exercise. If you only do it to lose weight, you’re on a hiding to nothing. You will never and I mean never, lose weight by just doing a bit of running around. You can dress it up however you like, enter races, call the classes at the gym increasingly terrifying names like “Puke” and “Death”, but unless you are doing it every day for over an hour, you cannot, I repeat cannot eat what the fuck you like and not be fat. Scientific fact.

So, I bounce along, wobbling my bits, safe in the knowledge that if I never put on my trainers again, it wouldn’t make me fat enough for an ITV documentary. I am just not devoted to it enough for it to have that much effect.

Do I come home from a run and think differently about what I put in my mouth afterwards though? The answer to that is yes. Mostly, I hate exercise soooooo much, that the thought of committing myself to doing it and then spoiling all of that effort with a hastily inhaled Dairy Milk bar, stops me in my tracks.

For some, exercise is reward in itself.  There is talk of endorphines and other things that make me go, “Meh.” Am I proud of myself for getting up and doing something I don’t want to do? Yes. Do I feel good for the 2 minutes after I have finished? Yes. But only because I know I have done it, at least for today.

And then, the dread creeps in a few hours later. That chunk of pain is safely in the bag…when are you going to face the next one? When, Molly? WHEN? Because if you don’t do it tomorrow, then you have work and then clubs to ferry the kids to and then, and then, and then, and then you will not have exercised properly since CHRISTMAS…which is pretty much what happened this year.

I’d like to think that one day I will grow to love exercise. I am currently really enjoying Clubbercise – mainly because it’s mad dancing, waving a glow stick about in the dark. Nobody can see our wobbly bits – GENIUS.

But the truth of the matter is, that I am lazy. If I could get away with not doing exercise ever again, I would totally take that option. Just like if smoking had to same effect on my body as lettuce then I would be Pat Butchering it up in a second.

I lied though, because I do sort of like exercise. I like that I am doing it. I like that I am the healthiest I have ever been – not just since I was a teenager, not just since I’ve had the kids. Ever.

I like that it is a bit sociable, sometimes. I like that I can run about with the kids now and whilst they can definitely catch me, there is a little bit of plot action before the story is over.

I like that I can do something physical that my husband can’t. Apart from have babies, that is. He doesn’t run. Nope. Weights, punch bag, skipping – yes. Running – no. I’m sure he could if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t, so I am taking the win.

I’m off for a run now. Don’t laugh at my wobbly bits if you see me. The kids do that enough for all of us…



Weigh too much information…

I’ve always been the fat girl.

fat molly
Good grief..

Sometimes I really have been the fat girl.  Sometimes I really haven’t been the fat girl. But the fact remains that if you feel like the fat girl, how fat you actually are doesn’t matter.

I don’t know whether I’ll ever not be the fat girl, but I doubt it. And that’s OK.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for sympathy – it is nobody else’s fault but mine.  Less shite in the gob and more getting off the sofa = not having to shop in Evans.  I get it.  I am a reasonably intelligent woman.

The trouble is, my intelligence usually fucks off to bed at about 9pm on a Friday night, leaving me with a bottle of wine and a “sharing” size bag of crisps.  It always returns on a Sunday evening, usually with a disapproving look, mumbling something about how I’ve ruined it all again.

Having tipped the scales at a knat’s fart off 20 stone in my late teens (and then again in my late pregnancies!), there is no doubt that there have been occasions where I really, really was the fat girl.  I was morbidly obese, on the pill, smoked 20-a-day (that was the level I admitted to my GP anyway) and did no exercise. But boy, did I have fun…

Epiphanies have come and gone and a couple of stone have gone with them.  Periods of contentment and pregnancies where I took every opportunity to “feed the baby” have added pounds back on.

Over the years, there has been a ridiculous amount of weight lost and gained and lost again , but amongst it all, I have never really felt any different than I did back then.

Yes, of course I feel better that I can walk up the stairs without breaking into a sweat.  Of course I am happy to be able to shop for clothes in a much wider variety of places.


For this Supergran costume I had to buy a tartan skirt in a size 18 from a charity shop and sew in a massive panel to make it fit. Yes I am glad that I am so much fitter than I ever was as a teenager.  And yet. I’m still fat.

A stone and a half fatter than my all time low (well, let’s say heavier rather than fatter, because it’s all mostly muscle you know after all my amazing exercise of late…) but a very praise worthy 6 stone less than my all time high. It’s good to remember that, but it’s dangerous too.  So many times I have said that I would NEVER go above a certain mark on the scales again…and yet here I am.  3lb over that mark.

I wish I could be one of those people who are truly happy with their bodies; wearing their stretch marks with pride, as badges of motherhood honour; accepting their fanny aprons as a minor inconvenience for the miracles of life that they have brought into the world, but the truth of the matter is that my kids have done far more mental damage to me than they ever have physical.

My stretch marks are not the stripes of a Tigress.  They are the reminders of what a bloody idiot I was (am), eating pizza for tea every night whilst pouring copious amounts of sugar into my coffee. My thigh biscuits (thank you Tina Fey for this fantastic term) are my own doing as I should just have stuck the many packets of Hobnobs consumed in one sitting, straight down my jeans. Pretty much the only physical thing I can blame on my kids are the 2 c-section scars, which are better hidden by all of my flab than anything in a Where’s Wally book.

fat molly 1
I could eat that cake in one sitting if I really put my mind to it…

I renew my vigour on a regular basis, trying to get myself back down into the “Just Overweight” category and the most recent weapons in my arsenal are a combination of a Davina DVD, a Fitbit and counting calories – all of which work marvellously from 7am Monday morning to approximately 4pm on a Friday.

The trouble with making a real effort for 80% of the time is that I feel so immensely hard done by when that 20% balls it all up.  And that is the danger zone for me.  Because it really isn’t fair that sticking to less than 1200 calories a day all week; stepping up my exercise to red-faced-breathless-ugly-panting-face levels at least 3 times a week and then having a takeaway and some wine on the weekend means I still don’t lose any weight.

Life isn’t fair though, is it.  Life will not turn around to me when I’ve chucked all of my toys out of the pram and say, “Poor Molly.  Sorry that you’ve been working so hard on being really fucking hungry all week – let me give you a free pass for the weekend…”

It’s just not how my life works.  I feel hard done by, ruin it further by ramming a load of crap in my mouth because I feel so sorry for myself and so the cycle begins again. At other times, I accept fully that to get anywhere, I need to be on it 100% of the time, and for a while at least, that does the job.

I would love to be able to blame my fat just on being sociable, but in reality I use food (and drink…) for everything – celebration, commiseration, reward, to show love, to feel loved, rebellion and because, you know, I REALLY LOVE EATING AND DRINKING.

To be fair though, it is a major factor in why I plateau on my weight loss journey *dry heaves at Americanism*. My FOMO (see Mum Tums and Cum post for reference here…) means that a potential “one in the bank” evening spent at home with a jacket potato and salad turns into a “dipping into the calorie overdraft” evening in the pub.

And here is the real reason why I am not unhappy enough with being the fat girl to really (and I mean REALLY) do something about it, once and for all. I am at the age now to know that I will probably never feel like the thin girl, the medium girl or even the slightly chubby girl. After every round of weight loss, there is the sense of achievement I get from knowing I’ve knuckled down and put the hard work in.  I feel great about getting fitter in general – it’s a fab example to the kids and they do tonnes more exercise than I ever did at their age, which makes me proud of them, and me.

But am I going to not go out for that drink or that coffee and cake with people I love in order to achieve that? Am I going to join the gym and go every night for an hour without fail? Am I going to sit in a restaurant eating a salad or not having a starter and a pudding because I am watching what I eat?  The honest answer to that is, probably sometimes – because I really cannot ever go back to the size I was.  Mostly though, I am going to have to accept the plateaus, the small gains and the feeling of never really being able to let go of the reins, because there are so many more important things in life to worry about.

If I was still 20 stone and smoking, then there probably wouldn’t be many more important things to sort out and I am grateful to the fat girl that I really, really was for being that constant reminder of how you can’t overindulge in every area without paying a price somewhere along the line.

The thing that I have come to realise though is that even if I do see a time where the number on the scales doesn’t fall into one of those dreaded orange or red bands on the horrific BMI graph, I will still feel like the fat girl.  I will still sigh at my flabby tummy and still be irritated that my sister got the boobs and the waist and the fucking eyelashes. (Nothing to do with weight I know, but it IS super annoying…)

Being fat is not great for your health, or your vanity, but neither is being a miserable, hungry, party pooper.  Someone will always be bigger and happier with themselves than you, but that girl who you think has the perfect figure feels every inch as fat as you do.  The key
to all of it, is to try and be the best version of yourself you can be, fat or thin and then love that person.

So if you feel like the fat girl – you might actually be (like me at age 20 and 20 stone) 20151122_104007, or you really might not be (like me at age 16 and size 12-14) – embrace it, let it worry you just enough to get a bit of healthy in your life, but don’t let it rule you.

Chances are, you see yourself completely
differently than those wonderful people in your life that you need to celebrate with – and they would rather have you as a happy fat girl than a miserable anything else.

When I got home today, I found a bottle of cider on mybottle doorstep with a big bow on it.  An anonymous gift giver, who obviously saw it and thought of me – l

ittle did they know I was in the middle of writing this post.

“Thundering Molly” is well rounded and medium, and she
couldn’t be happier…