Why hello! I’m crawling out from under my rock to tap out this wee missive.
It’s been a bizarre couple of days. Yesterday it was happy days with The Scotsman story coming out and having a hoot on radio. Then I discovered late in the afternoon that the story was to be reincarnated for another publication. Oh. That article came out today and it was cool, but the PHOTO. Oh lordy, the photo. It was another from the Scotsman session, and as I described to a friend, I look like a big blue lump in my stupid blue top. Mama Smurf! This is not exaggeration or self-deprecation or paranoia, I look awful. It’s not online but don’t ask me to scan it in coz it ain’t happening, kiddies. I care about your retinas.
There’s just rolls everywhere, fabric clinging in all the wrong places; windswept hair. And I’m squinting like a sailor searching for the shore. My husband is a kind-hearted diplomatic bloke who knows how to soothe the female ego, but even he actually did a double-take and admitted, "Whoa! That’s a shocker!".
I remember at the time of the shoot feeling bad for the photographer because I was so nervous and clumsy and awkward and unable arrange myself in any sort of flattering configuration. And I just couldn’t bloody smile.
So there I was at the train station early this morning, looking at the paper and panicking about everyone at work seeing my awful mug. Righto, I thought, I’ll just steal the paper from reception and remove the offending page before anyone gets to it!
Ha ha! GENIUS.
But then my train was 30 minutes late. Foiled!
When I finally got to the office our receptionist greeted me with a grin, "You’re in the paper again!".
"Nooooooo!" I howled, "Don’t look at that! I’m going to put it in the shredder!"
But she and my other colleagues were very kind about the articles. They are remarkably tolerant of my dorky little hobby. A lot of them already knew from last year’s Sunday Mail Jabba The Hut story but some had no idea of my roly-poly past. They were all cool and supportive. This is why I started there as a temp three years ago and never left; it’s hard to find such good folk in an office.
Still, all day I kept thinking about that Mama Smurf photo. I’ve been counting down the hours til tomorrow so today’s edition can be relegated to the bottom of budgie cages. I can (almost) laugh about it now, but part of me just feels so bloody embarrassed and exposed.
On one hand, I really love talking about this stuff to people. Fat blogging, fat fighting, the lovely community we have; how’s it’s possible to shed some stones without doing anything crazy. I feel passionately about it, and could talk or write about it all day long. Having Dietgirl "outed" last year ended up making me feel comfortable in my skin, to not be ashamed of my lardy past and be happy to talk about it to the General Public. But today? There were moments when I just wanted dive back into our cosy fatblogger internetty world where it’s all safe and familiar.
. . .
I’m not going to weigh in tomorrow. I’m feeling like a big porky Mama Smurf and I’m scared my Seventies fantasy will be ruined by the scale. YES, I am a wimp. I know, I know!
. . .
Guess what? I met Lainey!
When I discovered her blog last year I stalked my way through her entire archives, because I loved her Scottish sass and wit. Ziiiing! I’m always frothingly jealous of all you groovy Aussie bloggers meeting up all the time, so it was cool to play the Meetup Game here in Scotland!
I rocked up to the hotel with my trousers plastered to my skin thanks to a freak rain shower, but despite my vagrant appearance it all went swimmingly. We had scones and tea and yapped for many hours. It was tops. Lainey is even more hilarious in person, not to mention dead foxy. I was giddy all the way home, I wonder if she thought I was a DORK!? Do you think she’d be my FRIEND!? I am seven years old.
There are dozens of bloggers all over the planet I am busting to meet. First we conquer the UK, and then THE WORLD.
I have dreams of an International Fatbloggers Convention. There’s this image in my head of Day One, involving a very long buffet table with a big banner hanging over it that reads, WELCOME FATBLOGGERS! We’re all standing round sipping white wine spritzers from plastic goblets, eyeing off the spread and wonder if that’s sad or ironic. Then finally one of us cracks and says, "Let’s get stuck in, LADIIIIIEEEEES!".