For yet another year I didn’t lose weight, essentially because the bother of being fat doesn’t even come close to the bother of the idea of being on a diet. Twenty days ago the summer heat arrived even in London (yup, only three weeks ago, that’s Northern Europe for you), and since then my short dresses and sleeveless tops made an unexpected comeback. Legs full of cellulite out in the open. Huge arms in the air.
But the truth is only one: thirty degrees are thirty degrees, whether your bum is petite or elephant-sized. The heat is hot for everybody. I am chubby: can I do something about it now? It’s hot today, not in six months after I’ll have been on a diet. My only chance is to do my best with the body I have got. Even though I have received enough body-shaming to force me inside my house forever, every day I get up, I get dressed and I get out with my massive legs poking out of a flowery skirt. Not one day goes by without me looking in the mirror and thinking: HELP, do you really want to go out like that? Yes, I really do want to go out like that.
It happens rarely, but sometimes I do get some not-so-delicate remarks. Most of the time I ignore them and I don’t even care, but sometimes I lose it. They generally come from slimy old drunks or chavs in extreme need of a shower, so the usual rule applies: look at yourself before pestering me. In addition, I have never seen anyone abusing a random fat guy, never mind how disgusting or undressed.
Most important of all things, I’m not going to say it’s a constant thing, but on average I feel quite cute. It took me years to get over the paranoia I had gotten from the idiots that wrecked my early teenage years, but especially thanks to beautiful things that I saw and read on the internet, I got to a stage of partial truce with my body. I don’t slim down as a statement. I don’t slim down because thanks to blogs like Gabifresh, I understand that being thin is not a prerequisite for looking hot and feeling well about myself.
I would love for more non-thin girls to not have the summer months ruined by other people’s opinions on them. Not so much in London, where everyone does pretty much whatever one wants. This is especially about Italy, where when I go home for the holidays, I spend a few days coercing myself to wear shorts because I am terrified of what could happen if I went out with naked thighs.
I won’t get less fat if I adopt the technique of wearing long sleeves and jeans because “I can’t afford to uncover myself”: I will only be hot to the point of fainting. There are ways to dress for all sizes, sure, but there’s a limit to what you can ban yourself from wearing.