What? Weight? Really? This is a Wicked Wednesday prompt?
Yes. It is.
Whether you use this prompt to share a personal story or experience, or whether you use it for erotic fiction is all up to you.
I thought about the different ways I could approach this; the different meanings for the prompt.
When I was still a kid, my dad would tell his friends that I carried the weight of the world. Other adults were less polite; I was over sensitive when I cried at the news, soft-hearted because I couldn’t watch those animal rescue shows on TV, and I needed to toughen up when instead of punching a bully (I knew how to hit and was scared I’d hurt her) I just cried and walked away. I still do this but I know now it is a recognised mental health condition, and has a name. It’s hypersensitivity. I’ve mentioned it before because it also means I tend to take little things to heart. However, what I want to talk about is the ‘elephant in the room’; my weight.
I am ‘over-weight’, actually according to the chart at my doctors I am morbidly obese. However, after a fascinating chat with the nurse, that culminated in us using the baby scales to weigh each of my tits, we decided to ignore the chart. Which was what I intended to do any way. Would I like to lose some of the excess fat I am carrying? Yes, actually I would but that has nothing to do with the weight itself. It’s to do with me wanting to be able to walk up hills, and run for a bus without going luminous red, and having people look at me in concern. It’s to do with getting fitter. I may increase my fitness and not lose any weight, it happens. And if that’s what happens, I’m good with it. As long as my stamina, health, and general fitness improve I’ll be happy.
Recently, I had a conversation with another shopper in Boux Avenue about how pleased I’d been to find they did knickers up to my size (18). I hadn’t bothered to look before because I just assumed that type of underwear shop wouldn’t sell ‘bigger’ sizes. She told me she used to be much heavier, and she wished she’d had the options then.
I asked her about losing weight (as you do), and she proudly told me she’d lost 8 stone. I congratulated her, explained I wanted to lose a bit myself, and she comes out with “So you look good in your underwear?”
I was a bit taken aback. I just sort of looked at her for a moment, and then replied, “I already look good in my underwear. I just want to be fitter.”
She stared at me for a minute, and then smiled, “I wish I had that confidence now, never mind when I was bigger.”
I really didn’t know how to respond so I just murmured a thank you, smiled and went off to buy the scraps of lace I was clutching.
I don’t think of myself as being particularly confident when it comes to my body. I see the flaws, the things I’d like to be different, the bits I wish wobbled less but over the last two years there has been a change. Since that first time I shared a naked photo of me online, I have slowly rebuilt my self-esteem to a point where I feel like it’s at a normal level. I’m not drop dead gorgeous but I am cute; I have really great tits, and despite the size my arse is pretty…….lifted. It looks good in fitted jeans.
What I think of me matters more than what anyone else thinks. However, I know I wouldn’t have gotten here without the people who told me they thought I looked great. Compliments used to make me feel awkward, I didn’t believe them so didn’t know how to respond. I though people were just being nice but over time it got easier to believe them.
The more people who told me, the easier it got. Now I can put something on and think “this looks good.” I don’t share as many photos because I don’t necessarily need the validation the I used to need. If i share a photo it’s because I’m feeling extra good about how I look and I want to share that. If it gets likes, and comments that’s great, if it doesn’t that’s fine too.
My weight is just a number. It doesn’t define me in any way. It doesn’t say how fit I am, how funny, how smart. It’s just a number with no bearing on who I am as a person. Losing weight won’t change the parts of me that are me; I’ll still write the same way, dress the same way, love books, cry at sad movies, laugh at the unintentional smuttiness in a statement, have purple hair, eyes that sparkle when I’m really happy, and a cheeky grin.
No matter what my weight I’ll still be me.