Me and My Surface Area

I am having a Bad Body Day.

BBDs have occured with regularity for the last 14 years or so, but more recently they've been springing up pretty much every day, a consistency I'd rather swap for something more useful or more satisfying.

The last time I actually had a Good Body Day (or more accurately, a Tolerant Body Day), was approximately 6 weeks ago when, on returning home from a snowboarding holiday, I had the lovely warm realisation that I hadn't ballooned up two dress sizes due to the enormous amount of pasta and wine I had consumed, but had in fact maintained weight, even lost a few pounds and had toned up a little, a pleasing result considering the frankly embarassing of snowboarding I had not done.

I've never been a great lover of my body. We don't really see eye to eye, as you will remember from my tales of bodily perspiration. But what I really don't get on with is my stomach; my gut; the vast proportion of fat that has chosen to nestle around my midriff and has made a seemingly unshiftable home for as long as I can remember. My stomach is the most awkward of squatters, who seems to know all their rights and spew them back at you while you watch helplessly as you realise that all the amount of shouting, ranting, crying, pleading and ignoring in the world will not get rid of them.

Sure, I've tried. I exercise. Being a vegetarian with a disagreement with dairy, I eat reasonably little (although seeing as my biggest food comfort is bread, I'm probably not doing myself any carb favours, but me and the Atkins diet were never going to see eye to eye). I've tried sit ups, toning, dancing, running, swimming, bloody atheletics club for god's sake (although that was for a very short period aged 15 and to be honest myself and my friend did very little running and a considerable amount of talking but you would have thought the facial muscles I was exercising would have counted for some weight regulation).

It doesn't help that I have a job where the only time I do anything more energetic than moving my fingers in the Dance of the Web Designer (where my poor mouse hand ends up getting the short straw and being freezing a large amount of the time) is making a cup of tea. But still, you would have thought my run on a lunch break, if a little lollopy and rather slow, would count for something.

It seems not.

I have bargained with my body. Accepted my unsightly hip stretch marks, dealt with my perspiration, managed unruly and troublesome hair and allowed my far from perfect breasts to head southwards (not that they need my permission, they were doing that all by themselves. I'd have been happier if they'd have been sizeable enough to warrant it, buckling under weight, hoisted up into vast but beautiful bras, but it seems my breasts have all the intentions of large breasts while actually being rather petite).

But that's just not good enough for my stomach to make a sacrifice and dump some of its bulk. It is holding steadfast; refusing to move, chaining every ounce of fat to my bones (whilst allowing it enough movement to wobble unnattractively, usually at choice moments).

I've met people who don't have an issue with their waistlines (admittedly it is usually because they don't have a waistline to worry about). They have other concerns; being small breasted, too tall; too skinny; big bottomed; wide hipped. There is part of me that envies them for they have made peace with my enemy. But I understand that their hatred is exactly the same as mine (apart from the bottom, because at least you don't have to look at that when you look down. Mine has never been a consideration, as I can't see it, and I take the approach of if I can't see it then it doesn't exist. Or something).

As I get older I am learning that I have to accept the excess weight. It appears, sadly, that it is in it for the long haul and I just have to get used to it. And its frankly only going to get worse once the middle aged spread sets in. My mum once told me, aged 12, that I'd grow out of my puppy fat when I grew taller. I am still the same height as I was back then. I am still waiting. My puppy fat is now a hefty, unfriendly mutt, the sort that always manages to get right in the place you are about to stand from nowhere then growls angrily when you step on it.

There's one thing I've failed to admit. Something that might help you understand. I like to drink. I like to drink a lot.

Okay, give this one to me - I don't eat chocolate, crisps, cake, cream, cheese, bloody hell anything with any taste or enjoyment (apart form aforementioned bread and, of course, beans).

But this might have something to do with my excess surface area (previously patiently waiting for my growth spurt to take its position in aiding the vertical covering of my frame, now happy relaxing in horizontal complacancy).

There's one solution to this, of course. But its not going to happen. I'm a web designer. You take away my wine you take away my way of forgetting about the eternal rollovers nestled deeply in the corners of my mind, awake, restless, waiting to rise to the forefront of my conciousness.

I think I have a good case.