Sunday, 14 June 2015

A Dint in the Armour

I walk a lot. I actually always have, but now I am walking consistently and often, every day reaching 10 000 steps and sometimes more.

Last night I went for a walk, it was 8pm, I walked towards the country park and then up to the main road, called in at the garage for bananas and milk, and continued walking. I heard a bit of a bang from a passing car. A vodka bottle had been thrown in my direction (empty, in case you were curious) Then a young man, about 22 or so started yelling at me aggressively over and over calling me a "fat s*g". He continually gave me the finger, so I smiled and waved. Frustratingly the cars were so close together I couldn't see the number plate.

I won't lie. It's shaken me. I have finally got the courage to wear a t-shirt and exercise pants when walking. They are tight and my bottom probably does look like it could eclipse a small planet. I am not Tess Halliday, I can't just shake it off, but maybe she can't either. Maybe every jibe, every debate hurts her just as much as last night hurt me.

Calling someone fat should be a hate crime. If you call someone a word we associate with being black or Jewish or Muslim, that's hate crime. Being fat isn't really a lifestyle choice. I didn't exactly choose to be fat, I didn't choose to use food as a coping mechanism, it could quite as easily have been alcohol or drugs.

I am choosing to work on my weight, and I want to be a normal weight, not to get acceptance, as I don't care about that, and morons like the lad in the car last night would probably pick something else anyway.

I want to be a normal weight so I can ride a bike with Joseph, run around at sports day, swim with him in the ocean, watch him graduate and be there when he has a family.

I don't want an old age punctuated by doctors appointments, being unable to move freely, being poorly. I want to give this body the best chance of being young and vibrant for a long time.

And yeah, I want to look good in exercise clothes but hey, most people already think I look good. I get smiles and encouragement on line and in real life.

This moron represents all those who have done this over the years. All my life I have experienced episodes of this. When I lived in Tasmania I would go home and cry and then not go out for ages. I would console myself with food.

I haven't done this this time, I have had a whine on Twitter and here, and I am carrying on, putting on my exercise clothes and hitting the streets. He'll still be asleep shaking off his vodka induced hangover.

I am the better person by far, I can lose weight, he is stuck with being a moron. 

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