I feel pretty lucky that I’ve never been hugely dissatisfied with my body. That doesn’t mean that I’ve never stood in front of a mirror and tugged at my rolls and made them do the Reebok ‘Belly’s Gonna Get Ya’ advert mind you. We all have our good days and bad days. I was lucky enough to have inherited the leggy gene from my Mum’s side of the family (thanks Grandad!), though I was unfortunate to also inherit the extremely hairy ‘Am I a wolf?‘ gene from my Dad (thanks Dad!). The latter meant I had a cracking head of hair at three months and full bunches that made me look like a five year old when I was only one (I wouldn’t believe my age if my Mum hadn’t scrawled it on the back of the photo), though it also means that now I can’t think of anything more nightmarish than a bikini wax.
Abundance of hair follicles aside, I grew up in a household were weight wasn’t an issue. I was a naked child most of the time and although we ate pretty healthy because my Mum is a bomb-ass cook, we had sweets, chocolate and Cream Soda (my childhood FAVE) – it was balanced you know? Even as a teenager, although I yearned for Jennifer Anniston arms (side note: I still do – so toned, so bronzed), I never really dieted and did alright in P.E. When I went to Uni I ate almost exclusively from the frozen food aisle (I wasn’t so into clean eating back in my VK-fuelled days), but cause of all the dancing in clubs I did multiple times a week and walking to and from campus because I couldn’t afford the bus, I looked in some of the best shape I’ve ever been in and despite the fact I clad myself in body-con dresses for nights out, I didn’t appreciate it at the time. You never do, do ya?
Since the beginning of the year I started going to gym and getting into weight-training. I’m not sure if you’ve heard me talking about it? I haven’t mentioned it much *wink*. Since going I hadn’t really stepped on the scales. I was never a huge scale-lover in the past as my weight tends to be around the same, give or take a couple of pounds and has been for the past couple of years, unless I was about to birth a Dominos-baby. In my head I thought going to the gym equalled burning a couple of pounds off, not that that was my intention in the first place; I wanted to get strong. Now that did happen initially, but after three and a half months of progressively lifting heavier and heavier at an appointment with the nurse the other day she questioned why I’d put on a couple of pounds. ‘Nurse Sue – I now have a butt!‘, was my response. If it had been a vlog or snapchat it would have been the perfect time to insert the peach emoji.
When I came home I stepped on the scales to have a look for myself and the number that glared back at me was actually the highest I’ve ever seen it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little shocked. Basically I weigh more now than I ever have before but I also feel the more comfortable, proud and stronger than I’ve ever been. I have some definition in my arms (still working on that Jen Ann sculpt), thighs that feel a little harder than before, a butt – I ACTUALLY HAVE A BUTT! I have curves! I have muscle. I’ve burnt off some fat and gained a bit of muscle and I feel all the better for it.
Now I’m not saying that ditching the scales is for everyone, but for me from now on I’m going to go with how I feel instead of a number on a machine. I can deadlift my own bodyweight and give Mark a run for this money (kinda) in an arm war and that is what makes me feel pretty darn good. Scales? We’re done.
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