I came home from class on Wednesday night feeling fat, uncoordinated and hopeless. I'd fucked up every move in class, even the simple ones (one leg shimmy, where are you?), eaten everything that stayed still long enough, and generally convinced myself that I was doomed to grow so fat and hopeless that they'd need to break down a wall of my house to remove my bloated corpse when i finally died of malnutrition caused by living on cookies and bacon crisps.
This evening, I signed up for a burlesque workshop that will teach the classic strip, from dress to drawers. 20 other women are going to watch me cavorting around in unflattering clothes with knickers worn over the top (which is slightly scarier, IMO, than being just in knickers. Underwear is sexy. Only superman could pull off the underwear as outerwear look).
I guess what I'm aiming at here are two things. One is that even the ugliest, fattest, spottiest heifer in the county looks and feels better after a cuddle and a good night's sleep. The second is that this is the only body you get, and waiting until it fits into some personal ideal of perfection is a good way to waste your life.
So come the eleventh of June, me and my fat will be slinking around in my little black dress, saucy stockings, sexy lingerie and, er, Primark leggings and vest. Because I might lose my fat in a few months, or it might still be dogging me until the day I die. Either way, I sure as hell don't want to be on my deathbed wishing I'd taken Fulya's workshop!