My Inner Fatty

On Saturday night, in a packed bar on the Isle of Wight, I met a really cute guy. I got knocked against him and as I apologized, I noted that it hadn't been that unpleasant an experience and if someone had knocked me against his (rather muscular) chest again, I really wouldn't have minded. I had had a couple of drinks and noted only through my wine-induced haze that he had a really nice smile and sexy little wrinkles round his eyes. He took my number and we exchanged some rather flirtatious text banter the next day.

Back on the mainland, I made friends with him on Facebook and was shocked to see that this man is a bona fide hottie with a body to die for. And a beautiful blonde (ex?) girlfriend. Instantly, I began to feel totally insecure.

Now, I know that I'm by no stretch of the imagination fat. I always say this to my friends and they always look at me blankly. By saying this, I'm not asking for them to validate me and reassure me that I'm thin. I know very well that a size 8-10 is not heifer territory and that really, I should be spending my time thinking about something else more valuable, for example the melting of the polar ice caps or Third World debt. But seeing that guy's pictures on Facebook with his buffed near perfect body threw me into a blind panic and made me think immediately “Well, if he ever wants to meet up, I'll have to go on a diet for the week before....”

Not that he will ever want to see me again. Because, you see, looks wise, he's way out of my league.

Last year, in the wake of my divorce, I met a guy at Salsa who I'll just call JM. He, I thought, was drop dead gorgeous. Every time before I went to see him in London, I would run into town after school to buy a new outfit, even though I had plenty of perfectly nice clothes to wear. I always worried constantly about what he would think about my body and that as a salsa DJ who hung around with loads of beautiful South American dancers, he would consider me fat. It drove my sister (who was living with me at the time) so mad that eventually she banned me from talking about him and anything connected with my appearance. I think “Shut the f*** up Siani or I'm going to give you a good slap,” was exactly what she said. My sister never has been one to mince her words....

It really wasn't vanity though, it was insecurity. Having just split up with my ex husband who had attacked me so absolutely and left me feeling like the worst person in the world, I was unable to believe that anyone would ever actually fancy me again. I thought I would get over it. But meeting the Hot Islander has made me realise that it's never going to go away. Whatever I do, there will always be an inner fatty waiting to break free, complete with all their insecurities.

I'm not unusual though. Most women I know have the same issues. Most women I know think that their stomach is too big, arms too flabby, boobs too saggy, thighs too fat, legs not long enough. My friends and I regularly have conversations where we almost competitively list our worst features They usually go something like this “Look at my bingo wings, I mean look at them,” “Well at least you haven't got thunder thighs like me.. etc.”

“Well, my legs may be thin but I've still got a huge moustache....blah blah blah.”

I have, I like to think, an exceptionally good looking group of friends. In fact, every one of my friends, I would say, is beautiful. All my friends have attributes that I love, and yet none of them are wholly happy with themselves or how they look. In fact, the only person who is happy with her appearance is my sister who lives in Africa. There, larger women are celebrated and therefore, she feels no pressure to look a certain way. I haven't seen her for a while, but in all her pictures on Facebook she looks radiantly happy. In all my pictures on Facebook, I look vaguely uncomfortable and strained as I try to pull in stomach and put my tongue in the roof of my mouth (apparently it makes one's cheekbones stand out). Unfortunately, for some reason, it makes me look like I'm trying to swallow a golf ball. I do try not to smile in pictures because smiling, I believe, gives me chipmunk cheeks and horse teeth. Like Victoria Beckham being hounded by the paparazzi, I am mortally afraid of looking happy lest I look fat.

Anyway, back to JM from salsa. Eventually, I realised that he just wasn't a very nice person. And at that moment, he stopped being so good looking and became, in my eyes, really ugly. It took about two seconds for me to realise that he wasn't hot at all, he just had a pretty face and that was about it. It was almost as if his mask fell away and, like in a science fiction film, his features became twisted and distorted. I knew, from then on that I would never fancy him again because he had shown me his true self, and this true self was self-absorbed, empty and lacking in any kind of empathy.

I wonder if it's the same for guys then. Would the Islander fancy me more if he got to know me and my winning personality a bit better? Does a great sense of humour cancel out a moustache, flabby thighs and the beginnings of a double chin? Hmm....

I'm not going to end this post with a feminist type sentence that implores all women to love themselves for who they are, thunder thighs and all. Instead, maybe we should all try to get a little bit of perspective. We should make the most of what we have and enhance our best features. Brains and beauty is a great package. Having a pretty face isn't the be all and end all, but it helps. Add a great sense of humour and a working knowledge of current affairs, and you're onto a winner.