Having reached the solid post-puberty age of 17/18, I’d lost considerable hope in experiencing a late growth spurt of the body tissue that brings about two rounded spectacles on a women’s chest; and learnt to accept my genetic misfortune that it just wasn’t going to happen. On the other hand (or other side), I by no means boast a Nicki Minaj, but an athletics track-based childhood can be left reliable for a number of commendable, wholesome, double-take bums; mine (as I was told), included. Incorporating a solid, balanced diet, the right kind of exercise and training, heightened also by the choice of non-existent Lycra pants athletes so famously wear; I felt that my lack of chest was somehow compensated by my waist down…Well up until a year ago, that is…
One of the earliest acceptances you’re forced to come with as an athlete, is the undeniable struggle that comes with buying clothes, in particular, the jean. Most fitness enthusiasts will I hope be able to relate to, the ill-fitting ability of clothes to cater both for the waist AND for the hard-earned leg definition. Thus initiating the so common first world struggle. Finding the perfect pair of jeans is almost a withstanding essential to the female wardrobe; and once you’ve found your shop; that’s it, you’re set. So for that, I say thank you, Zara and Topshop; you drain my money, but credit to you and your jeans!
As it appeared, those sporting years had resulted in my body becoming proficiently competent at re-directing all that body tissue from my stomach area, and storing it away in my buttock region (#goals). As my disordered eating and illness began to intensify, I had to accept the inevitable… With the ultimate aspiration being decreased numbers on the scales, I acquired a somewhat bout of reassurance, when this part of my body started to, let’s say…flatten; as I knew it was responsible for excess kilograms that could be lost. What may seem like a contradictory emotion to be feeling such fulfillment from a depleting backside, no sooner did I start to feel considerably saddened that I was losing all that made me look, and feel feminine. Irrespective to feeling this way, I still just wasn’t able to silence the voices telling me that a lower weight was better than having any such figure.
Though it is often thought that those suffering with anorexia are striving for the ‘perfect’ body image, I am by no means delusional to the fact that my body has now gone far below what would ever be considered attractive. What remains? Not a lot. Except a frail, tempered skeleton, without much femininity to boast…
As convenient and time-saving as it can be, to not have to undo any zips or buttons upon visiting the bathroom, I can’t help but feel I’m letting Zara down with the excess material that currently sags down from my iron-board physique. I tried my utmost to abstain from buying new jeans to cater for the bum that half marathons had stolen from me, with the inner hope that this illness would soon be over and I would be able to wear my old jeans again; but there really are only so many times a day you can be bothered to pull up your 4 dress sizes too big, trousers.
A huge difficulty I know I will have to accept if I am to get over this, is that my jeans will eventually snuggle up to my frame again. However, I know how important it will be to keep reminding and reassuring myself, that with the extra weight, comes some of that positive, feminine body tissue that will hopefully be returned to the rightful place, and should not be negatively felt as fat.
So for now, it may be worth attempting to swap the streets for the squats and the apples for an avocado, because a fuller physique has surely got to be better than a feeble frame, right?!