The F Word

It gets used a lot. We've all said it. Some of us sparingly, some with carefree ease. It gets shouted across streets, across rooms, casually thrown into conversation to make a point, sometimes in jest and sometimes out of spite. Other times it's just a plain old description.

Fat.

There, I said it. Shocked? Probably not. It's not a swear word; it's not even technically a descriptor for something inherently bad. Why then (and please pardon the pun) does it carry so much weight?

Lately I posted something on my Instagram about being a 'fat girl running'. It was just a comedic tag line to go with a comedic photo, and it was an accurate description - I am fat, and I was going running. One person immediately responded: 'you're not fat!'. Oh really? Tell that to my BMI. They then went on to list all the 'nice' things I was, presumably as a counter-measure to the F-word I had deployed. I assured them I considered it possible to be all those things as well as fat; the two states (niceness and fatness) were not mutually exclusive. They seemed to get my point and the whole exchange was really very amicable, but it highlighted something to me that I had been increasingly aware of for a while - the very obvious fact that for most people, 'fat' is a dirty word, and means a hell of a lot more than just what the dictionary will tell you.

This won't be news to anyone reading this, so I won't patronise you with definitions from said dictionary, but I'm starting at what we know: that words are capable of taking on meaning and emphasis way beyond their original purpose. Moral weight is applied; social norms are considered; much can be implied in the context of use. When I was in primary school I learned that fat was a storage method for extra energy, used by our bodies to help keep us warm, and often accumulated just before a growth spurt and puberty. I might have learnt that it wasn't healthy to have too much fat, but I can't remember that part being emphasised, to be honest. I never worried about whether I was or would become fat, I just knew what fat was. It was only when I heard others discussing fat as a thing to get rid of, to be ashamed of, and began to compare myself to the girls and women around me, that any kind of moral meaning appeared for fat. Older sisters of friends would pinch at their bellies in apparent disgust, swap diet tips, describe food as 'naughty', and call other girls fat in a tone that implied fat meant all sorts of other, worse things. Even as a pre-teen I was starting to learn the F-word and why I should so obviously fear it.

There are other, older blog posts I've published about my own body image struggles - weight loss, weight gain, self acceptance, all those sorts of things - so I don't want to go into that as much here. What I'm really interested in right now is the anatomy of fat as a term - why it has this power, whether it should, and how people are addressing it. So right off the bat, here are all the meanings I've seen ascribed to the term 'fat', and what they imply by extension.

Fat means...

Lazy (you can't be bothered to lose weight to be thin, thin equalling normalcy).
Dirty (if you can't be bothered to lose weight you're not looking after your body, therefore you can't be bothered to wash and you probably sweat more because you're fat).
Stupid (clever people would know that being fat was bad).
Slutty (you're not conventionally attractive so obviously you'd say yes to anyone).
Poor (you can't afford healthy food or a gym and you don't get good jobs when you're fat).
Unattractive (because only thin is attractive, to all people everywhere).
Unhealthy (fat people are only fat because they clearly don't exercise).

These are just the ones I've observed personally enough times to convince me it's a widespread mode of thought and not just a few people using the F-word this way. I think it's fair to say that of this bunch, the only one which a lot of people would argue was justifiable is the health argument; we live in a health-conscious society and the responsibility to maintain our health for the good of our families and society, so we don't become a burden on the health services, has been a strong feature in public discussion for some decades. I would argue this is a wider issue than fat, although fat plays a part, and that unless someone is medically qualified and familiar with a person's medical state, they probably shouldn't be making that call. Often concern for health seems a thinly-veiled excuse to call someone out on the unacceptability of their fatness, regardless of the degree of fat, whether it's under that person's control, or the fact that plenty of health problems are not fat-related and occur in non-fat people, or cannot be externally diagnosed. Fat is a factor in health: that's a fact. But it's not the only one.

When you've got all these assumptions to contend with, no wonder fat has become a dirty word. Why would anyone want to be fat, or identify as fat, when that's what people take it to mean?

Something that has interested me along this vein lately is the terminology used by body-positive activists, the plus-size clothing and model industry, and others involved in the broader discussion of bodies in the media. The vast majority of these are women, not because the issue doesn't apply to men or because they are excluded, but simply because women's bodies are so much more politicised in society than men's are; women are told so much more what they should or shouldn't look like. The ideal is always before us, and the ideal in the Western world is not fat. Interestingly, those groups and industries which are involved in promoting body acceptance regardless of size, or providing clothing for fat people, are often still shying away from the word 'fat'. The most popular alternative term is 'curvy'; it's innocuous, it can be applied to any woman, any human for that matter, but 'curvy' has become a loaded term as well. For some, it sums up the epitome of hourglass, full-figured yet still attractive womanhood, a code for 'acceptable fat', implying that some kinds of fat are ok, but others aren't. For others, it embraces all degrees of the female body, but shies away from the negative connotations of fat. Recently the hashtag 'curvy' was removed by Instagram due to a vast number of pornographic images which had been uploaded using the term, but was re-instated after widespread outcry that this was an example of punishing women for the appropriation of their word by others who had sexualised it. It wasn't just the loss of a word that was the issue - it was the fact that this word represented an entire community, a mindset, a collective attitude toward the female body that thousands of people felt was positive and necessary. 'Fat' has probably never had that kind of power.

And yet, it is just a word. It is just the state of having stored energy attached to your body, possibly in larger amounts than biologically necessary. It isn't a descriptor for all that a person is; it doesn't have to mean more than exactly what it is. And it doesn't have to be taboo. To take back the F-word and strip it of its negative power is simply the work of deconstructing the myths around it, challenging the assumptions, and not being afraid to call a spade a spade. To question meaning and social constructs is a healthy part of our personal development but also, in my view, a crucial action in a society which is still image-obsessed and fraught with emotional and physical dangers for those growing up into it.

I am fat, in that I have fat on me, approximately two stone more than a BMI chart tells me I should. I am fat, and I carry this fat with me, and it contributes to a shape I have learned to love and will continue to love whether it loses fat or gains it, because this is my body and I will live in it for the rest of my life, whatever size it happens to be. I am fat, and I do exercise and eat healthily most of the time, even if my physical appearance doesn't indicate it in the expected and accepted way. I am fat, and I do not believe that this makes me, or anyone else, less valuable as a person.

An Impossible Perfect

I feel like I have to present this with an explanatory note: this post is about body image. I'm well aware that some people will consider it irrelevant to them, and/or I may be seen to have harped on about this a lot lately. I also know from experience that a lot of men think this is an exclusively female subject. If you are one of the lovely people who take the time to read my blog, and you consider that you fall into one of these categories/views I've just mentioned, can I appeal to you to please be open-minded and carry on reading anyway? I know I can only write from my own perspective and experience, but this is a subject transcendent, I believe, of gender and political views. I really hope it can spark some discussion amongst those who may not have actively considered it before.

Nobody warns you how completely impossible physical perfection is. The idea of perfection you learn, through observation/osmosis, is just a complete misunderstanding of reality - there is no one 'perfect'. It doesn't exist.

You may get 'lucky' genetically, and avoid predisposition to stretch marks, cellulite, acne, 'excessive' body hair (whatever that means), weight retention, whatever else may be in our genetic code that is considered below the impossible standard. You may work incredibly hard as an athlete, dancer, something else that physically alters your body. You might not bruise or scar easily. You might not frown so much that it lines your face. You might have the perfect collagen balance in your skin. You might discipline your eating habits to improve your health. You might do or have all or none of the above.

Still nothing prepares you - well, prepared me - for waking some days, looking down at your body and wondering how the hell it ended up the way it did. Why no one ever tells you that you don't have to carry a baby to have stretch marks; that your adolescent growth spurts and then weight gain in your twenties will do that for you. That you'll have them in places that you're not strictly 'fat' - the backs of your knees, your breasts. That men get them too.

Nothing prepares you for the afternoon as a teenager that you cut your leg climbing a fence, and the nurse while she steri-strips it jokes that your modelling career will be scuppered by the scar. You're not planning on a modelling career, but it's tantamount to telling you that this mark will make you less beautiful, less desirable in the eyes of others. And because you've learned that beauty and desirability are the standard, you're ashamed of it. Some days you put make up on it to make it less obvious.

Nothing prepares you for the first out-of-place hair you find on your body, somewhere that hair apparently isn't meant to grow.

The bingo wings that won't completely disappear however many toning exercises you do.

The blue shadows under your eyes that one sleepless night bring out in the morning, however well hydrated you are, whatever creams you use.

The way your stomach folds softly when you sit, even when you're at your thinnest and fittest, in spite of all your sit-ups.

There are many things we can change about ourselves, if we want to. But there are so many we can't. And our physical selves perplex and frustrate us, because they won't conform to the perfection standard, even if we are 'lucky' or we work our hardest. I can lie in bed and try to count my marks and flaws and wonder how my skin has done this to me, but where does that leave me? Afraid? Ashamed? Insecure? And for what - for something I can't control, for a standard I can't achieve. Moreover, a standard that fails to allow for the natural differences of humanity, or the beauty of the mind and spirit.

Here's a radical idea. It's not new and it's certainly not original. And by radical I mean affecting the fundamental nature of something - I don't mean scary, off the wall and unsustainable. Let's love our bodies. Let's be grateful for them - all the things they can do; all the things they are; the living that our scars and marks represent; the fights we have won; the ones we are still fighting. Let's accept and celebrate their uniqueness, their diversity, their strength and their softness. Let's remember they are vessels for our life and not our life itself. And let's not hold onto an impossible perfect anymore.

BIG

BIG

I am the big one.
The big sister.
The tallest.
The towerer-over, still insisting on wearing heels.
The one you tell to sit down
So you don't feel intimidated.

I am the big one.
Big hips.
Jeans-filling.
Swaying, walking, dancing.
The one you can't lend your dress
Because I'll stretch it.

I am the big one.
Big thighs.
Long legs.
Can't fold elegantly into the back of the car,
The one that makes you budge up on the sofa.

I am the big one.
Big ideas.
Talking, laughing, singing.
Asking questions, wanting to know.
The one you think might be more chat than substance.

I am the big one.
Big dreams.
Ambitious.
Up at night writing.
The one who may be better at the theory than the practice.

Big.
I always have been.
I don't mind it.
I don't mind taking up space,
Physical, mental, philosophical.
I don't want to diminish.
I don't want to cower.
I have no plans to apologise.
I have no plans to stop.
This is what I was made to be -
Big.

That's Not You

A while ago I wrote a post under the title 'The Real Me', in which I posited that I wanted to lead what I guess I would term a more authentic or honest life. I also discussed how easy it is to even subconsciously create a public image/personality, and how we structure this to protect ourselves or project an ideal of what we want to be.

Further to that, something I've been thinking about lately is a phrase I've had thrown at me at various points in life, and have definitely heard levelled at others around me: 'that's not you'. From a throwaway comment in the fitting rooms to a statement of surprise in response to an outburst, it's an immediate contradiction that often comes from those closest to us, if it comes at all.

I distinctly remember a number of occasions upon which this little phrase, or words to that effect, caused me to question myself or to feel uncertain. A few times it was wardrobe-related, as inevitably teenage self-expression led to some unusual outfit choices. I would swan into the room in something bright or fitted only to be greeted with a quizzical look and a 'hmmm... that's just not you', quickly followed by me sloping off deflated to get changed. Chances are the people in question felt they were doing me a favour by preventing me from being ridiculous, but I always felt like I had been denied a moment of bravery, and I needed to fit back into whatever mould 'me' was actually supposed to take. As I got older I learned that women used 'that's not you' as code for a lot of things - when they really meant, 'that's not flattering'; 'that's not appropriate'; 'that's too outlandish', they would couch their judgements in the softer tones of 'I don't know, it's just not you, you know?'. I worked in a women's fashion store for two years on and off while I was a student and I saw it so many times, always with the same look of disappointment on the face of the woman in question. Now I'm not saying that it wasn't well-meant or indeed helpful at times, but the primary thing it taught me was, your body doesn't fit, and you can't wear this or this because of it. And if my body didn't fit, then what else about me was in error? How else was I expressing 'me' incorrectly?

'That's not you' isn't just a body-related phenomenon. I was probably more affected by a letter I received just before I got married, from an old friend with whom I had fallen out of touch. They wrote to me out of the blue and I can't recall the full content, but what cut me deeply was this little sentence: 'you're not really that sophisticated, are you?'. I had no idea what they meant. Was I pretending to be sophisticated? Was I coming off as acting out my life, rather than actually living it? I didn't understand. I had no concept of pretence in the way I carried myself at that time; I had developed more confidence and made some different friends, but I hadn't abandoned old friends or principles. Here was this person whom I had known so well and trusted for so long, back in my life after a hiatus in which clearly we had both changed, and their first thought was basically to say to me: 'that's not you.' I didn't get it and I certainly didn't know how to turn around and say, 'actually, yes it is.'

Who decides what is or isn't us? What defines it? Those who know us best ought to be able to tell what is 'normal' for us; when something abnormal happens, the person's behaviour is often described as 'out of character' - it's not a recognisable part of their usual modus operandi. It's been helpful for me at times to be gently contradicted when I've been getting carried away with some behaviour that's actually destructive for me or for those I care about. But on the day-to-day, is there no room for movement, for change? For those of us who sometimes feel like we have to justify or explain any new development in ourselves, it can be exhausting and frankly not always feel worthwhile.

I therefore find myself asking, why do these things get said? It could be just that people find it hard to countenance the new in contrast to the familiar, and that projects itself onto their friends and family as well as their surroundings. Personally I think it's a deeper issue, and it has to do with how we define self in the modern world. In this society we are increasingly free to make wider choices, and the emphasis is so much more on the individual than on community that our understanding of how we function together and inter-relate is constantly tested. I often find myself unsure whether it's right in a given situation to pursue my own good or subdue it for the good of someone else or of a group, when historically a community mindset was the only way civilisations grew and survived. Is it any wonder that when self can be so fluid and so many decisions justified that in the past would have been considered self-indulgent, we face a challenge to who we are? Because it's often easier and clearer to be defined by our differences than by more complex qualities, but those differences can make people uncomfortable.

For me, I know I'm still finding out who I am. It's probably a life-long journey. Some aspects will always be the same and others will change, and I'll do my best to find a balance and hold to the life principles I believe to be important. But when the 'that's not you' challenge gets thrown up and I feel threatened, how do I counter it? Hopefully, with enough grace to keep my friends but enough confidence to keep my individuality. 

The Fear

For a while I have wanted to post about something very personal, something which makes me feel vulnerable. I've considered backing out, but my blog is about honesty and is supposed to be a place for me to say what I really think and feel, to discuss things I think need to be said. I hope it encourages others to do the same, so sometimes I have to be brave. And that's why I've decided to write about the fear and doubt I experience in life, and how I (try to) handle it.

Every day is a battle of wills. Each morning when I wake up there's a little voice in the back of my mind saying, 'why bother?' - telling me, 'nothing will happen today. Nothing valuable will come of this. You're not cut out for it, you can't handle it; you never were good enough, clever enough, strong enough, liked enough.' On lots of days I don't even hear the voice, or it's whispering faintly and is silent by the time I get to the shower. Other mornings I am not so fortunate, and it's the loudest thing in my head, making me want to retreat back under the covers.

Because no matter how certain I am of my value and abilities the majority of the time, in those vulnerable moments where my subconscious seems to rule me, I can really be brought down. Especially if I am foolish enough to feed those insecurities, to interpret the success of others as my own failure.

So I have two choices - I can succumb, or I can fight. I can lie there feeling miserable and accept these thoughts of my insignificance and incompetence, or I can get up and prove them wrong. Not with unfounded bravado but steadily, reminding myself that other people's lives are not the measure by which I should be judging my own.

Everyone has a different path and different battles. Some things take longer to achieve, but I choose to focus on the process almost more than the end-goal, knowing I can learn from every step, every challenge. When my heart and head are so full and I'm never done with all the things I want to create and see and explore and give, and I'm never done with loving, then I know there's enough in there that's positive and worth fighting to hold onto. I also know for certain that I don't have to do it alone, and that gives me courage - the knowledge that wonderful people in my life will remind me of what I can do more than of what I can't.

Overall I'm reminded that none of us is designed to function completely solo. Humanity is meant to create these support networks of those we love and trust - we are supposed to uphold and promote one another, and while that doesn't shut out all fear or anxiety or pressure, it makes it easier to handle. Beyond that, I also know I need to address my mindset and what feeds it, which is a whole other challenge. It's one I plan to intentionally pursue in the coming months, and I hope if you ever feel this way too, that you will as well.

The Real Me

The real me. I wanted to take this statement and start with a very simple question - what does that mean?

Is it a slogan? A confession? An affirmation?

When we speak about 'me' and prefix it with 'real', we recognise a degree of constructed identity in our public and perhaps even private lives. By emphasising that something is real, we acknowledge that it must have an unreal alternative, a false twin. The actuality of the core being throws its shadow into relief, and maybe for a few seconds we realise that the shadow was masquerading as the whole.

It's easier than ever to create the personal reality we want to. We have so many freedoms - our education, our friends, our politics, our clothes, what we read, where we go, how and what we speak. Text, photos, sound, all are editable, malleable tools for self-projection, for image-creation. But whether what we create is indicative of our reality is up for debate. Naturally I pick and choose the parts of my life and myself I'm willing to publicly share - I don't mind people knowing what parties I go to or when I've been on holiday; I'm more cautious of letting them in on how many times I wear my jeans before washing them, or the rants I have when I'm by myself in the car. I'm using what may seem like trivial examples but this is how simply the charade can start - because I know once I begin worrying too much about how people see me, I stop remembering who I actually am. I can even believe my own construction for a while. My created reality is liable to run away with me, and like Peter Pan I'm left slumped on the floor imploring my shadow to come back and behave itself.

Of course the shadow metaphor has its limitations. Humanity is not two-dimensional; it is possible to be multi-faceted, to be complex, to be 'real' yet still changeable and diverse. I believe that the centre of 'real' in this human complexity is honesty with ourselves and others. What we acknowledge to be the truth is the starting point for all our decisions, be they moral, ethical, emotional, practical. When we centre ourselves honestly, we are better placed to relate to others and to our own selves. So why is it that I find this so difficult?

The main measures I used for myself when I was young were academic and moral. I wanted to be top of my class, and I also wanted to be the best-behaved; I craved the pat on the head, the gold star stickers, the sense of moral superiority (and I know some of you are nodding because you remember this about me!). Clearly wanting to succeed at school and wanting to do the right thing are perfectly good objectives, but it was easy for it to become about performance and perception just as much as it was about content. When I fell short of those standards in any way I didn't feel I could acknowledge my weakness; I wanted to maintain an image of a perfect reality that simply wasn't possible. 

The trouble with reality in our society is that it never comes up to our standards. On a global level there are wars we don't understand and poverty we may feel helpless to fight. On a community level there are prejudices and injustices of which we can't fathom the roots. On a personal level, we struggle for a degree of success that is so often judged by external measures which have gained huge influence in the public consciousness, but which can constrict our viewpoint and cause us to feel that failure is our only option. These measures filter into our mindsets so easily from such a young age that it can seem impossible to extricate ourselves, to decide which are valid and which are not.

I think this is why it's so important to make 'the real me' something to be unafraid of. More often than not we can think of it in terms of exposure - we think of our negative attributes, what people are going to judge us for. Well guess what? That's going to happen anyway. How about we decide to go for honesty that flies in the face of a perfection-obsessed culture, and work to some standards we really believe in? How about we give ourselves the chance to breathe and let down the facade? I'm not suggesting we forgo all privacy, which is a very necessary safeguard, but I am suggesting that seeing as we are imperfect we might as well acknowledge it, and realise that it's okay. We have value anyway. We are loved anyway. And when you consider that 'perfect' actually means 'complete', not flawless, it doesn't look so bad.

I readily acknowledge that I've a lot to learn, but what I do know about the real me is that too often I have let shame destroy my confidence and freedom. I would much rather celebrate the value of honesty in a world of unattainable expectations, and set some goals for myself that I can reach for without having to hide behind shadows that don't represent who I truly am. Improvement is always on the cards, but so too should be love and acceptance.

This is Project The Real Me, and I invite you all to join.

Working It Out

There's no obvious starting point for this one. I don't remember a moment of epiphany one way or the other, only brief glimpses of triumph and panic which have fed into this neurosis I'm forcibly shifting. Maybe it's in part the obsessive nature of my early relationship with it that has made the last few years such a challenge.

I'm talking of course about the gym - that hallowed realm of sweat, anxiety, and the smell of metal that you can't get off your hands. I still have to take a deep breath before walking in sometimes, like I'm heading to an interview and need to take a moment to put my game face on. There's something about exercising publicly that makes me more uncomfortable than most uncomfortable things I can think of (and I have a good imagination). 

Reasons? So many. It's the performance anxiety; people can see what I'm doing, what if I do it wrong? It's the music; why do they give you the option of plugging headphones into all the equipment and choosing a radio station when they're going to pump something loudly over the house speakers? It's the constant presence of the opportunity for self-criticism. And it's the mirrors - what is with the excessive number of mirrors?! I'm not weight-lifting, I don't need to check my form from three different angles. I definitely don't want to spend half an hour observing my own sweaty face bob up and down as I battle through the cross-trainer moderate aerobic program, trying not to accidentally make eye contact with other gym-goers. Maybe they're just as paranoid as I am that everyone else is judging them, but probably not. Inexplicably, in the back of my mind I am always fighting the idea that at any given moment someone might realise that I don't belong, that I don't actually know how to use some of this equipment, that I'm making it up as I go along. At least that's how it feels, even though I have actually been inducted and regularly working out for over two years now.

I remember when I first went to the gym it seemed like a very exciting grown-up thing to do. I was seventeen; my parents were in charge of a boys' boarding house at a school and we lived on site, so automatically had access to the school gym. Not being a natural athlete and with no one to force me into it, there wasn't really a sport or exercise routine I had got into in my teens other than netball. I only took up running at sixteen out of boredom while camping, when I would jog barefoot around the field in the drizzle and enjoy the visceral blood-pumping experience of it, reveling in my solitude. The gym in contrast was a big shiny adventure, full of challenges and companionship - I tended to go with my mum or new friends from one of the girls' boarding houses.

It was a different story once I actually joined the sixth form there. It quickly became apparent that the gym was a battlefield of adolescent posturing and perfection-obsessed youth, as time and again I heard gorgeous specimens bemoan physical faults I couldn't even spot, discussing diet plans while burning off as many calories as possible in a session. I was there to try and get fit (at this stage I was always at the back on my D of E expeditions) and while I had been losing weight, it wasn't my primary objective when it came to the gym. In fact I honestly can't remember ever consciously thinking that I was at the gym to lose weight, but steadily it became more than a healthy habit and more of a necessity. I wanted to go every evening, and if I couldn't there would be this latent frustration bubbling under the surface. The weight kept falling off and I felt powerful, like I had mastered my own body, but even while my gym obsession continued I caught the glances of my peers bouncing off the mirrors. What was wrong with me now, now that I was thin? What were they looking at? I never lost the paranoia.

Getting back into the gym after three years of university and the corresponding three stone weight gain took a lot of courage. It helped that the one I joined was usually empty of other people, and the staff there were the sweetest and didn't make me feel like an idiot, but now I've had to move to a busy gym it's almost like starting all over again. The fact is I might never feel entirely comfortable with it however much I learn to love the skin I'm in, or however many times I tell myself that it doesn't matter what other people think. My continued mantra of 'this is for me and my body's good only' might need to be on my lips every time I step in, every time I take that deep breath to walk through the door. But that's okay, as long as I don't give up.

In conclusion, I'd like to share a very short creative piece I published on my old blog last November when I was tackling running again. It sums up my recent feeling and experience of exercise, and I hope anyone undertaking the same challenge can find the sense of triumph and overcoming that results from facing our demons. 

Just Watch Me

A dull yellow stain was spreading through the cloud over the hill. Birds trilled their matins into damp air and their music hung in the vapour, exhorting the expanse, laudate. Dew seeped through the webbing of her trainers.

Heartbeat in time with her feet, the ground gave way to each footfall like sponge. She was heavy; she felt her weight in each stride yet she didn't slow. She was a force, a power. Her weight was behind her, not against - this wasn't about diminution, this was about strength.

The constant grey was breaking into slivers above and the trees were pulling themselves upright. Skyward was the aim of each living thing pushing out of the earth and she wouldn't look down, wouldn't give her detractors the satisfaction.

They might not understand the complexity of it, the duality. That it is possible both to accept and to improve; to be and to do things considered mutually exclusive.

Her breath came sharp as the hill rose to meet her, demanding a tribute of pain which she gave gladly, and laughing inside she hit the crest and made herself its conqueror. She planted her feet and her flag.

I can do this. Just watch me.

Winter Wardrobe - Weekend & Work

Ever since I decided my body shape and size didn't have to be factors that worked against me when it comes to dressing myself, I've been having a lot more fun with what I wear. Curves are now hugged instead of covered, and skinny jeans are not just for the skinny. This weekend I thought it would be fun to take some photos of a few favourite looks, starting with winter warmth and working my way into spring (seriously wishful thinking considering I was freezing when these pics were taken!). Outfits one and two  - separate ways with jeggings (yes really).

Weekend

 

These Dorothy Perkins Eden jeggings in Merlot (find them here) are an absolute staple, even though I hated the very thought of jeggings when they first appeared. They're such good thick fabric that apart from the lack of front pockets you wouldn't really notice that you weren't wearing regular trousers. Usually I have to buy tall/long jeans - I'm a touch under 5'9" - but the standard length are right down to the ankle and unlike some skinny jeans they are actually tight enough to fit comfortably under my boots. Speaking of which, these beauties are from JustFab online. I always feel a bit like a pirate when I wear them, they've just got that swashbuckling vibe! 

 The blue jacket is from Everything 5 Pounds, a cheeky bargain site my blogger friend Leah recommended. It can be hit and miss in terms of sizing and quality but this is decent, if not perhaps the warmest for the current weather! I love the double-breasted design and the fact that the belt is long enough for me to tie a nice bow rather than just about getting it round me and reminding myself that I did in fact eat all the pies...

 

The tan leather gloves and faux fur neck wrap add some nice warm colours, not to mention keeping me snug. They were from tiny independent stores but H&M do similar gloves and the fluffy things are all over eBay. 

Workday

Jeggings again! I style these for work with a smart blouse and jacket:

Navy is always a safe option for a shirt and I used to think it was pretty boring, but I'm coming around to the view that it's quite a classy way to do dark without always opting for black, and it helps that there are some beautiful styles around (see here for Dorothy Perkins, here for H&M, and one I've got on my 'yes please' list from Asos). My jacket is from a Savile Row Company set so it's a beautifully tailored cut, which is a must for me with jackets because my waist-to-hip ratio is unusual and I find a lot of jackets too boxy.

My black suede New Look shoes with crossover detail make a change from a regular court, and if I'm not rocking massive earrings then this pendant necklace tends to come out - £3 in Peacocks, you can't say no to a bargain. 

I love these outfits for their combination of smart-casual chic, and how versatile the pieces are, especially for work when I'm seeing clients four days out of five and can't really have a bad wardrobe day. Having said that, I will be glad when I can finally get my dresses out again!

The Opening Gambit

I love red.

This is no secret to those who know me. I have red dresses, red jeans, and the most delicious red shoes. I paint my nails red, and my lips. Whatever the weather, whatever I wear, red is never far from me; on my earrings, the pen in my bag, the vase in my kitchen, the glass on my table. Red is in my mind and in my heart.

It wasn't always so. I grew up in blues and yellows, purples and oranges, loud and brash patterns my mum created, leggings and Dr Martens among the pale pink tights of my peers. For Christmas when I was ten I became the proud owner of what became fondly known as the 'Joseph fleece', a veritable technicolour dreamcoat of a sweater which was very definitely cut for me to grow into. I was called Joseph from across the street by kids from the local school and I still wore it, still took it on holiday even in the summer, still let it feature in holiday snaps of balmy Carcassonne and the balloon-filled skies of the Loire valley. The world was colourful and I was colourful in it.

I could never pinpoint the demise of the Joseph fleece or what it represented; there was no single moment of departure. Somewhere between patent black platform boots and bleached denim jeans and trying to squeeze my awkward body into the things that made me decide it was awkward, bright colours became something to avoid and my wardrobe metamorphosed into a sea of pastels, generously-cut and ten years ahead of my age bracket. At 16 I was to be found in my auntie's hand-me-down dungaree dresses or work blouses. I wore a voluminous lilac number to my first ever dinner dance and I cried after my mum lost patience with our four-hour jeans hunt through the high street stores of Oxford Street, as pair after pair was too tight, too short. I wasn't a shy girl by any means - I was a Cadet Leader with St John's Ambulance; I ran a family newsletter for which I demanded subs from my relatives; I sang in public. But my body wasn't part of this, wasn't playing ball. As far as I was concerned I operated from the neck up and it just became something to cover, to hide.

The summer before I started sixth form, my parents embarked on the Atkins diet and I decided to join them. It didn't last long, as I lost weight so quickly that they banned me from further participation due to my age, but at that point I was hooked on the power I felt, this power to change what I thought had hindered me. In nine months I dropped three dress sizes and acquired a new wardrobe, a tiny and experimental one with short skirts, loud tights, and things that were long and lean and just what a girl my age ought to be, right? And I got my first red dress. It was a beauty, theatrical and flamenco-flavoured, unabashed like the girl who wore it.

It's a funny thing (but probably a common one) that we can attain a long-held goal and fail to achieve the fulfillment we thought it would bring. Because my body was different and larger and an awkward shape to dress, I assumed it was the problem and needed to be altered and brought in line. Then I got thin and was still hyper-critical of my physical self, still complaining about my appearance to long-suffering sisters who wondered how I could be dissatisfied with a thigh gap and jeans that the youngest of them couldn't even get into. Boys noticed me now and I fitted in with the other girls and I wasn't embarrassed to go to the pool anymore, but my attitude had changed for the worse, and I was beginning to judge everything around me by the same warped rule with which I judged myself. I wore red in a mask of defiance and that was all it meant to me.

I could go into details as to how my volatile appearance-based confidence led me down various garden paths, or how I struggled as I regained the weight through university and the first year of my marriage, but the weight thing isn't entirely the point. The point is I came to love red, truly love the life and energy and confidence it represents, as I came to love myself - my whole self, not just the parts that fit the narrow pattern of accepted femininity which I had mistakenly come to believe was the full picture. We are so beautifully diverse, so perfectly imperfect, so riotously bold, so infinitely capable: every woman. Every one.

So I love red. Red is the lifeblood and passion of humanity, the vivid splendour of the earth, the comfort and heat of the sun, joy and freedom bought through pain. I wear red as a reminder of who I am and what I can be, in and with my body rather than because of or in spite of it.