so what if i am fat?* 

Last Saturday, I decided to finish the last 3 sessions at a slimming centre. Now, before you go shoot me pointlessly in the dark over this decision, allow me to explain. I had signed up for the 10-sessions package for RM288 back in 2003, when I was obviously fleshier.

Back then, passers-by on the street would raise a high-five and endearingly call me ‘Michelle’ coz I was 20g short to be mistaken as a Michelin mascot. My flesh hung loose around the mid-section area and cool air surrounded me when I walk in the hot sun, as the waving wings I call my triceps synchronized its motions with my marching legs. And don’t get me started on those thunder thighs. And my orange peels. In a nutshell, a sight to behold I was not. Grotesque would be a better adjective. So I succumbed to the advertisement and chose the easy way out to shed those insecurities…

Did the sessions work? Definitely not. In fact, after 7 sessions, I piled up on those pounds. The 2 main contributing factors were (i) self-denial that I’ve earned the ticket to chomp more fattening food (ii) false idea that I don’t need to exercise. After I knocked some senses into my own head that exercise and eating right was the way to go about it, I decided to cease the session and put this shameful episode behind me.

As always, the past decided to play catch up and pay an uninvited visit right after I returned from Australia. It came in the form of a phone call, to remind me that I still have 3 more sessions to fulfil. Typical me of being prudent with money after every holiday, I decided not to waste good money and thus agreed to spend an hour of the lazy weekend afternoon at the mercy of some fat-electrocuting machine.

How naïve can I be? I became conscious to that fact the minute I entered the centre. Plastic smiles greeted me like a prodigal daughter, asking how I have been without any form of eye contact…and they flash illuminating “You’re Fat!” signs across their foreheads.

Quickly I was ushered into a room and was asked to strip down to my undergarments, got my weight taken along with my BMI (Body Mass Index) and fat percentage. The 30-min electrocution session passed swiftly. After which, I was measured at various parts of the thighs, arms and waist and thereafter, the nutritionist entered the room for a criticizing consultation session.

She informed me that I have 31% body lard fat and looked at me like a plump hog ready for the slaughter house. And as I weigh 59.5 kg at the height of 163cm, my BMI index is at 22.4, which is at the tail end of the normal weight index of 18.0 – 22.9. “While you lost inches compared to 2003, you are still considered as fat. You are only 0.5 point away from being overweight.”

I disputed with the argument that I had just returned from a 10-day adventure trip which included daily 3-5 hours of rigorous walking and hiking and thus, I had definitely lost inches even though I gain 3kg, which I assumed, is the weight of solid lean muscles.

“Ya, but you are still fat”, was all she could offer me.

“No, I am not fat! I know the definition of fat. Look here, I seriously don’t care about the weight. I am happy with how I look and I think my BMI is fine.”

“Ya, but you are still fat”, she parroted the same answer in fear I had missed it the first time.

“Ya, but I don’t care!”

“You don’t care that you are fat?”

“But I am not fat!”

“Yes, you are!”

“I don’t care what you say. I am not fat. End of conversation.”

“Anyway, do you want to come back next Saturday for another session?”
I gave it a short thought and told her no. I seriously will not stomach any more of this ridiculous censure. Ever.
June 13, 2006 // anjali* pranced on tip-toes all over the keyboard at 7:32 pm
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