Thin is The New Thin
written by: Deryn Graham
@DerynGraham
“Thin is the new thin,” crowed the petite fitness instructor, bouncing up and down. She was scantily clad in two small pieces of lycra – one entwined with a series of cunning straps around her chest and one around her hips and thighs. Her legs looked Minnie Mouse-like, skinny and ending in a clunky pair of expensive trainers which appeared to be giving her added vertical impetus.
“No one loves a fatty, least of all themselves,” she asserted, her voice steady without a hint of breathlessness. The boom box belted out an insistent beat that kept us all in time, like a metronome.
She suddenly lunged towards the front row of her students and the entire class seemed to parry her thrust in a single movement, taking a long step and dip forward. All except me. I had only just got into the rhythm of the star jumps, coordinating my flailing arms with my legs. As if the exercise itself wasn’t strenuous enough, the mental acuity required to match the correct sequence of arms up, legs out was almost too much.
The sprung floor bounced as we resumed jumping jacks, following Tiffany’s lead. Of course, she was called Tiffany. Or was it Crystal? Or Jewel. Whatever. Definitely not Grizelda. That’s my name. So ugly, like me. It means ‘dark battle’ and that’s definitely what I was fighting there in my first ever visit to a gym.
Most of the students landed and propelled themselves back upwards lightly on the balls of their stylish footwear. Flat-footed in tatty old no-name sneakers, I land hard after each jump, barely any daylight to be seen between the floor and my feet as I try to elevate my lumbering form skyward.
There was much whooping and high fiving as the first phase of the training slowed. Nary a bead of perspiration on the brows of the firm-bosomed, tight-buttocked women spoiled their impeccable make up. By now I could tell my cheeks were florid, my hair plastered to my head, armpits of my baggy t-shirt stained with sweat. My track pants rippled round my ankles. I hoiked them up and tightened the drawstring. Looking around I made a mental note of the brand name of the clinging and colourful leggings and crop tops that could have been the uniform of the alien-to-me-tribe.
Tiffany-might-be-Crystal adjusted the microphone that was taped to her head and flicked her loose blonde hair back.
‘Are we all warmed up?’ she grinned. ‘Yes? Then let’s GO!’
I stood defeated as the class began a series of moves more suited to a line dance. It reminded me of a holiday I had once taken in Greece. Seeing me on my own, the tour guide had pulled me to my feet to join in a circular dance. I remember the mortification, unable to work out the foot moves and when to go forward, and when back. Excruciating. Why was I even doing this to myself. Again.
I slunk out of the class and straight out of the gym, swiping my card at the turnstile. A shower in communal change rooms was unthinkable. I know how these women strut and preen and could imagine the kind of pretty underwear that would be on display. Talk about washing dirty linen in public! My no-longer-white-more-like-grey-poorly-elasticated grannie panties were not for public viewing.
Driving myself home, I thought there must be another way to turn my life around and to get out of my slough of despond. As soon as I opened the door to my bedsit, the cat wound its way around my legs, purring loudly. I clipped the corner of a sachet and squeezed it into her bowl. I could no longer smell the cat food, which my mother had told me pervaded the whole apartment. I watched Kitty gulp the gelatinous mass, musing on a plan of action.
And that’s how Operation Make Grizelda Great Again was born.
I transferred my gym membership to one far from Tiffany and found myself a buff, gay male trainer called Mike. He put me through my paces five times a week with strength and weight training as well as aerobic exercises. He was kind but firm, even when I collapsed in a heap or broke down in tears, both of which occurrences were frequent. Mike knew about nutrition, too and put me on a healthy eating plan. That was hard, but slowly I began to see a change. My stomach is now flat and my arms have some definition and this summer I even wore a sleeveless top for the first time since I was a teenager. That’s when things started to go wrong. Now, on the cusp of 30 years old I’m feeling better than ever. I have shed 55 pounds and gone down four dress sizes.
Then there was the small matter of a job. A new career. When I was training, Tiffany’s voice frequently rang in my ears, which was unfortunate because she was really annoying. But maybe she had something. Thin is the new thin and no one loves a fatty, least of all themselves. Show me a fat person that is happy to stay that way. Maybe they’re happy, yes, but not happy to be overweight. All those curvaceous actresses and singers that swear they refuse to be fat-shamed and then promptly transform into svelte creatures. Adele. Rebel Wilson. Melissa McCarthy, even Mama June had a pang of self-respect which sent her scurrying for weight loss surgery. Thank goodness I didn’t need to go that far.
So back to my change of career direction. I have just launched my own fashion range for oversized women called No One Loves a Fatty. Surprisingly, it’s been well received, despite the name. The shop, right on the High Street where a gym apparel outlet that priced itself out of the market used to be, also hosts a support group for overweight people who are seeking to make life changes. We make clothes from size 20 down to a size 10 and will discount the same item in each size smaller as our members lose weight. But there’s no pressure to diet – everyone must do as they please.
With a thriving business, I turned to matters of the heart – now that mine has more of a chance of beating for longer without all those extra pounds making it work so hard. It turns out that Mike the fitness trainer wasn’t gay after all. He just acted a little camp because it got him a lot more clients but somehow I earned his respect, then his love. Me and Kitty have just moved into his place and the bedsit has been re-let. To one of my clients, actually. I’m trying to persuade her that there’s more to life than microwave dinners for one in front of the TV and set her on her own path of wellness.
But each to her own.
The fact of the matter is, in this world, thin is the new thin and no one loves a fatty, least of all the fatty themselves.
NOTE FROM THE AUTOR:
This story is not meant to fat shame anyone.
- Thin is The New Thin - January 22, 2025
- Spotlight On Writers – Deryn Graham - January 11, 2025
- Spring Tide - September 26, 2024
