There once was an American girl named Ms. Peaceful, aged twenty, who hadn’t yet moved to Britain. She enjoyed sweaty daily Bikram yoga sessions and MorningStar Soya burgers. She did 10 Mile bike rides in the sunshine while wearing Lycra. Tanned and toned was she. (Gawd, she even tried all those odd do- it -yourself chair exercises in Self Magazine).
Fast-forward 9 years and meet a new Ms. Peaceful Yorkshire (me): A bulge that I swear looks like I must be in the early stage of pregnancy. Oh, and those fancy Victoria’s Secret undies originally that came in my suitcase from the USA now just don’t cover my Latina bum the same way. This is good viewing for Mr. Chill, my English man, but really folks, a place in Wedgie-Ville is not the best place to be when you are trying to negotiate your salary. I dread to think how many more rolls I would accumulate if I didn’t walk to work on a daily basis. Am I not talkin’ bout the sausage ones!
The Verdict? I am slowly getting fat in England.
It’s the yummy food like Sainsbury’s olives and Cadbury’s chocolate. I am weak around buttery crumpets, bacon sarnies, the cream teas I have with my American Sistahs at Betty’s in York. The cold weather indoor lifestyle I have (what you want me to run in this mizzle?) does not lend myself to be motivated to frolic outside. Erm, ok.. it’s not England’s fault.
And, while walking home today I decided to take note of some fellow Yorkshire-ites and saw lots of other teacake lovers. Muffin tops rollin’ over jeans, big breasts spillin’ and straining in white work shirts. Ruddy double-chins. Men and women in trouser suits that need to be taken out. (And some British people think Americans are the only fatties on the block?)
Of course it bothers me. I would be such a liar if I said it doesn’t! Unlike my former American self I’ve just stopped obsessing so much. I enjoy turning on Sir MixA-lot to shake it when Yankeebean and I meet up to celebrate some curves-action. I love that many women (and men too) in the UK, as Yankeebean wrote last week , don’t really seem to give a rip about toned abs and bingo wings so openly and obsessively. Let’s face it, some British women dress like hookers when Saturday night rolls around, no matteh’ what their shape. I really admire that, even if its not my style.
I think one of our readers, Sandra Dee, summed it perfectly:
‘Not that I am against staying in shape, its just the Hollywood-ness of it all made me realise how obsessed I used to be too. I used to delight in my flat-abbed stomach. Now. well, I can’t be bothered to care. In England it is so cold that I normally don’t get the time to show it off anyway. Well, except to my English man. And you should see his stomach….. he does NOT have a six pack nor does he want one or care about my newly formed fat bulge.