Some shilly sit

I’m a slimmer by trade, I’m frequently weighed,
I’m slim as a reed in the river.
I’m slender and lean, and hungry and mean.
Have some water, it’s good for your liver.

Don’t give me cheese rolls or profiteroles
Don’t show me that jelly a-shakin’,
Don’t give me cream crackers you Picnic and Snickers
Or great big ice-creams with a Flake in.

Don’t give me swiss roll or toad-in-the-hole
Don’t show me that Black Forest gateau.
You sit and go mouldy you old garibaldi
Your pastry all riddled with fat. Oh!

When I’m fat I feel weary and tubby and dreary
The stairs make me struggle and grunt dear,
And yet I’m so happy and punchy and snappy
When me hip bones are stuck out front dear.

No, it’s white fish for me, no milk in me tea
And if we don’t like it we lump it.
No figs or sultanas, no mashed up bananas
No pleasure and no buttered crumpet.

So don’t get any bigger, me old pear-shaped figure
I can and I will become thinner.
So cheer up and take heart, pass the calorie chart,
let’s see what we’re having for dinner!
---------------------------------------------------

I was teaching this poem in class and reading it out with relish when I gave a small squeak and my hand flew to my mouth. I am the woman in the poem! I am the neurotic middle aged woman with disordered eating habits! Argh! And I really do feel tubby and sluggish when I am feeling fat. Life imitates art? Oh dear. I even very cleverly told the class that the persona is not health conscious but weight conscious and made them explain the difference to me. I am brilliant.

I was never very health/weight conscious when I was younger. I was in softball, netball and table tennis in secondary school but did not learn a single skill. I hit the Best Friend on the forehead with a softball bat whilst trying to play golf with the bat and ball. I don't even know what the letters on the netball vests mean ... GD, WD, VD... venereal disease?? The Best Friend and I skived at any given opportunity during PE and cross-country runs. We laughed at the school team members and wrinkled our gu-niang noses at the sweaty uniform group girls. I remember hiding with her in the toilet during our junior college cross-country run and giggling with glee while the masses were out running their guts out around Mt Rosie.

Now, I am paying $60 a month for gym membership. I exercise religiously and with a vigour I never knew I had. I can sit in the damn jungle for eight hour amongst the mosquitoes and creepy-crawlies just to climb. I am the sweaty uniform group girl now! I can pee in the jungle without squealing or cringing. I have even peed on my own foot by mistake. One has to be very careful when peeing on a slope.

How ironic, eh?

Don’t even get me started on the disordered eating. I want a bloody crumpet. With butter oozing out. And cream.