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Now, before we go any further, please let me say that I do realise I’m not fat. It’s just that I’m bigger than I was (which was emaciated) after my nasty Crohn’s flare of over a year ago.

I have been working, rather diligently, to gain some weight back and I have done, but the problem is now that my clothes don’t fit. Or, rather, they do fit, but just not in that loose, baggy way that I’m used to and, frankly, prefer.

In fairness, it’s very good that I’ve gained weight and I ought to be – and am – quite pleased with myself. It took a lot of hard work to gain some weight. I had to drink a fair bit of beer.

But it feels like I’ve got a bit carried away with things now, especially seeing as my clothes are getting a bit tight around the edges.

I used to mock The Mom relentlessly when, now and again, a propos of nothing at all, she’d announce, “I’m getting fat!”

If you’ve never met the woman, you need to understand that at five foot not much and weighing in at maybe 100lbs on a good day, soaking wet, it is actually a physical impossibility for her to get fat.

The truly strange thing here is that though neither of us could even be considered fat, we are both complaining about it. Which leads me to wonder if there is something wrong with us.

I’ve always assumed that since we grew up in a positive environment, surrounded by people who thought we were pretty great, that anything like this sort of silliness often given too many column inches in the papers, would ever befall us. We were sensible, well-educated women and as such could not, would not, fall prey to what might not be the world’s oldest occupation, but something equally sinister and troubling. The Mom and I had become, over the winter, Normal Women who complained about weight.

Over the years, The Mom, now and again, has bemoaned her figure. When she’s been foolish enough to do it around me, she it met with a grunt and The Stink Eye and no further observations on her weight are entertained. These outburst have always been quite short and appear once every couple of years or so.

But things were getting more and more frequent and when The Mom elaborated further, that it wasn’t so much that she looked fat, but rather that her clothes didn’t fit quite right, in a rare turn of events, I had to agree with her.

“Meme chose here!” I cried.

“Yes, but you were worryingly underweight for a year-and-a-half. Fat is a relative term dear. You’re just getting back to a healthy weight. I, however, am quickly becoming obese.”

When she says things like that, I picture her with her skinny flamingo legs and a donut around her middle. It’s hilarious and completely inaccurate.

But I do wonder how this happened to us. How is it that we’re so easily susceptible to this sort of nonsense? Is it because we’ve felt left out all these years? One cannot reasonably complain of being too thin. Well, one can, and this one does, but in secret, with other friends who are on the dangerous side of thing due to various reasons, all medical. There are furtive meetings behind closed doors, especially here, in the UK, where it’s nigh on impossible to find clothes in an American size zero. But it can be done.

Anyhow, I digress. When I arrived home for my summer visit, I announced the fact that I was fat, and did so proudly. Then I proceeded to embark upon my own version of a weight-loss plan (having never been on one before I had no idea if it would be effective or not). I would swim everyday, I would not drink so much beer, and I would abstain from eating large bags of potato chips.

I’ve no idea if the thing was successful or not. Since I have no idea how much I weighed when I arrived, and since I’ve returned. And it’s still warm here in London, so I haven’t had the chance to try on my more autumnal clothes, the ones that were getting tight. I think I may have just got tired of the idea of being fat, since, actually, I’m not.

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