Note to self: Please please don’t mutter at a volume level you think is whispering when wearing your ipod as actually you may well have shouted ‘get a wriggle on you slow arse’ at the slow walking man this morning given the fact he whirled round a split second after you said it. Slow walking pavement hogs never used to bother me that much as I always used to be one of them, I could never build up enough momentum to get my bottom moving quickly and on those occasions that I could it never lasted long due to extreme panting and chest pains that would make me clutch my left boob in agony. Plus I quite literally was a one woman pavement hog, a bottom the size of Germany saw to that! No room to squeeze past my booty on a narrow pavement, no siree! I used to feel like a ship in full sail when I was walking slowly, graceful and majestic cruising down the high street watching people move out of my way. In reality I was more like the Staypuft marshmallow man, massive, a bit scary, with a lack of coordination and thundering footsteps signalling my arrival.
I remember as far back as high school PE lessons being laughed at by this slip of a girl who was all hairspray and attitude because when we were doing dance in the gym you could hear my footfalls above everyone else’s like some sort of galumphing baby elephant with all the grace of a wooly mammoth on LSD. As a hormonally riddled teenager filled with angst (and Hooper’s Hooch) I always failed to see that I would never be a petite person as long as I lived, and so instead of accepting and loving myself for who I was destined to be I focused on the negative and got depressed. I’m down with the fact that I’m never going to be weeny as an adult although I still wish I looked slightly less like some sort of female lumberjack.