There are two things I am exceptionally glad of, given my size.
One: my face isn’t too huge, and I wasn’t burdened with a massive double-chin. It’s big, but not big big. I’m vain enough as is. Anything bigger, and I can’t imagine how frustrated I’d be with myself.
Two: my hands aren’t as big as I’ve seen on other girls my size.
Now, I know these are things I shouldn’t be comparing or even thinking about, because bodies are extremely personal things, and how our weight decides to spread out is its own decision (and our genes, or something), but I’ve always really kind of liked my hands. When I was in high school, I was trying to half self-teach myself the piano, and half trying to nag my music teacher into teaching me. (He never did, haha. Poor Mr. Hewitt. If I ever, ever bumped into him again, I think I’d have a billion lifetimes’ worth of apologies for that poor man.)
But I did, however, play the viola, and the keyboard, of all things. I sang in the choir, and tried to play about a hundred other instruments, too.
I was pretty vain about my hands, since, playing the viola, that’s where people look. As I started gaining weight exponentially, I had waking nightmares of my hands being too fat for my fingers to fit on the strings properly. (It happened once when I was playing Mum’s guitar! By accident! Why wouldn’t it happen with my viola?)
But they’re okay.
They’re still fat, but they could be worse. My ring finger’s a 9/10 depending on my water retention (I think that’s a R, in UK sizes, but I’ve worn an Avon ring, and an American ring, for so long, that I can’t remember actual UK sizes!), so they’re still pretty fat, compared to skinny little bits of girls, haha! But I think, in comparison to me and the rest of my body, they’re… kinda skinny looking?
Except, of course, for when I go walking.
In Which Fatso Is Swelling Up
When I go walking, I have this terrible habit of not raising my arms. They either hang by my side like dead weight, or I stick my thumbs in my pockets and mosey on home like that.
Tonight, I walked home with my arms swinging, and when I was almost home, I went to take my phone out of my pocket to change the song, when I felt like my hand was about to split in two.
I flexed my fingers for five minutes, and it still didn’t help. Nothing changed until I got home and had moved my arms around for a while.
I know what causes it, of course. My arms are below the level of my heart, and the blood’s beating against gravity, and it results in a monstrosity of my hand swelling up like this:
The only problem is that if I walk along holding onto my bag (BAG, not bra, Tracy) straps, then my butt becomes my centre of gravity. My butt is a big butt. I end up, like that, walking wherever my butt wants me to walk. Which usually means, “in a wiggly wee line all over the pavement, getting in everyone’s way.”
It’s not at all attractive. It makes it look like I’m drunk, or stoned.
I like moseying in the summer. I strut at night like I own the world, but walking home in the summer sun? Moseying’s just fine, ma’am.
I just hate the fact that I need to be paranoid that people are going to notice that I’m swelling up like a banker’s bonus. I should stop caring if people notice. The fact that I’m out walking should be awesome enough for me.
Swollen hands and all.