Chapter 1 - getting skinny to losing skinny

I woke up feeling groggy. It didn't feel like Christmas. But it did feel like I'd eaten myself silly last night. Cheeseboards, red wine, crisps, all on top of the usual Christmas eve feast. I rolled out of bed and half heartedly ran a comb through my hair. My sister would have been up since 6, preening herself for an appearance with the same faces we'd seen since lockdown began. I wasn't the same girl I'd been at the start of lockdown.

Once upon a time, I was curvy. I wasn't fat, but at 14 I'd had a figure more appropriate for a thirty year old. As school, college and uni had passed and I'd got my first job, the stress took me from a curvy UK size 14 down to a 10 to eventually a size 6. As I rang in the new year, I actually liked every single photo. I'd become skinny, and I'd never seen my body like that before.

My boobs were always the first thing to go. I'd never been well blessed in the cleavage department, but by midway through 2019, they were officially more like boy boobs. The girlfriend I had for the backend of 2019 had loved them though, and my svelte frame that almost mirrored hers. Once we broke up, it got worse. Remembering to eat became a challenge and my boy boobs verged on being just nipple, little pink mounds peaking out from my skinny chest.

Some of it was exercise too. I'd gotten a job in the big city and I was too poor to get public transport. Reaching 20,000 steps was an everyday occurrence and I distracted my loneliness with exercise. Classes, swimming, the gym, every time I wasn't out getting pissed, I was probably toning my muscles.

People began to worry about me, but complimented me more than ever. My waist had always been tiny, but it looked snatched in everything I wore. The only thing that sort of stayed was my bum. I'd always had quite a large arse and wide hips, the kind that would bump into tables and men would feel the need to grab to move me out the way. Even then, although it still had a curved shape to it, the juicy padding I'd once had disappeared. It started to hurt if I sat on it for too long as it was almost bony.

Then lockdown hit. The walking stopped, the exercise classes stopped. I had to spend 24/7 with my overweight parents. But I refused to be one of those people who would pad out again. I'd worked hard for this body, and pandemic or no pandemic, I was about to lose this body.

My life became a repeat of working, going for a walk and doing another hour of exercise. With the occasional zoom call tossed in, of course. So I kept the weight off.

Until I didn't. Once I managed to move out and live with some old friends, things started to change. Eat out to help out was the favourite activity amongst most of my people. And boy did we eat out to help out. Twice a week, we started going out for elaborate meals. Then we weren't allowed to drink without a meal. So it turned into four times. One of the housemates I lived with liked to bake around three times a week. I couldn't resist the raspberry buttercream any more than I could resist going out for a fancy meal.

I carried on with my fitness classes once they started back up, but I didn't have the motivation for distraction any more. The amount I paid versus the amount I went would be considered pointless to most people.

For the first time in a while, I had truly relaxed. But I didn't notice the signs of it for a while. I had been more ethically sourced clothes now I could afford to. Yet most of this meant shopping in thrift shops. My friends would sneer and tell me it was skinny privilege that I could go in and just fit something from these stores. Yet some of the clothes were actually lose on me, even if I had no idea what size they were. My style had become much less basic and was quite quirky, with one of a kind pieces becoming my favourite.

In fact, I didn't think of wearing my old clothes for months. As winter hit, my floaty vintage clothes were finally too cool for the frosty weather. My favourites at the start of the year had been a lot of leather and I attempted to squeeze myself back into my size 6 leather skirt. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed my once washboard actually looked quite soft. Prising the material together was a challenge. The button did just about close, but it dug into my baby roll of fat and gave me a protruding little bump.

Getting teary eyed, I pulled it off and put on some trousers instead. Yet even the pair that used to fit me like a glove made me look quite chunky. Maybe I... Was quite chunky now.