Do you really want to hurt me?

As someone who is increasingly filled with self-loathing and cannot see a mirror without looking the other way, body-shaming is something that leaves me very uncomfortable. Struggling as I am to shake off the additional lockdown pounds, it happened to me last night when an old acquaintance in the pub last night kindly asked whether I had been “eating too much food”. My reply was on the lines of “Thanks for mentioning that, I really hadn’t noticed” as I half-smiled and moved to a seat as far away as possible. Why would you say that?

I didn’t specifically choose to be virtually housebound during the first year of Covid but unlike Boris Johnson who set the rules I followed them with all the unwanted consequences, like weight gain, declining fitness, all that kind of stuff and now, with added old age, the weight is coming off at glacial speed, even though I am at least moving in the right direction.

I was never exactly a muscle-bound adonis and the only six pack I ever carried around came from the local off licence but advancing old age doesn’t care much about that. And last night the comment, which I suppose had the one merit of being true, stung.

I stewed on it for a while but the embarrassment and, I have to say, sense of humiliation, hasn’t gone away. At least I didn’t respond to my acquaintance by making a reference to his shiny, balding pate which given he is around half my age can’t be fun, but then I wouldn’t say that because being prematurely baldness can’t be a lot of fun. Having retained most of my barnet, astonishingly still in its original colour without artificial assistance, I know how very lucky I am. And in any event I don’t feel the need to potentially make someone feel shit by pointing it out in public.

I’d like to think I’ve been aware of body-shaming long before it became a thing. At school, which in my case was in prehistoric times, people really were called ‘Fatty’ to their faces – one lad who endured excess poundage was ironically nicknamed ‘Slim’ – and if a child had any kind of visual impairment, some kids would notice it. I had a large blotchy birthmark on my face and gained the unwanted nicknames ‘Mole’ and ‘Keyhole Kate’ and I hated it. I had two operations to get rid of it, actually operations where the birthmark was gouged out (laser treatment didn’t exist back then) and I was left with a scar, which I still find preferable and I don’t mind too much when people say, as they still do, “How did you get that scar?” Now, I don’t mind but I can imagine others may not feel the same as me about their own disfigurements.

Eventually, I hope to return to the svelte physical state I wasn’t really in before Covid struck – trust me, I am trying – not to appease twats who point out things you know about but would rather not have them pointed out in public, but for my own well-being, physically and mentally and that one day I can look in a mirror without being appalled by my own reflection.

To anyone who feels like pointing out the bits of me that aren’t perfect – how long have you got? – then go ahead, even though I can’t really take it, I won’t dish it out. But actually, no, don’t do it. It’s not big, it’s not clever and, to be honest, it’s deeply unpleasant. We don’t all look how we want to look, sometimes it’s our fault and sometimes it isn’t, but it can hurt or at least irritate. Do you really want to hurt me, or anyone else? No, of course not.

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