It’s not every day you are outside your house, gathering the power of Superman to try and negotiate your toddler duo plus buggy, up the steps to your house, only to have a slightly crazed looking woman come running towards you brandishing a leaflet, shouting something about you ‘being perfect’ for what she’s looking for. I was a little confused, because I was busy mustering the energy to get everything up the steps, which really does require a Buddhist style meditation, and prayer to the Gods of Get Us Up There In One Piece. I was concentrating on visualising the safe Nirvana of the porch. Being yanked from this meditation was flustering, and did nothing to ease the paranoia that she was actually a crazy woman trying to distract me with something I was Perfect For, before trying to steal my children.
Once given the once over, I decided the immediate threat was low, and my interest piqued. What could it possibly be? Was she scouting for adorable children to pay shed loads of money to star in television commercials for useless items, thus securing them abundant future financial security? Did she want me to be the poster girl for Tena Lady? No, wait for it, drum roll please…. She was scouting me for the local fat fighting group…. (please insert shocked/laughing/chin scratching emoji here as necessary.) Oh yes, the thing she rushed at me for, was to tell me I was the perfect fatty. I was being fatty head hunted. Now, my eldest child tells me on a regular basis, things like ‘mummy, your bum is massive and squidgy,’ and ‘mummy, can I wobble your tummy like a jelly?’ I let him off because he’s 3, but having the dubious accolade of being fat hunted by an actual adult floored my remaining confidence.
Seeing my friendly smile dissipate, and backing slightly away from me when I said ‘so, you meant to give this to me? Personally? I look like I need to attend??’ Which was met with slightly stilted reply of ‘oh, well, you, or you could give it to any friends you know…. I’m just generally leafleting in this area…’ The last bit was said in the smallest voice ever, probably because my resting bitch face had become my actual bitch face, and she now realised her marketing strategy was worse than the U2/Apple collaboration, where millions were forced to endure an unwanted album and Bono’s smugness on their iPhone. I snatched the leaflet, turned on my heel, and hoped she’d sod off while I began mission-almost-impossible, getting to porch nirvana. I did what any other person would do, and went straight to the window to see where she went next. I noted that she seemed to run at me from the top of the road, she didn’t seem to come from any of the neighbour’s houses. She didn’t go on to drop one of her leaflets to our immediate neighbour either. There was only thing for it-she wasn’t going to put leaflets where they could potentially be wasted on unknown skinny occupants on the other side-she was hunting down and rounding up fatties.
My wild imagination decided it was some sort of cult. I imagined turning up to a ‘meeting’ only to be tortured into confessing that I ate my children’s leftovers, then being forced to watch videos of people eating leftovers, and being given electric shocks of varying intensity, until I had been conditioned never to eat children’s leftovers ever again. She was going to go Pavlov’s Dog on my cellulitic ass.
I might be forced into exercising until I dropped, until I could successfully grapevine across a room without leaving my stomach trailing at the other end of it, or at the very least only produce a shock measuring 2-2.9 on the richter scale during said grapevine.
They could be building an army. An army of mummy shaming, confidence destroying babyweight Nazis, marching the streets, scouting for tired, hungry, slightly (well, admittedly ‘slightly’ is questionable in my case,) overweight mummies to join them in their mission to rid the world of people who obviously didn’t realise they needed to fight the fat, and to brainwash them into joining their schemes.
They could have a Dr Strange in the basement, building robomummies, who have been surgically altered with blunt instruments, fitted with false stomachs which rejected cake and chocolate.
Worst of all, they might tell me I can never eat cheese again, at which point, life as I knew it would be over. It was decided, I was in no way going to one of these meetings, I was having no part in this revolution. I need all the carbs, and
all of most of the wine, to get me through my child rearing years. I will wear my cellulitic bum and saggy tummy, covered in the best spanx money can buy, with as much pride as I can muster. One day I might actually get scouted for something exciting, but that day was not it… You can take your leaflet and your cult, lady, and scout your people elsewhere! At this moment in toddler rearing time, I don’t need desperately poor training and recruitment skills on the part of the fatty fighters management and staff training cult intervention.
Thanks for reading!