Are you letting the side down if you stop being fat? Is it somehow "unfeminist" to concentrate, sometimes obsessively, on what you eat (or don't eat)? Is a preoccupation with weight loss equal to wearing a placard round your neck announcing that you are vain and shallow? I have to say, these are some of the most asinine and women-loathing questions I've heard in a long time, but they have been levelled at me recently, and at other women I know who have lost significant amounts of weight. Dieting is for dweebs, apparently - thick dweebs, if you please: stupid, misguided women who don't know any better.
Two years ago, I was a size 22. I was obese - morbidly, no less. It was absolutely horrible in every single respect. Having subsequently lost five stone, I'm really quite hard pushed to see how regaining control of your life, and not wishing your thighs to rub together when you walk, instantly turns you into a simpering air-head. One of the things about being fat - and I'm talking about being stones overweight, not about "needing" to shrink from a size six to a size two - is that, after a certain point, it makes you invisible. It's hard to understand how this might be considered any kind of achievement, feminist or otherwise.
You may occupy a great deal of physical space if you're very fat, but in everyday life, it's as though you weren't there. Sales assistants stare blankly through you. Men pretend you don't exist, or start calling you "mate". You wonder whether your children are embarrassed to be seen with you in public (the answer to that one is yes, probably). You wish you could go for a bike ride with them, but you're too self-conscious, because you look like a potato balanced on an ant. You can only buy clothes in specialist shops, and these clothes are as undesirable as you have started to feel. Your self-esteem - well, I was going to say "plummets", but it's hard to plummet when you've reached rock bottom.
You develop a whole fraudulent persona to go with your weight: you become a "jolly" fat person with a nifty line in self-deprecating jokes, expertly - and viciously - insulting yourself before anyone can insult you. And all of it feels suffocatingly miserable, every single day, but you squash it down and box it away, and try and live your life. Which you can't, properly, since you are miserable; and then the misery impacts on others close to you - partners, relatives, colleagues, friends, children. Still, you can always comfort yourself with the fact that you're une femme serieuse, not some weight-obsessed ninny. Well, whoop-de-do.
http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/health/story/0,,2011945,00.html