Dialogue: Grappling with weighty issues

By ROANNE PARKER

The mad Scotsman was reading the birth column in the paper at the weekend when he commented wryly that her birth announcement must be the only time a woman would have her weight proudly published to the world.

I think that might have been a little dig at me because I've never confessed my weight to him. Like it's a deep, dark, ugly truth.

Well, it is. I won't even let myself know how much I weigh. You see, if I don't know then it's not true, so it doesn't matter.

When I joined this gorgeous new gym a couple of months ago and was working out really hard six or seven days a week, I was horrified to discover that I had put on weight.

That was the clincher. I resolved never to weigh myself again.

Then last weekend I found myself sick as a dog. I had not eaten for about four days, and had got all dehydrated and weak, and sweaty and smelly and generally grotty.

But you should know that I'm a screaming optimist and in typical woman fashion, the bright spot in what was at times utter misery was the thought that if I ever had the energy to get out of bed and put my jeans on, they would be hanging somewhat looser than they had been to date.

I could have saved myself a fortune in gym membership if I had just caught this lurgy earlier.

Still, it's all very well saying that as I sit here in a pharmacologically induced state of peace and equilibrium. If you had asked me 12 hours ago, I would have whispered that the gym seemed a lot easier than this pain.

Don't think this is just a dirge on the trials of women and fat. It's time the men started feeling the heat. All of those Toffee Pops adverts are just adding fuel to the fire of women demanding a bit of eye candy of their own. So where are you, guys? I don't think you are taking your new role seriously enough at all.

It's a really interesting dynamic, the idea that men may be seen as sex objects. Even saying that sentence seems to turn the tables and empower women while it disempowers men.

Our teenage girls queue up to join deportment and grooming classes every school holidays. What would you think if your son wanted to pay someone to learn how to turn him into a one-dimensional reflection of society's ideals?

"Son, you are on this Earth to look good. Don't kid yourself that it's anything other than that. If you want to attract a good woman, stand up straight. Stick your chest out. Suck that tummy in. Smile. Dye your hair. And, most importantly, don't get fat."

It sounds like a joke, the idea that a guy would think twice about what he shoves in his gob so he can enhance his attractiveness. On doctor's orders, yes. To stay looking good for the wife? Yeah, right.

A guy can say, "For God's sake, don't eat that chocolate ice cream or you'll be down the road quicker than you can say Jenny Craig." The wife might plead, "Dear, you know eating all of that rubbish is no good for you [or my libido]."

Can you imagine those reversed? It would be quite amusing to hear someone say, "Bob, I warned you before we got married that if your butt ever got bigger than Uncle Frank's, you'd be history. Well, it is, and you are."

But really, I think I'm just being defensive. What kind of a brain have I got that gets a thrill from being too ill to eat? A twisted one. It is not really much of a comfort to know it's not just me; in fact, most women are as twisted.

I was talking to a friend and telling her how cruel my body was being by weighing more after a month at the gym and she assured me with great sincerity that the only way to do it was to completely starve yourself. "Ro, you just have to stop eating. It's the only way."

Um, but I like eating. It makes me strong and healthy. My lovely mum read Let's Eat Right to Keep Fit and taught me early that brown bread tasted better than white. And the mad Scotsman taught me that it tasted really good as thickly buttered toast with crunchy peanut butter.

Eating should be a pleasure. Guilt about eating is just a rip-off. So I'm off to heat some pumpkin soup before I crawl back into bed for the afternoon.

But when I get up, I might just slip those jeans on to see how great they look.