Beach Body Butter Ball: The Revolution Starts Here

Disclaimer: This now makes absolutely no sense as I am back in England and the prospect of a bikini is basically non existent.

Ps: Hot dogs or legs?

A massive conundrum when backpacking or really in life in general; the beach bod.
Now, I have never been a gym bunny goer, a lover of exercise in any form or in fact a vaguely active person. Walking is as far as I go, and even then it better end in a pub/cheese/an instagrammable moment. So that inevitably means that the beach bod prep we all undergo before a holiday, or in my case 14 months of on-going pretend dieting, never happened. I basically lessened the biscuit intake and assumed shrinking to a size 8 would be an imminent fixture; and then got completely aggy that I wasn’t stepping onto the plane like a leggy, human gazelle; as I really resemble in my plane ensemble those years when sleeping bag coats were in fashion, besides the fact I am carrying two Toblerone’s that will not be making to their final destination
Where is that size 8 girl? Oh, I know, buried in layers of chocolatey, nougatey goodness…..

So backpacking bods are everywhere, you don’t escape England’s freezing clutches for more sub-zero temperatures do you? You want heat, heat and more heat.
You want so much heat you can complain about it every minute of everyday and say terribly British phrases such as ‘Ooo isn’t it hot today?’ like we are all surprised that its hot in Sri Lanka.

Those British idiosyncrasies continue with putting sun cream on, yet ending up with weird burn lines (not tan lines lets be realistic here), freckly yet tomato based in appearance, ordering every ice based drink the nearest hipster coffee shop sells, and nipping into every supermarket to have a ‘browse’ but to really stand in the frozen aisle for 15 solid minutes saying things like ‘I didn’t know they sold McCains here’. You order something with avocado in it and sit there again, waiting for that size 8 to appear- along with the extra halloumi you ordered.

I am a firm believer in sweating weight off as a legitimate diet plan and ease of mind, this realistically is a lie and I am not my Dad in the early 90’s going for run with a bin bag sellotaped on him.

Also, in this round of backpacking I have taken myself to some of the most beautiful-people enticing, surfer-going, active wear for actually being active countries, where my bitter English vibe is misunderstood and my gut is entirely unfathomable to the wash board abbed, doing press ups on the beach, acai drinking, sea dwelling people. Their main pastime is catching some waves and probably doing yoga on a surfboard, on a wave with a dog and an immense tan. Mine is drinking beer and staying in the shade because I am 90% sure I got heat stroke yesterday.

I’d love to say I am not jealous of the beautiful people but I am. I reckon its great to be in their perfect little snow globe world where cheese doesn’t form into a love handle as soon as it is consumed. I want to be stared at on the beach, cute little bikini (not bikini size of two hats to strap down Melons melons), hopping causally from warrior pose to graceful swan on a surfboard. I want to get some form of attention walking down the street that isn’t someone trying to get me to go in their Tuk Tuk on a tour of the local stone factory or touching my blonde hair on a bus cause I clearly look like I am an albino (more on that in the next post). I want to not eat butter by the pound, with a spoon, because it’s great.

But, on the other hand, do I want those things? You are practically naked, you don’t walk down the street in your non matching undies? I don’t want creepy people staring at me on a beach, or for that matter even speaking to me because as we all know; I hate people. I don’t want to causally hop onto a wave because the sea is terrifying, I don’t like getting water up my nose and if a fish touches me I will shit myself. I don’t mind people commenting on my tattoos rather than my body because this shit cost me a lot of money and had better get some recognition because there are no refunds in the game of skin.
And butter?
Do not even get me started. If there was a food made by actual Jesus, its butter. I do not want to live in a world where people don’t eat butter. (No offence intended to the lactose intolerant readers out there)

So I’ll admit; I try to avoid a bikini pic and when there is one I edit the hell out of it to reduce the emphasis on my pig ribs, to make that thigh circumference not so prominent and to make it not so obvious I am full of whatever national biscuit the country I am currently in produces. And to that end, when I am on the beach like every single person no matter what size; on the walk to the sea I suck that tum in so much its no wonder I can breathe. Laying down is also a god send as gravity works wonders for the wobbly endowed.

Equally though, I don’t care. Its taken me a while, and I have my moments of panic and shame of my cellulite or love handles. But this is who I am. I am never going to be some leggy blonde with abs and a gold card to the nearest gym/vip area literally anywhere/first service at the bar/not the funny one. But I am so ok with that because I bloody love food, and at the end of the day- I also bloody love me. Pig ribs are great, thighs are great plus traitors, and love handles are great.

I will snapchat stupid faces to my friends in public, I will get my latest travel bud to take ‘staring into the distance’ pics for me where I will edit my bum, and then I will get back to that hipster café and order a cheese board. I will have dreams and aspirations of surf lessons and going to the gym on my way to work, and never in my entire life go further than using their bathroom because there wasn’t another one on my way to Nandos. I will always look at my thighs like traitors, I will grab my pig ribs in the mirror and give them a jiggle to some sort of theme song, and yet I will always crack my bikini out and get down the beach.
I will always without fail; eat butter.

Us women aren’t so complicated, I would say 93% of the day is spent thinking about something about ourselves we don’t like, catching glimpses of ourselves and not loving what we see, or comparing ourselves to instagoddesses who left the womb with abs, perfectly quaffed hair and a sponsorship. But that 7% thats left allows us to love ourselves for what we are, who we are and how bloody great we are and thats a 7% I can get on board with.

So, I am starting a revolution. I want to extend that 7% every day. Just by one thought, 1% or one less negative mindset. I have spent far too long in my life worrying what everyone else thinks of my bod. This goes for the guys out there too. Wobbly bods of all natures are bloody fab. No one can be happy and confident in themselves every second of every day; sometimes we just can’t manage it, and other days we are flouncing around like a flamenco dancer on acid carrying Tom Hardy’s lovechild. We are all in the same pointlessly shameful boat. Lets be real here, every time someones seen you naked, or whenever you have been on a beach has someone screamed ‘EWWWW NOOOOO GET AWAYYYYY DEVIL BODYYYYYY?’
You look bloody great hun!
Anyone who says otherwise is not worthy of your nakedness being presented in front of them and if anyone on the beach were to say that then you are fully within your right to chuck a beachball at their face and to suggest they kindly fuck off.

So, bikini bod aka Melons;
Real. Cellulitey. Wobbly. Covered in tattoos. Whitest bits you’ll never see.
Slightly panicked at exposure and also close proximity to fish;
Sometimes interrogating my brain for its predisposition for butter.
Always anticipating Toblerone at airport.
Loving thyself.

Bikini bod/bod’s in general?
Vive le revolution.


M. x

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