My collar bones jut, my shoulders seem almost aggressively angular and my arms are as puny as pipe cleaners. Newly married, I think I look brilliant. Thanks to endless cardio, limited carbs and a brutal bridal boot camp the week before – featuring courgette bolognaise and the occasional almond – I weighed 8st 7lbs on my wedding day in 2009. I was, when I breathed in, a size six – a size to be envied. Or so I thought.
Staring at this picture, 16 years and one stone heavier later, however, I am confused. Why did I go to such great lengths to become this skinny? Fabulous as a whippet-thin frame made me feel then, it is of course even more fashionable now.
The relentless emphasis on comparison and perfection from social media and the ubiquity of weight-loss jabs have rendered curves all but obsolete and celebrities, from Kelly Osbourne to Demi Moore and Ariana Grande, seem to be shrinking by the day.
I won’t be cracking out the rice cakes to feel included, however, because in a world of ever increasing extremes I still believe my body looks better as a bigger, and more boringly average, size 10. Okay, I wouldn’t say no to the plumper skin and thicker hair that comes with being 31, but my former frail aesthetic? No thanks. Much of the weight I’ve since put on is muscle and I’d choose strong over unhealthily skinny any day.
Aside from the obvious societal pressure, I think part of my drive to look so thin was for tangible proof of my discipline, an outward marker of self-control and strength of character – ironic, really, given the overall effect was more fragile than steely. If I’m honest, that part of me still exists, but presents itself in lifting weights instead of counting calories, my strong thighs and hard shoulders demonstrating my motivation in the place of my handspan waist.
This mentality of course isn’t without its problems, not least in my ongoing need for validation or my mood at 6am, when I would rather do anything in the world than press-ups, but it’s a lot healthier than trying to waste away. Plus it means I can eat as much pasta as I like.
Like most mid-lifers raised in the 90s, an era of heroin chic and Slimfast shakes, I grew up equating skinny with successful. In my teens, I got a buzz from feeling my hip bones and lying in bed with my stomach growling. Throughout my twenties I exercised endlessly, but my workouts were almost entirely cardio, my long runs brilliant for my mental health but also very much part of my calories-in-calories-out strategy.
Constantly thinking about my weight meant I was also constantly thinking about food, biscuits and crisps virtually deified as a result. Junk food, like booze, blotted out feelings of worthlessness, and even though I rarely weighed more than now, I rarely liked the way I looked either. I remember sinking into corners of changing rooms in despair.
Although I had done the occasional body pump class and sporadically used free weights machines in the gym, I wasn’t introduced to the concept of a regular weights routine until my mid-thirties, when, for a feature on regaining my pre-pregnancy body, I exercised with personal trainer Zana Morris, who pioneered the principle that sessions of just 15 minutes of strength training are enough to build muscle.
For someone used to pounding pavements for hours, this was a radical concept. Almost too radical, with hindsight, and although I did get stronger, I soon returned to my cardio-centric regime. But it planted the seed of an idea and aged 40, when I moved out of London and relinquished my gym membership, I bought dumbbells and started lifting weights at home, first for 30 minutes, then 45 minutes, and now 55 minutes, every other day.
Over months, and years, the sight of my muscles developing has given me a quiet thrill, a feeling of progress and confounding my own expectations – a desire, for the first time, to get bigger, not to shrink.
Which is not to say I’ve started mainlining donuts. But neither have I wanted to, like previously when it was all I could think about. My attitude towards food has changed, partly because I want to set a good example to my children, now teenagers and, thanks to social media, under even more pressure to conform to societal ideals than I was at their age, and partly because I am increasingly aware of the profound influence what we eat has on the way we look and feel.
And because building muscle requires a balanced diet with plenty of protein, fibre and healthy fat. My body seems to burn through food like a fuel guzzling 4×4. I need three big meals a day or I feel faint and never deprive myself – I eat chocolate most evenings. I no longer see food as a default way of managing my emotions. If I’m stressed I’ll have a bath, go for a walk or read a book instead of devouring a bar of Dairy Milk.
The health benefits of having muscle – stronger bones, better metabolism, improved posture, and so on – are well documented. But I don’t think there’s shame in finding it attractive too. Muscle gives my body better proportion and definition. Most importantly, though, it serves as a visible indicator of how I feel about lifting weights – more resilient, powerful and confident.
At a time when women seem expected, once again, to look weak and subjugated, and at a midlife juncture where I’m in danger of becoming invisible, this strikes me as more essential than ever.
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