CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

Observation #21:
Sometimes food is not the answer. But not very often.

In my room, I walk around and around. It’s not a big room so this feels pretty stupid. Then I throw myself on the bed. Then I hate myself even more. I’m a walking cliché. I’ll be punching a pillow yet or eating my own body weight in luxury ice cream before you know it.

But my mind’s in a loop. I always have something to say in general. I am known for Having an Opinion. But just then, it wasn’t that words failed me. No, they shriveled and died on my tongue. Turned to ashes. There must have been something that I could have said. Let’s go for a coffee. I’m making some great tapas — why don’t you try them? I like you; you like me. Let’s cut the crap and kiss. I could have just held his hand and looked into his eyes.

But I just let him walk away.

I’m boiling in my own frustration. What do I normally do to calm down? Cook? That just doesn’t seem right for once. My trainers are gleaming next to my bed and suddenly I find myself putting them on. It appears that I’m going for a run. Something’s going to explode soon so I take myself out and start to pound the pavement.

The first good thing I notice is how much fitter I am than I was. Once, my lungs would have been on fire, but now I can keep going without too much trouble. The second good thing is that my leg muscles don’t seem to complain as much as they used to do. And third, I’m out in the daylight on my own and feeling okay at being in public doing exercise.

That’s when the bad thing happens.

I’m starting to get a bit sweaty now as I decide to take on a smallish hill. A car beeps at me and then slows down. “Oy, fatty, watch out or you’ll break the pavement.” Then the two guys in the car roar with laughter and disappear in a squeal of tires.

Fatty? Pavement breaker?

Charming.

It’s not that I’m bothered about being perfect but that’s just rude. I find my legs going even faster to try to match the pace of my heart. I can’t help checking over my shoulder in case they come back. I hate myself for it but they’ve achieved what they wanted. I don’t feel at home out here. I just want to be safe behind my own doors.

It takes a long hot shower to sort me out. And then making some cookies. During this time, I decide what to do. Okay, I’m probably never going to get through to idiots like that but I can still do something. Back in my room, I throw on my oldest, comfiest clothes and pin up my wet hair. I sit down at my laptop and the words just start to flow. I check and double-check my words until it’s somewhere close to what I want to say.

And then I find Imogen’s email address and hit send.

This is what I write.

The F-Word — Thoughts of the Rebel with a Cupcake

My name is Jesobel Jones and I am fat.

Not curvy or plump. Fat.

I’m not supposed to describe myself that way because being fat is the worst thing you can say about a person. But I don’t think that. Apparently I think something that’s a bit radical. Something that is unthinkable. Unsayable. I don’t really care what a person looks like. What matters to me most is this — are they kind, clever, talented, great at maths, help old grannies cross the road? But it seems all that is irrelevant. All that matters, especially for a girl, is how thin she is and does she look hot in a bikini.

I’m supposed to think that the smaller I am, the less there is of me, the better. There’s supposed to be a journey for fat people. You see it on TV commercials for weight loss products. In them, fat people live in black-and-white BEFORE. And then, they magically lose weight and their lives become all full of color. They smile, they fall in love, they marry. And the best bit of all, they can wear a bikini. Because you can only win at life if you can wear a bikini with pride.

That’s just one stereotype about fat people but there are loads more. I know that some of you are thinking, “I bet she eats loads of fast food.” Nope. Maybe once or twice a year. Probably less than you.

Or maybe you’re thinking, “She’s so lazy. I bet she never works out.” Just came back from a 5K run. I might be fat but my lungs work fine, thank you very much.

Another thing you might wonder is, “How can she look at herself and feel okay? I mean, she’s disgusting.” Well, I did go through a phase when I thought like that. And sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t like what looks back, and sometimes I do. Just like everyone else. Because this is something I’ve realized recently. You can lose weight. You can exercise until you throw up or pass out. You can fit into a smaller dress size. It might make you happier. But then again, it might not.

I look around at the people I know, and I hate to break it to you, but thin people are miserable, too, sometimes. Thin people can have low self-esteem. Being thin isn’t some magic fix to all life’s troubles. You still might not like your Instagram pictures. The environment is still going to hell in a handcart. It’s not going to boost your scores in tests. It just means you’re a bit smaller. End of.

As I mentioned before, I go running. Yes, fat people can run. They don’t cause earthquakes the moment they start to move. But today, as I ran down the street, someone yelled at me from a car, “Oy, fatty, watch out or you’ll break the pavement.”

Great.

Cos if you want someone to lose weight, the best thing to do is insult them. But funnily enough, that didn’t work. I didn’t stop and think, “Oh, some random person who I don’t know and don’t care much for has told me I’m fat. I must do something about that now.”

Because this might come as news to you, Random Person, but I already know I’m fat.

You know what else? I went home and baked a batch of ginger and sultana cookies and ate them all. Because when I’m sad, I eat. I also eat when I’m happy.

Because food is wonderful. Food brings people together and puts smiles on their faces. Think of a birthday party without food or a cake. Think of Christmas without a turkey. What would be the point?

Food is not the enemy.

People are.

If you don’t like how someone looks, maybe keep it to yourself. There’s an idea. How someone else looks is nothing to do with you at all.

Nothing.

Nada.

My name is Jesobel Jones but you can call me the Rebel with a Cupcake. Yes, I’m fat. And that’s okay with me.