Scrotes (Or Committing the Crime of Exercising in Public Whilst Being Female and Plump)
Updated: Dec 10, 2020
I think one of the major curses of trying to improve your fitness when you’re not in the first flush of youth, you have the audacity to possess female secondary sexual characteristics in a public place *and* you aren’t Jennifer Aniston is that every pillock has an opinion.
The people who love you are “Yay! Go for it! Good for you!”.
However the rest are, I regret to say, a bunch of cosmic wank hats.
Today, when I was out for the first run I have done in many a year (doing walk/run intervals – 2.98 km, go me!), some “yoof” who appeared to be trying to impress a teenage girl, starting giving it “Run, Forest, Run”, “You’re meant to be RUNNING” – Me “Er, no I’m not, it’s called interval training for a reason”, “Your arse is wobbling and so are your tits!” etc.
Startling, I say, startling powers of observation there, mate. Also I hope your harassment of a random woman in sportswear, whose face is so red that she resembles a match, alerts your young friend to the fact that you are a complete douche canoe, and that she kicks you, unceremoniously, to the kerb.
So here is my retort. Firstly, fat shaming is so effective at making people lose weight….er, no, it’s not. (There’s sound on the article so switch off if at work)
Secondary, being 40-odd, rather overweight, and currently built like a busty prop forward, I’d be bloody worried if those areas didn’t wobble. On account of them being areas on the female body where fat is stored and because it would mean that I had become a slim bloke since leaving the house, and that, for me, as a cisgender woman, would be just weird. Either that, or I’d mutated into a gazelle.
I think we can all agree that that’s kind of unlikely.
Thirdly, I’m seriously pleased with myself, because I went out for a run and did not expire.
Fourthly, I’m seriously pleased because none of my broken bits are playing up.
Fifthly, I’m doing this because I don’t want my heart to explode, my bones to crumble to dust and maybe, just maybe, I might be able to wear dresses with an actual waist band again at some point. You know, so I can hopefully have an existence free from being riven with pain, and potentially, free from premature death. That harshes one’s buzz somewhat.
Sixthly, I reserve the right to wobble, jiggle, ripple and even (if I’m in the fettle) undulate, where ever and when ever I bloody well like.
Seventhly, I possess a mirror and clothes therefore I possess enough self awareness to realise that I don’t look like Jessica Ennis.
Once upon a time this would have put me off, now it’s a challenge 🙂