Opinion: Why fat is still a feminist issue

I think it was a panna cotta. Or perhaps a crème brûlée. At a stretch, a dish of Valrhona chocolate ice-cream. Maybe I’d gone old-school and just ordered a sticky toffee pudding.

In any event, Mr. R and I were out to dinner with friends. It must have been pre-kids, because that’s the last time we had a social life.

Before we go any further, I should tell you that I’m that person. The one who judges a restaurant solely on their dessert menu. It’s the first thing I check. My policy is ruthlessly simple: no bread and butter pudding, no booking.

So, I ordered. We’ll say it was the panna cotta. And just imagine that it arrived in all its glorious, gelatinous perfection. The wobble. The generous raspberry coulis. And whilst I would have preferred a shovel, instead I picked up the dainty spoon and prepared to dig in.

And that’s when I heard it.

“Are you going to let her have that?” the other husband, watching me in horror, asked Mr. R, whilst his own wife virtuously sipped a green tea.

I vaguely remember pausing, mid-spoonful, in an attempt to digest what he was saying.

Because, obviously, the implication was that my ordering dessert was a no-no. That it indicated a lack of will-power. That my size 14 posterior might get bigger, just by looking at the confection. And to a person like that, bigger was BAD. Bigger wasn’t attractive.

Now, this was years ago. I don’t remember what I said. And I’m certainly no longer a size 14. (Think bigger). But I remember how it made me feel. Unattractive. Greedy. Un-feminine. Uncontrollable.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I’d like to think my riposte was devastatingly witty; along the lines of “I can lose weight, but your face will always look like that.”

Or, as he was advocating a radical ‘less is more’ approach, a simple, two word response, with the last word being ‘off’.

I certainly know that if the same question were to be asked today, the result would be a swift drop-kick to his particulars (it’s all about hip to foot ratio for real power) rendering them even smaller and insignificant than they must have already been.

But again. “Are you going to let her have that?”

The idea that I needed permission, from a man, or anyone else, to order dessert just flambéd my mind. (Sorry). Quite frankly, I wish it would have flambéd his. (Not sorry). And his question, way back then, has stayed with me ever since.

It occurs to me that it’s along similar lines to the greeting many of us use on bumping into friends:

“You look great, you lost weight?”

And when ordering food, it’s “I can’t, I’m being careful.” Careful of what? Carbs with an agenda? Psychotically-inclined potatoes? Bonkers bagels? Strung-out strawberries?

Women have climbed mountains, soared into space, steered conglomerates, fought wars, become great academics or world-renown surgeons, fought and continue to fight for democracy and human rights, become prime ministers, been spies and activists. (And I have heard tell of some fantastical females who have circumnavigated Westfield not twice, but thrice, in one afternoon).

In all the above cases, I can bet you the last damned thing those women were thinking about was whether she’d be judged for ordering the Sicilian spaghetti, or having two scoops of ice-cream instead of one.

Be more than your jean-size. Never, EVER let anyone, even yourself, define you by your appetite for food, or life.

My point is that the weight of our achievements is still, for too many, based on the literal sum of our parts. And that, surely, is a coupe de poop (I’m done, I promise).

My advice, for what it’s worth.

Life is too short. And whilst desserts, and judgmental, misogynistic morons, are a-plenty, have your cake and eat it too.

Bon appetit; Buon appetito; Bete’avon. Knock yourself out.