The fat woman.

Hey, yo Fatman, you got some business in the front room, dude wants to buy a ride.

Is that right? Tell him I said I'm eating a sandwich.

Man, what's it's gonna be? Me or the ham and Swiss?

You gonna miss your sale fat man, you gonna miss your sale you fat whale.

 Those are the lyrics of one of my favourite songs of the 90s, the relentlessly offensive “FATMAN” by Philadelphia hip hop act G. Love and Special Sauce. Those words came back to me last month as I watched a hugely overweight woman buying a drink at one of my local bars. She was squeezed into a bordering-on pornographic spandex dress that did absolutely everything to reveal her enormous bottom and vast, white dimpled thighs.

G. Love sang it like this:

I bet your face it has pocks like chicken croquettes.

Your jowls are like rotten red tomatoes.

I nodded towards the woman, asking my friend who I was drinking with, "Whattaya reckon's going on there?" And so began one of the finer dressing-downs I've experienced. Said my friend, "What she's saying is 'I'm a sexual being, I'm a soul sister and if you don't get it, f--- off, you're too superficial, you miss out'." I put my drink down, blushing a little as she continued. "She is amazing. She chose that dress on purpose. I could never wear that dress because I'm not that confident. She's accepting of her entire body. That is so rare," said my friend.

I glanced around the bar, occupied with beautiful people who looked like they'd never eaten cheese and reasoned if you combined the hours we'd worried about how our bodies "looked", you could stretch them back to the Big Bang. I've often argued you can't help who you're attracted to - that women are just as big a dupes of the constant cultural acceptance that you must be slender...must be toned...must be hot...or you're somehow worth less than people who are. And if that cultural pressure is enough to drive women into starving themselves or spending their lunch break in spin classes, then surely we can recognise it's also more than enough to shape what men do and do not find attractive?

The more I thought about it, however, her choice to let it all hang out struck me as the worship of what is, not what could or should or will be when I lose ten kilos or acquire A, B, C or marry he or she. When I said this to my friend, she patted me on the hand and said "That's why I love you. You're slow, but you get there eventually." Then we ordered a cheese plate.

Giggling, jiggling, and enjoying life.

  Have you ever noticed that joggers never look happy? There they are every morning, pounding the pavement, with grim looks of determination on their faces. I always feel like asking them whether they’d like a nice cup of tea and a lie down, but I’m scared I’d be steamrolled.
  As comedian Rita Rudner once said: “If morning joggers knew how tempting they looked to morning motorists, they would stay at home and do sit-ups.” Sure, there are plenty of benefits: a Danish study found people who jog an hour a week live on average, six years longer. But of course, this is six long years of knee pain, arch inflammation and shin splints. But it’s all worth it right?
  Maybe it’s jealousy. Watching their toned thighs, ripped stomachs and bulging biceps reminds me of the extra serving of chocolate ganache I had the previous night. I tried to jog once, but my jiggly bits got in the way. You have no idea how much wind resistance is caused by bingo flaps.
  I guess every attempt at downsizing has its downside. At the gym, you have to put up with grunting and groaning that puts Maria Sharapova to shame. The stench of sweat after a Bikram yoga class is enough to make you throw up your last meal, getting rid of at least two nasty kilos. And it’s no wonder most of our swimmers could bore for Australia after years of “black line, black line, follow the black line”.
  The fitness trends for 2013 are equally egregious. SH’BAM apparently helps you “strut your stuff” with a “simple yet sexy dance workout” and “sassy stretches”. While I enjoy the sounds of heavy breathing, sharing the experience with other middle-aged women is not really my cup of tea. Then there are “body-weight workouts”. This is where you use your own mass as resistance to do push-ups, planks, and pull-ups. God knows I fight my body enough trying to keep my hands away from the chocolate. I don’t want this to escalate into all-out warfare.
  Another trend is heavy lifting for women. I know, we already “hold up half the sky”, according to an ancient proverb. But I’m talking about barbells here. Big ones. Frankly, I’m manly enough with those mysterious hairs poking out of my chin.
  I think the secret to happiness is jiggling. “Laughter is the inner jogging” as American author Norman Cousins once said. Mushy marathoners might need to be reminded of this as they drag their sore and sorry selves over life’s finish line.