It’s been brought to my attention that it is no longer done to describe a person as fat. Better, apparently, to say that they are ‘living with obesity’.
This weasel construction makes obesity sound like a malevolent squatter who refuses to be evicted. Or like a bit of genetic bad luck, such as ‘living with ginger eyelashes’. It’s someone else’s fault.
The western world has undoubtedly lost the plot with regard to diet, but before I say more, full disclosure: I am, according to the flawed metrics of BMI, obese. I reject the label, not because I’m in denial but because an index that ignores age, sex and muscle and bone mass isn’t really worth a light. I’ll stick with the Tightening Waistband Indicator. In fact, I wear the same dress size as the late and glorious Marilyn Monroe, though admittedly with a different distribution of flesh. Mine has moved south, but then so might hers have done had she lived longer.
Like hemlines, approved body size is subject to change. Catwalk models, despite concerns about damage to their health, aim to be skeletal. That’s the deal. Live on celery sticks or go home. It’s a short-term career choice with long-term implications, but a choice nonetheless.
Looking through the other end of the telescope, there is the Body Positive clan, who rejoice in their billows of flesh. Celebrate is a verb they use a lot. ‘This is me,’ they say. ‘I love my body. Do likewise or push off.’ When warned that they’ll become burdens on our tottering health service, they counter with two arguments. 1) That the jury is still out on the health risks of obesity. Well, yes, perhaps in the same sense that the jury is still out on the flatness of the Earth.
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