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I’ve never had one of those bodies blokes are overheard to say “Cor, Tom, (or Dick, or Harry) I wouldn’t mind a bit of that” about. Never one of those bronzed ‘legs that go right up to the arm pits’ sort of bods that drape themselves around swimming-pool-surrounds and muscle-bound young men of significant means.

In spite of my perceived physical unsuitability for the pursuit though, as a child who was raised in a beachfront house, I developed a love of splashing about in the water, and a common cry in our household was “Dinner’s ready, now where’s Jode? Oh, don’t tell me the little blighter’s still in the surf?”

The onset of puberty, its resultant effects on my figure, and the seemingly inevitable preoccupation with body image that occurs during the early teenage years, meant that swimming rapidly became an activity to be suffered as part of the school’s compulsory Phys. Ed. Curriculum. As soon as my school days were over (and, yes, they did they seem interminable), so were my swimming days, or so I thought. Oh yes, of course I did the usual irresponsible things as a young adult – a skin full of booze, a dark night, and the sense of immortality, which so often accompanies youth. I believe it’s generally referred to as ‘skinny dipping.’ ‘Fat dipping’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it, but in my case, fat dipping it most certainly was.

My youth spent (or perhaps that’s misspent), and the ‘puppy fat’ of puberty fast converting to middle age spread, the very thought of donning a bathing suit became anathema to me. But fate, or God, or Murphy (call it/Him what you will) was to intervene and place me at the mercy of a physiotherapist (affectionately referred to as “the Swedish au pair”, definitely one of the “Cor, Tom (or Dick, or Harry) . . .” species of womanhood) who, between stretching and twisting parts of me which would have preferred to have been neither stretched nor twisted, committed the ultimate act of sadism by saying “I think it’s time I got you into the pool, Jode. How do you feel about that?”

Terrified – that’s how I felt, but knowing that there was little point in trying to explain the psychological barriers between me and the pool to a young woman who looked like she did, I simply replied, “ I suppose I could, if you think it’ll help, but please don’t surround me with slim, tanned 25 year old bodies.”

“Oh no,” replied the au pair, “I have a special group for my elderly ladies.” Elderly ladies? And me a mere forty-mumble. Elderly ladies? Humph!

I was, at least, spared the trauma of shopping for a bathing suit. My dear friend, and fellow fat lady, Lynda had a cast-off cozzie of her own in the post to me before I had a chance to change my mind about taking the plunge. I joined the other ‘elderly ladies’ in the therapy pool, did the regulation exercises (designed, in the main, for the survivors of hip replacement surgery and the other afflictions of old age) and once the others had been helped from the pool and hobbled back to the changing rooms, I swam a few lengths (granted, it was a very small pool, but a length’s a length, whether 50 metres or 10), relieved to discover that swimming too is like riding a bicycle – once learned, never forgotten. It was wonderful – not just the swimming itself, but also the ‘face the fear and do it anyway’ nature of the experience.

And so it was, that one day last autumn, while holidaying in the company of the aforementioned Lynda, I was to be seen poolside at the wonderful Helensville hot springs, dressed in nothing more than a bathing costume, while getting stuck into a carton of hot chips. Granted, I did drape a towel over my legs, but that was to hide their whiteness (hardly surprising after 30 years spent under wraps) not their bulk. And unlike my generous proportions, my pallid complexion I can do something about, either by frying myself in the sun, or by painting the pale appendages with one of the ‘instant tan’ preparations available so freely since the realisation that exposure to the sun’s ultra violet rays may provide us with more than a stunning tan. The latter, it must be said, is the more likely approach to one for whom the hot summer nights of her childhood, are most memorable for the tortures involved in being lovingly daubed with Q-Tol and Calamine Lotion to relieve the pain of sunburn.

The thought that I should’ve been snacking on a lettuce leaf rather than the high-fat, high-salt chips didn’t even occur to me – at least, it didn’t occur to me until today when I looked back fondly on my day at the springs, and realised how far down the road to self-acceptance I have come since I picked up my first copy of NZ Bella magazine just a couple of years ago. I know too, that I’ve still got a way to go, but the journey itself is proving to be such fun, that I’m really in no rush to reach the destination. Besides, total acceptance of self (as is, where is, so to speak) seems to me to be neither realistic nor entirely desirable. I’ll happily settle for liking who and what I am – I don’t feel the need to fall head over heels in love with whoever and whatever it is.

I doubt I’ll ever elicit the “Cor Tom . . .” remarks, nor, it must be said, do I particularly want to. There’s so much more to a fat lady than the package she’s wrapped in. Besides, as my husband delights in telling me, it’s not easy being a sex symbol. I can only assume that he has read this somewhere, as I’m not convinced there’s ever heard been a “Cor Jennifer (or Susan or Meredith)...” directed at him either.

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