I have a confession. I am a cross dresser. And if you’re thinking, I thought there was something manish about that opinionated foul mouthed attention-seeking tranny, you can forget it. No I’m not getting around in a pair of Y fronts and comfy slippers. I’m not packing socks or a codpiece. I couldn’t. There just wouldn’t be any room. My clothes are so tight at the moment there’s just no room for anyone except me in them.

In fact, there’s actually no longer room in most of my clothes for me anymore. Every morning I stand naked before my closet and beg forgiveness. Please, I ask the frightened contents, please will one of you cover my ample lady sample? There is no movement. Not one of them makes the offer. In fact, I could swear that the last time I tried to slip into my last season Charlie Brown sun frock I heard it scream.

I found my silk chemise in a crumpled heap hiding behind my shoes. If I want to wear a pair of jeans I need to allow at least half an hour to get them over my knees. Then I need a support team to get them over my arse. Then there’s the muffin top problem. If it was just a muffin top it wouldn’t be a problem. Once I zip up I’m looking at a mushroom cloud. Last time I put on my jeans I thought ‘Holy Fukushima!’ 

At 43 and 92 kilos I am officially a cross dresser. Finding something to wear each morning that is remotely attractive is making me angry. I don’t even remember the last time someone told me I looked nice. (Which is good I guess, because at least it means my friends are honest.) Every time I pour myself into brightly coloured maxi dress I think Jesus, I look like a paisley saveloy. I’m literally splitting at the seams. The other day my son pricked me with a fork and sausage meat came spilling out.  Well maybe I dreamed that after passing out in a tub of icecream...

Everything is uncomfortable. Underwear is not only unsightly, it’s non-compliant.My undies roll down at the front and ride up at the back. My bra is so tight around my back I seem to have developed underarm cleavage. Last time I caught sight of the bulging fat rolls I thought about upsizing my next Berlei to a four cupper.

But I haven’t completely given up hope. I still have my skinny clothes. They lay buried deep in a suitcase I keep on top of my wardrobe. It sits up there, taunting me with the knowledge that I was once within my healthy weight range. I’m tempted to give them to my svelte friends, but giving away the clothes that you should be wearing is like admitting to yourself that you are going to be fat forever.

The suitcase gives me hope. It reminds me that it’s only willpower and perhaps 12 months of suffering and self-denial that stands between me and looking good in something that not only fits, it’s also comfortable. Sadly though, by the time I reach my target weight, nothing in that suitcase will no longer be fashionable.

Fat people never really tell you how fucked it is being fat. They suffer in silence. When you are a fattie you are never ever comfortable. Clothes cut. Clothes burn. Clothes leave giant red welts. That can’t be normal.

A few weeks ago I relented and bought a kaftan. (I got mine in the camping section at Kmart. It’s a 4-man). It was like a revelation. Apart from the usual chafing, wobbling, and shaking, the kaftan offers a waistless, zipless, button-free utopia that almost had me feeling normal. Until I found a mirror.

If we fatties were to really go for the outfit where we experienced maximum freedom and unrestricted mobility, then we wouldn’t wear clothes at all. We’d go nudie. It’s perhaps not such a bad idea. There’s no better incentive to do something about your fat arse then trying to squeeze into that birthday suit.