I Yelled at the Scale and it Roared Back
The day I turned 41, I gained 20 lbs. I got up and like each morning I stepped on the scale. I know you are not supposed to weigh yourself every day, but what’s a compulsive gal supposed to do? Weighing myself kept me grounded and gave me accountability. I am not afraid of the scale; it had been my buddy for the past few years. My scale had been my tried and true friend. It offered me stability.
Could my friend be right? Twenty pounds!! The day before, I was up 5 lbs and the week before 5 lbs. I blamed the gain on my increased exercise and water intake. I was building muscle, it weighs more, right. BUT, 10 lbs. in one day? My scale had failed me. So what does a gal do when faced with such numbers? I got dressed and drove to Target to buy a new scale! I stared at all the scales on the shelf, waiting for one to speak to me, to show me the love. Which one would show my true weight? Which one would save me?
I didn’t just buy any scale. I bought the one where it could tell me my weight, my body fat content, even my water weight. This scale could do everything, I thought on my drive home. If only it could wash windows! I figured I would learn that my old scale was off, so I jumped on the scale and the numbers were the same. It must be the water weight. No, that function was not helping my case either. My battle with scale had begun.
Each day, I would step on as gingerly as I could and hope that the numbers would go down. I was eating the same way I had always been. I was exercising like I always did; in fact I was probably exercising more. What was happening? I had always had a skinny waist, big hips yes, but my waist was perfect. What’s that roll there now? Where did that come from? It wasn’t there yesterday.
The Truce
I replaced my original scale. I gave it up for a better model and still I wasn’t seeing what I wanted. I wanted to throw it out the window, but then I would have a broken scale and have to buy a new one again. I made a deal with the new scale. I wasn’t going to weigh myself for a week. “There Mr. Scale, let’s see if you feel lonely without me. I am going to punish you, since you are punishing me.”
So I waited a week. I ate and exercised like always. I was feeling great. It was spring; I was outside walking and working in the yard, and I just knew that my scale would miss me and honor me when I returned. The moment of truth. I bargained with the scale. “If I get on the scale, and I lost weight, I will love you forever. If I lost weight, I will never insult you again. If I lost weight, I will never doubt you again.” What if I gained? It couldn’t happen. I had been really prefect this week.
I sat there in the middle of my bathroom floor bargaining and then it hit me, I am bargaining with a scale. I was telling the scale I would love it forever; I would never insult it; I would never doubt it? I was making this solemn promise, this truce, with a rectangular piece of plastic, glass, and metal. I finally saw the absurdity of the whole situation.
I was the one who deserved the love. I shouldn’t insult myself. Why did I doubt myself? Why did my self-image, happiness, and my self-love depend on the number on the scale? I had heard that I was at the age when women gain weight, that I had to work harder to maintain and lose weight. This was supposed to be a normal stage in my life. I made a truce that day with myself and the scale. I promised to try and be a little more accepting of the numbers I see, and to love myself and my curvier body.
It‘s been five years since that day on the bathroom floor, and I still weigh myself almost every morning. I admit it, sometimes when I am feeling really obsessive I will weigh myself in the evening. I know better, you never weigh yourself in the evening, but sometimes I do this and poke fun at myself. I will probably always, like many women, battle the scale, but at this point I am choosing to do so quietly, with dignity, and with self-love.
The day I turned 41, I gained 20 lbs. I got up and like each morning I stepped on the scale. I know you are not supposed to weigh yourself every day, but what’s a compulsive gal supposed to do? Weighing myself kept me grounded and gave me accountability. I am not afraid of the scale; it had been my buddy for the past few years. My scale had been my tried and true friend. It offered me stability.
Could my friend be right? Twenty pounds!! The day before, I was up 5 lbs and the week before 5 lbs. I blamed the gain on my increased exercise and water intake. I was building muscle, it weighs more, right. BUT, 10 lbs. in one day? My scale had failed me. So what does a gal do when faced with such numbers? I got dressed and drove to Target to buy a new scale! I stared at all the scales on the shelf, waiting for one to speak to me, to show me the love. Which one would show my true weight? Which one would save me?
I didn’t just buy any scale. I bought the one where it could tell me my weight, my body fat content, even my water weight. This scale could do everything, I thought on my drive home. If only it could wash windows! I figured I would learn that my old scale was off, so I jumped on the scale and the numbers were the same. It must be the water weight. No, that function was not helping my case either. My battle with scale had begun.
Each day, I would step on as gingerly as I could and hope that the numbers would go down. I was eating the same way I had always been. I was exercising like I always did; in fact I was probably exercising more. What was happening? I had always had a skinny waist, big hips yes, but my waist was perfect. What’s that roll there now? Where did that come from? It wasn’t there yesterday.
The Truce
I replaced my original scale. I gave it up for a better model and still I wasn’t seeing what I wanted. I wanted to throw it out the window, but then I would have a broken scale and have to buy a new one again. I made a deal with the new scale. I wasn’t going to weigh myself for a week. “There Mr. Scale, let’s see if you feel lonely without me. I am going to punish you, since you are punishing me.”
So I waited a week. I ate and exercised like always. I was feeling great. It was spring; I was outside walking and working in the yard, and I just knew that my scale would miss me and honor me when I returned. The moment of truth. I bargained with the scale. “If I get on the scale, and I lost weight, I will love you forever. If I lost weight, I will never insult you again. If I lost weight, I will never doubt you again.” What if I gained? It couldn’t happen. I had been really prefect this week.
I sat there in the middle of my bathroom floor bargaining and then it hit me, I am bargaining with a scale. I was telling the scale I would love it forever; I would never insult it; I would never doubt it? I was making this solemn promise, this truce, with a rectangular piece of plastic, glass, and metal. I finally saw the absurdity of the whole situation.
I was the one who deserved the love. I shouldn’t insult myself. Why did I doubt myself? Why did my self-image, happiness, and my self-love depend on the number on the scale? I had heard that I was at the age when women gain weight, that I had to work harder to maintain and lose weight. This was supposed to be a normal stage in my life. I made a truce that day with myself and the scale. I promised to try and be a little more accepting of the numbers I see, and to love myself and my curvier body.
It‘s been five years since that day on the bathroom floor, and I still weigh myself almost every morning. I admit it, sometimes when I am feeling really obsessive I will weigh myself in the evening. I know better, you never weigh yourself in the evening, but sometimes I do this and poke fun at myself. I will probably always, like many women, battle the scale, but at this point I am choosing to do so quietly, with dignity, and with self-love.
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