TIPPING THE SCALES IN FAVOUR OF ME

It’s been about 8 years since I had a weight scale in my house.

Dealing with the fact that I get a little OCD with my body mass, years ago I felt it was detrimental to my health to have one of those pesky nuisances sitting around staring and beckoning to me.  I swear it spoke these words “oh come Average Girl, get on me, show me your numbers baby”.  Followed by “GET THE HELL OFF, YOUR KILLING ME WITH ALL THAT POUNDAGE.  I CAN’T BREATHE WOMAN!” Other days, that little bundle of grey joy would say “What?  Did you eat that whole bloody pound cake by yourself?”  Offensive as it was, I just couldn’t tear myself away from morning and evening weigh ins.  I had developed this love hate relationship with my scale, whom I had affectionately named Oscar, as in Oscar the Grouch.

Finally, on one cloudy day when I had taken enough abuse from him, and without the slightest bit of remorse, I dropped kicked Oscar to the curb and never looked back.  After that, the only time I ever weighed myself was when I attended upon my doctor for my yearly physical, at which time I would stand on the scale backwards and say to her assistant “I don’t need to know, ignorance is bliss.”  Yes, I would venture to say I was a tad in denial, like an ostrich with her head in the sand and I was enjoying it.

I figured that as long as my clothes fit, life was grand.  However, I forgot to factor in that I wear a lot of cotton fibre that is forgiving and stretchable.  And I came to the realization that even cotton can stretch only so far.

So, in January of this year, I decided to give myself some tough love and a dose of reality. I broke down and bought one of those fandangled, fancy, schmancy electronic scales. Shiny and new, I decided to make friends with her.  I called the scale a "her" because lets face it, women are a tad more sensitive in the weight gain area. I handled her gently and secured her battery and lovingly caressed her stainless steel exterior.  Thin and sleek, she was all that I wanted to find within myself.

Stripping down to all my glorious nakedness, I stepped upon her with hopeful eyes.  In that moment, I watched as the numbers moved fast and furious liked I had just pulled the arm on a slot machine. Had I won the jackpot? I almost could not bear the anticipation. And then in bright blue neon lights, I realized that I had won a jackpot alright, a jackpot full of fat and I was horrified.  That number couldn’t be right?  No bloody way, could it be right!!! So, I stood on one foot and that damn thing didn’t move in numbers. Then I balanced myself on the side edges, nothing moved again.  What was with this stupid scale?  Finally, in a desperate attempt, I hung my heels off the back edge while balancing precariously on my toes.  Weebling and wobbling, I held my breath, looked down, and you know what, it did not move one bloody ounce!  She was brutally honest and she screamed those electronic numbers in my face. I was perplexed.  I did not understand. I wanted to be her friend. Hadn’t this always been the way with Oscar.  I would hang off edges and he would take off a pound or two just so I felt better.  But not her, she gave me the truth and she was mean.

And it was at that moment, I longed for Oscar.  He may have been old, a tad crabby, a little bad for my ego, but on those rare moments when my self confidence was wavering, he always tipped the scales in my favour.

Until Next Time.
Smooches