Weight! What?

Previously Posted on December 7, 2011

I’ve always said that the scale messes with my head. That smug digital readout carries more weight about how I perceive myself than my actual ass.

Every week I step on the scale. Hahahahahahaha…. No I don’t. I suffer from lardassaphobia – a mortal fear that the number that flashes before my eyes will be greater than the last time it flashed before my eyes. I never forget that number. It is seared in my brain until the next slap in the face-weigh-in.

When I do get on the scale, however, the process goes something. Like. This…

Walk around naked for a few minutes to dry out any errant moisture I may have accidentally absorbed. Bonus points if the room is chilly! Go to the bathroom. Squeeeeeeeze out every last drop. Take a deep breath. Tap the scale with my toe to activate it. Wait for an eternity for the 0.00 to flash (approx 1.5 seconds). Step on scale and exhale forcefully to get all that heavy air out of my lungs. Rock back on my heels a bit so I’m more ‘light on my feet’. Try to not care as I STARE at the flashing number, waiting for it to stop reeling from the heavy load thrust upon it. Bend over to get closer to the display to read it (cuz I don’t have my glasses on … Cuz they would add unnecessary weight… DUH!). Tell the scale to fuck off, step off, and get dressed (cuz I’m freezing!!).

I force myself to step on the scale so I know where I’m at and how much damage I’ve blindly done since my last self-induced punishment. It’s painful but at least I know.

Imagine how quickly my life turned upside down when I went to the doctor and stepped on their scale…

“Okay, Miss B. 196.”

“What?! Whoa, there! Back up, bitches. I don’t accept that readout. That’s not even remotely what my scale told me just yesterday morning!”

“Well, honey, that’s what it says. See?” The nurse pointed at the number like I was some sort of slow monkey-child hybrid.

“Yeah. I see that. And my husband also says I’m the most spoiled bitch on the planet – but I don’t accept that either. So – much like my husband – that scale is wrong. Find me another. I’ll wait.”

Needless to say, she did not find me another scale. Useless hag.

You may have noticed that I bravely shared my “medical weight” (everyone knows those scales at the doctor’s offices are buckass-wrong; so I use the term “medical weight” to indicate a fictional number). Now look, smarty pants, before you judge me based on that number I just threw at you; remember that I am 6 feet tall. I weighed 110 pounds when I was 10… and skinny. So suck it!

But still… 196 – no matter how fictional – is pretty jarring. That’s only 54 pounds away from my highest weight ever (Yes. I was a ‘woman of size’ in my 30s). Just yesterday, my scale told me I was 186 lbs (post peanut butter and wine binge). So who do I believe???

A Note about my weight fluctuations:

My highest recorded weight was 265 lbs. My lowest recorded (adult) weight was 152 lbs.

[I looked emaciated at 152 lbs. But I was pretty proud of that starving Ethiopian look. Nevertheless, it was too low and I couldn't maintain it (oh shut the hell up about that Ethiopian comment. This isn't a political rant. Stay focused, for chrissakes!).]

My average holding weight is 180 lbs. I prefer to be around 170 lbs – which allows me to maintain my boobs AND wear tight jeans. I look spot-on-hott at 160 lbs and tend to wear only hooker clothes. I don’t even remember the last time I made it to 160 lbs. Maybe it’s better that way. A 40-year old mom probably shouldn’t be strutting around her daughter’s elementary school in her finest hooker-wear.

So which scale was correct? I spent my entire day flipping back and forth. I felt like Sybil. Am I fat? Am I slender? Could my scale really be that wrong? That may explain why my spandex seemed oddly tight around my thighs. Maybe my thighs are meatier than usual? I tried telling myself it was from excessive squats and lunges. But the truth is I’d have to actually do the squats and lunges for that theory to hold water. Water! My period is right around the corner. So I must be retaining water. Is 4 weeks considered right around the corner in regards to water retention?

Their scale cannot possibly be correct! A few weeks ago, I weighed in at 178 lbs on my scale. 178 lbs is in the 170s range. Which is practically the same as 170. I was SURE I looked awesome! I walked around my bedroom NAKED… in front of El Jefe AND MOOSE THE DOG… cuz I was so confident with my 170s(ish).

Is it possible my scale really is 10 lbs off and I was actually strutting around at 188 lbs? OH MY GOD! THE HORROR!!! Is that why Moose now averts his eyes whenever I approach him?!?

After the doctor scale-incident, I put on the biggest, bulkiest sweater I could dig out. I just wanted to cover up (my body and my face).

I had to know. Was I making a fool of myself, prancing around like I was all hott and slender? Or was I actually hott and slender? How could I test the validity of my scale? I didn’t have any dumbbells. You know what I did have, though? A handheld luggage scale. At least that would give me a comparison.

Once I got home, I went through all the proper pre-weigh-in steps: Naked, chilly room, pee, weight in heels, no eyewear…. (drum roll, please)…. 186.

But I wasn’t in the clear, yet. I needed to compare my scale to something. So I darted to the guest bedroom – naked, of course – to dig out Big Blue, our ginormous (blue) suit case. That bitch weighs a ton (or 15 lbs, whichever). I rolled Big Blue back to our bathroom (still naked – if anyone peered into our 2nd story foyer window from the street, they either got a thrill or is scarred for life). I hooked Big Blue onto the luggage scale: 15 lbs. Then I hoisted it onto our
~~bovine~~ human scale. 15 lbs.

OH MY GOD! REDEMPTION!!!

I re-weighed Big Blue 2 more times. I’m all about statistics, you know. 14.8, 15, 15

So there it is. The doctor’s scale really was jacked. Fucking bastards made me nutbuddy, batshit crazy for an entire day!

But do you see what’s been happening to me? I have been seeing myself through a scale’s window. When it ‘gives’ me a favorable number, I see myself favorably. When it ‘gives’ me a shitty number, I see myself shittily.

I don’t know how to change my behavior, but this can’t go on. I can’t be the scale’s helpless little bitch, anymore.