So I got on the scale the other day, after a month hiatus.
That was the scream you heard.
Sorry, Upstate New York.
Turns out the “You’re Not the Boss of Me” approach to meal planning isn’t the solution that I had hoped it would be.
My first instinct was to go make fun of myself on Facebook:
Afterwards, I went to the park for a little cardio. This is not a new regimen, I run at least four times a week. Today I added to the intensity by running up a hill (the Kate Bush version, not that stupid Placebo cover), several times until the noises I was making started to attract lovesick deer.
There are no deer in that park.
Then I came home and dramatically threw myself down next to my sleeping husband, and said “Why didn’t you tell me I was getting fat?” because it fascinates me to watch his soul begin to wither and die as he tries to think of a way to answer questions like that.
Sadly, after fifteen years he has developed immunity, so he just rolled over, put his arms around me and lovingly told me to shut up. And then he went to take a shower. That man gets more handsome every day, I’m gonna have to start interviewing trophy wives. “Wanted: Trophy Wife. Must be cheerful and stupid. And cook. Voluntarily. For five people. Cleaning/organization skills mandatory, likelihood of being buried in my backyard commensurate with work ethic.”
Anyway. Where was I? Yes.
I do not like this woman that the scale morphs me into. Ten pounds, and my confidence is shot. And I am not a skinny girl! But the mean kid in my head is on a rampage.
Checking my rear view in the mirror before I go to work? “Looks like two rhinos fighting under a blanket. You got a VW in your back pocket?”
Checking my front view? “Isn’t it ironic that the thing you were most self-conscious about when you were thin has become your best feature? Nice fat girl rack!”
I’ve liked myself better, these last few months. I quit smoking, I started writing, I have done things outside of my comfort zone. I’ve made peace with some history. I am so disappointed that a small uptick in the amount of space I inhabit has sent me reeling into brutal self-talk. So yeah, I’m mad at myself for not liking me.
I excel at hilariously vicious self-deprecation. I will make you laugh at me even when you love me and hate what I just said.
And if you already don’t like me? I just gave you ammunition.
When you deride yourself, you open the door for others to jump on that bandwagon, and I have enough passive-aggressive, non-supportive people in my life without adding myself to the mix.
It’s a number on a scale. It doesn’t define you, any more than a blouse or a pair of shoes or a car. And while it can be considered as one aspect of what combination of you vs. gravitational pull suits you – you are so much more than a number between your beautiful toes. Enough people will go out of their way to beat you down without you inviting them in and serving them hors d’oeuvres.
And that’s all I got, today. Be kind to yourselves.