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.

15 thoughts on “Me vs. Gravity

  1. I have really struggled with this one myself lately. I found a picture of me from last summer, tan and thinner, and I hated myself immediately for putting on weight that I just dont’ have the motivation to lose coupled with the fact that I just love to eat. I’ve kinda made peace with it and am trying to make better choices but I still have days. I just want to feel comfortable in my clothes and I’m not at the moment. But I will be. I’m not going to obsess over the number.

  2. Weight is one piece of what makes up overall health – which is what’s important, that and knowing that you are beautiful, unless you are an asshole on the inside, then you are not. Yes weighing several times really
    doesn’t give you useful information. I really struggle with the vicious self talk. It’s a hard habit to break.

  3. I decided it made me boring to obsess, so I’ve tried to stop. Out loud, at least.
    My scales are in the cupboard and they’re gonna stay there for the forseeable future. I just don’t want to know 😦

      1. It took a lot to get me out of the several times a day weighing, but it IS better this way. I think. Because at any one time it’s only a snapshot, and weight isn’t as …I want to say ‘important’ but that’s not the word…pertinent (maybe?) as shape, anyway.

  4. I’m not proud of this, but I’m going to google Kate Bush now.

    Scales are assholes. Here’s what I know. I have experienced weight fluctuation like any woman over 30, and I know when I feel the best is when my clothes fit me how I like them. Sometimes, I can get on the scale, and it says some low weight I know is not right because I had to push two butterball turkeys into the jeans I wore the day before. Sometimes I look, and it says some number that makes me both gasp and cry at the same time, but my jeans slide on with less real butter.

    Scales are lying bastards. That is all.

    1. ❤ You made me smile, which I needed today. Google Kate Bush/Peter Gabriel "Don't Give Up" – unless you are feeling shitty, in which case stay far, far away from it, it's the saddest song in the world. 🙂

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