That's right, folks. You read it correctly. The bathroom scale is in the trash. I threw it out this morning. Because it's broken.
No joke. It's broken. Truly. I'm not just saying that because I don't like what it says. (Even though it would be soooo nice to blame that nasty number on a broken scale!)
This morning when I stepped on, the little dial just spun round and round and round. At first I interpreted this as my girls' weekend of nonstop drinking and snacking catching up with me in a big way. Agh!
But then I realized that the scale was, in fact, broken! Oh happy day! And I hummed a joyful little tune as I threw it violently into the bin, making some kind of girl-power declaration about it ruling my life no more.
But then I started thinking...can I live without the weekly dose of self-hatred that the scale delivers? Will not defining myself by the number of the scale just make me blissfully ignorant, lazy, and gluttonous? I mean, I love food. Eating makes me very happy (and exercising makes me very unhappy). The scale in the bathroom keeps me in check. So my anxiety is this: If I don't step on that scale every Tuesday morning (and sometimes Fridays, too), will I just pack on the pounds, until I'm so out of touch with the reality of my weight that someday they'll be pulling my gigantic corpse out the window with a crane? (Or worse...burning down the house to save me from that shame, a la Gilbert Grape!)
Unlikely. But terrifying.
I have been 6'2" since I was like 13. Which means I have been right around the same weight since then, up or down 20 lbs here and there. (Of course this doesn't include the pregnancy, during which time I packed on 65 lbs, delivered a 10.5-lb baby, then promptly lost 40 lbs in two weeks...those were the days, weren't they?) So you'd think that by this time, in almost 20 years, I'd be used to that big, high number staring me in the face every Tuesday morning.
Instead each Tuesday I step on the scale before my shower, completely nude and empty-stomached so as to get a "true weight" reading, and I optimistically think "today's the day the Fat Fairy came in my sleep and granted my wish to be thin, thin, thin!" I take a deep breath and hop on --- and then I see that the Fat Fairy has once again skipped my house, and I despair and moan all throughout my shower, and then I change my outfit seven times because I'm so fat, fat, fat. It's ridiculous. A horrible weekly exercise in self-loathing.
Why am I still so ruled by that number on the scale? I'm smart and lovely and strong. And I'm active and healthy and happy, despite being overweight. Sadly, I'm not sure I can live without that scale. I'm already freaking out a little bit. The Fat Fairy only visits houses with working bathroom scales, you see, so I'd better go get a replacement scale immediately. One of these days that bitch will visit and make all my thin dreams come true.