The scale and I have been having a disagreement lately. I get on it in the morning and it gives me a number I don’t like. I give it a look, eat my way through the day, and then get back on it at night. It still gives me a number I don’t like. Rinse and repeat for the past two months. That number really isn’t budging. It’s frustrating. It’s irritating. It’s disappointing, even.
I’ve been slender for my entire life. Before I had Bug, my metabolism was epic. If I gained a couple pounds and was unhappy about it, all I had to do was cut back on my calories for a few days and I’d settle back into my happy zone. I ate what I wanted for the most part. Didn’t have to exercise all that much to maintain a slim, not-too-squishy build. I had a flat stomach! And guess what? I still complained about my weight. I still looked in the mirror and thought “hmm. Not good enough.”
So maybe the problem isn’t my weight. Maybe my real problem is that I am never satisfied with my body. This body, which has carried me through 31 years of life and given me a crazy-amazing kid and kept me healthy, is still a disappointment to me. And I think it’s okay to feel uncomfortable when your weight creeps up to a higher number than you’re used to, or want. But the fact that I weigh myself, on average, 2 to 3 times a day sets off alarm bells in my head. It puts me in the danger zone. It means that I hear words like “thigh gap” and “ideal build” and think that my body, for everything it’s done for me, isn’t good enough. That my body, when it’s not perfect, makes me somehow less than. It’s not true, but it feels true.
I think about how I, a fairly reasonable adult who has the maturity to understand on some intellectual level that my weight and how I look doesn’t define who I am as a human being, struggle with this problem on a daily basis and I’m a little befuddled. I have thighs that jiggle. I’ve got a booty on me (look out, JLo, I’m coming for you). My stomach is soft and I have to hike up my jeans when I sit down so my little pooch doesn’t flap over my waistband. I’m carrying around 10 extra pounds that I’d love to take a hike. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not a rad person. I totally get that, and yet I don’t. I look in the mirror and think “ugh.”
This is not just my struggle. I love and hate that I’m not alone thinking these things. And I’m using Scoot as my diary today because I think that speaking these fearful thoughts out loud gives them less power. Also, I’m not going to turn down a pep talk or a “me, too” from you wonderful, kind readers.
I am working on living a healthier life. I hope that by default that sort of squashes the argument between me and my scale; I hate when we fight. But I know at the end of the day, the argument is really one-sided. It’s just giving me the facts. I’m the one who’s skewing them. I’m the one who’s making them uglier than they need to be.
Anyone else out there who feels the way I do? Or do you have some advice for me? Let’s talk it out in the comments.