The scale. It’s just an object, right? Just a simple little thing that people step on. Most people don’t break out in a cold sweat with their mouth drying up like the Sahara with the thought of the nurse in the doctor’s office saying “I need you to step on the scale”….do they? Then, once you do, you justify it. “I have on really heavy jeans and a sweater.” “I am on my period so it must be water weight.” “I just had a girl’s weekend and drank too much tequila” (Wendy…we shall NEVER do THAT again! Let’s just say my other BFF Wendy and I have yet to be able to drink pre-mixed margaritas…UGH). Well, for this fat girl the scale is a sworn enemy of mine. For years, I didn’t own one because they give me so much anxiety. Then, a few years ago, I broke down and bought one. Why? To torture myself. Plain and simple. That must be it. Because no fat girl in her right mind likes to step on the scale. When I did Weight Watchers, I used to dread weigh in days. Weigh in. Those two little words struck fear into my heart…into the core of my soul. I would make sure I wore the lightest clothes, no jewelry and would close my eyes. It’s no different preparing yourself to weigh in at home. I must be naked. It must be the first thing in the morning and my bladder must be emptied. Also, it’s a good idea if I have pooped. Do you know how much poop can weigh? Swear. This morning was no different. I was determined to weigh in today after having tried my experiment for a week. Has it made a difference? Will I be able to tell? Or will I still be as fat as I was last week? I sat on the edge of my bed dreading the scale. Dreading walking into my bathroom. The scale was in there…baiting me like a bully in the schoolyard that you wanna get into a fight with but know that when you do, you will run screaming like the little sissy girl you are and hiding in the bathroom praying that the bully doesn’t find you. You then eat your lunch for a week hunched on the toilet in the girl’s room. But I wouldn’t know anything about that. Or maybe that was a repressed childhood memory as the smell of toilet water and bologna, cheese and Miracle Whip comes rushing back at me. It didn’t used to be this way. When did my relationship with a scale turn into one of fear and regret that has me sweating like a nervous girl waiting for her prom date?
I must clarify here. I was not always fat. In high school, I was 125 lbs and had a rack that most girls would kill for at my age (remember I had a 44F bust. Even in high school). Yup. I was built like a brick s***house. True story. I was a ballet dancer and very careful about what I ate…always on one diet or another. I swear it. You can ask any of my high school friends. Contrary to what you think though, I was not a popular girl. I was the shy, quiet band/yearbook geek. Pretty sure there was always a fat girl screaming to come out. Then came college and the love of pizza and drinking and the fat girl took over grabbing life by the balls screaming “I’m free at last!” while shoving Twinkies and ice cream down my throat. I have been struggling to control her ever since without success. Thus came my fear of the scale. The anxiety producing object in my bathroom that usually gathers dust. I sat on my bed, legs shaking, willing myself to go in and step on it. Of course, this requires me to be naked in my bathroom…something I also avoid at all costs. I spend a minimum amount of naked time in the bathroom. Why? Hello! GIANT mirror to reflect white fat naked me!! Ew. But, I braved the giant mirror and took a deep breath and stepped on the scale. Opened my eyes and looked down in disbelief…wait! What does that say? Hang on! I had to step off and try again cuz it couldn’t be right. It was…2 POUNDS DOWN!!! Holy doing the fat girl naked dance of joy in the bathroom! Note to self. If you must continue the fat girl naked dance of joy into your bedroom, make sure the blinds and curtains are pulled. The neighbors don’t wanna see that. But a whole two pounds! Well I’ll be….
Overjoyed, I continued the experiment today despite my flass being sucked into that damn couch for a while watching tv. I decided to give myself a goal today. I wanted to run the length of one song. I chose Bleed It Out because I LOVE that song and it has a great running beat. So I tried. And failed. I made it almost to the last chorus but sorry Chester I could not hold out to hear you sing it again. I was slightly defeated by this but my lungs were on fire and I didn’t wanna end up laying on the street struggling to breathe. Nothing says you are a serious runner than laying in the street wheezing and panting struggling then to get your fat girl self up. Not a pretty sight. But then, I came home and looked at how long the song was. I thought it was only two minutes long so was seriously down that I couldn’t run for two minutes. Well, it is 2:44 and I after listening to it again…I ran for 2 minutes!!! That my friends is a HUGE accomplishment for this fat girl! Again…fat girl dance of joy this time not naked. Let’s see if I can do it again tomorrow without the urge to lay in the street and call my brother or BFF to come pull my fat butt up which is not an easy task. Just ask them about the Haunted House incident. Not as easy to get a fat girl off the ground as you think, let alone a terrified almost peeing her pants anxiety attack having I don’t wanna go through the body bags room fat girl. But that is another embarrassing story in itself.
Oh yeah. I didn’t die again today. I am two pounds lighter fat girl running. The experiment continues….