By SUSAN HAYDEN
So finally, at the age of 42, after being a slave to my scale for as long as I can remember, I have stopped weighing myself.
It’s been about six months since last I voluntarily made myself feel crap first thing in the morning, post-wee, pre-coffee.
It’s not because at last I reached a level of self-acceptance and understanding that my I am more than that what those numbers say. It’s because my scale takes those little round batteries like you used to get in Nintendo games and I have no idea where you buy them.
And while, at first, the site of that blank screen filled me with panic (How would I know how fat I was? How would I measure yesterday’s level of gluttony or – less commonly – denial if I didn’t know my exact weight?) an interesting thing happened:
At first it was weird not starting my day with the rush of oh-yay-I’m-down-300-grams-since-yesterday-I’m-not-gonna-touch-a-carb-all-day OR the crash of oh-fuck-why-did-I-have-those-three-glasses-of-wine-now-look-I-might-as-well-have-ciabatta.
I missed the smug (albeit hollow and short-lived) feeling of victory when I had gone hungry and the scale was my best friend, but I didn’t miss the other feeling which happened rather more often – the dismay and the quiet self-loathing. Because it’s really quite difficult to feel okay about yourself as a woman if you’re not pretty thin. And somehow, achieving that goal can feel like the most important thing in the world. Which is seriously messed up.
Three years ago, roughly, I got on the scale midday (midday, what’s more) and it read 57kgs. That’s low for me as I’m not a naturally skinny person.