It’s been a crazy few days with an emotional pendulum that swings from excitement, happiness to self-doubt, pity and complete depression. I think this is one of the early signs of bipolar disorder. Let’s hope I’m wrong on this one and it’s only the what-the-hell-do-I-do-after-graduation phase.
A few days ago, I was having a healthy lunch at work, roasted chicken breast and brown steamed rice, hoping desperately my attempt to diet was having an effect. And I think it is- my pants are a little lose and my cheeks look leaner but it’s impossible to confirm the alleged progress because I am beyond terrified of confronting the scales. Besides the normal anxiety every normal person feels when waiting for it to blink the harsh reality of their weight, I’m mainly scared because of the fact that my scales seem to detest me.
Maybe we’ve just had her for too long- yes her, because it’s a total bitch- and she just got sick and tired of fat people standing on her every day expecting for her to create a miracle that her primary functions prohibit her from doing. After all, she did take the Do Not Lie about Weight Numbers oath when she was made. What can she do? Then, when people don’t see the results they want, they throw a tantrum and blame her for their love handles. To hell with it! she says. And then, I suffer for it. I think she senses my vulnerable state between hopefulness and finally giving up and diving head first into a basket of muffins and decides to fuck with me.
I go visit her in the mornings, before anything’s in my stomach. Less pounds. After the bathroom. Practically slim by now. I eat salad the night before and try to attain some feeling of fullness with a big glass of water. I ignore the grumble of my stomach.
Anyways… both feet on the scales. Numbers blinking. I say a little prayer and then I look down.
Dear Jesus! That’s way higher than it should be.
Hmm…. Better. (It was supposed to be somewhere around 136)
By this time, she is euphoric by watching me have a mini meltdown that will drive me to eat pasta with a whole loaf of garlic bread and then eventually have another meltdown and so on. Now, for her fabulous finale, she decides to do what no other weight scale has done before. She makes the world record jump of ten pounds. Twice.
A part of me wanted to celebrate and start dancing as if I were an extra in West Side Story. A member of the Shark’s gang, of course. Nobody danced like them. But if I know the scales, and I think I do, I knew this was her way of enhancing my possible bipolar disorder.
So I gave it another try.
I need to emphasize this. From one hundred and thirty-three pounds… to one hundred and forty-three pounds!!
I give up. It seems she threw her honorable oath out the bathroom window and will stop at nothing to win the argument that exigently points out she will do whatever the f_ck she wants, including to belittle my wish to go back to 130 pounds and fit into my favorite pair of jeans. She won that argument.
|If I looked like that, I wouldnt be writing about scales.|
I think it’s safe -for my emotional balance (if we recall, it’s not so balanced at the moment) and to keep my stubbornness in achieving this resolution, not to mention so the scales doesn’t end up being violently shattered into pieces- that the scale and I take some time apart from each other. Clearly, she has issues.