As you all know from my previous post, I’ve been hitting the gym. Not to lose a ton of weight. And not TOTALLY just to check out hot guys (although it IS a great motivation!). I’m trying to get in shape, be the best me I can be! I’ll never be a size 4. In fact, the smallest I’ve ever been was a size 6. I think that was one day back in the 6th grade. The smallest I’ve been as an adult was a 12. Again, short-lived, back in my near-anorexic days. Right now the clothes in my closet range from a size 14 to 18. Yes, they all fit– for the most part– and I am not ashamed to admit my size. Now my weight, that’s another issue!
I haven’t weighed myself since maybe high school. I tell my doctors and nurses not to tell me my weight because I’ve never been a skinny girl and that number is just that… a number! I only want to know if there’s a major increase in my weight (which I’d already know because I wouldn’t be able to fit into ANY of my clothes) or if it poses a health issue. I work out three to four days a week, eat pretty healthy, limit my fast food to once a week max (I have a weakness for fries!) The city I live in is a walking one, so I’m always hoofing it to the bus, the train, the store, everywhere. I walk a LOT. Out-walking a lot of my slimmer friends. So I feel I’m pretty healthy and stepping on the scale isn’t really going to tell me anything.
Last week at the gym, I got a little curious. I wanted to know just how much I weighed. I don’t know why. I knew knowing that number would do no good. Only cause unneccessary stress. Just as I was making my way to the scale, this older woman gets on. “Oh no. Oh no! OH NO!” she screams. “This is NOT good!” That experience scared the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of me! Instead of going toward the scale, I kept going toward the door.
Then yesterday, my curiosity got the best of me. I peek around the corner where the scale is and see if anyone’s on it. It’s empty. No one is around. I put my right foot on it and quickly the needle swings up. I put my left foot down and the needle keeps going clockwise. 130… 140… 150… When the hell was it going to stop?!?! Finally, it DID stop. There was no need to go to the truck stop and get on the machine that weighs the loads on the tractor trailers. Immediately I start reasoning. The scale is broken and is off by 10 or 15 pounds. They ALWAYS are! And I have extensions in my twists. That’s gotta be at LEAST five pounds. Oh, and I left my iPod on my arm! Deduct 18 pounds for that!
After finding more deductions than Bernie Madoff’s accountant, I was pleased with the number that should have actually been read on the scale. I decided to reward myself. My prize? Lunch at McDonalds!
The Scarlett Letter 