A very interesting thing has happened.
In packing and moving this past week, I accidentally packed up the digital scale from the bathroom. Since we’re not officially moving into the new place until next weekend, I had planned to keep it out and visible until the last day, as it’s essential [for me] to know where I stand with my weight.
But yeah. It’s gone.
I’ve gone the last 24 hours without a scale. For most people, that’s not a very long time. How many times does the average, healthy person weight themselves? Once per day? Once per week? Only at regular check-ups at the doctor’s office?
For me, it can be five to six times per day.
Depending on what I ate [or didn’t eat] that particular day, it could be so much more.
At the minimum, I weight myself every morning. It’s the first thing I do. Before brushing my teeth, before giving my husband a kiss, I step on the scale.
Those three to five seconds before my weight registers are so stressful.
Will today be a good day?
Those little numbers light up on the digital screen, either validating my existence or telling me that I’m the lowest, most vile and disgusting human being to every walk the earth.
It’s amazing what numbers can do.
Well, for the last 24 hours, I’ve been scaleless. Due to my own accidental placement during a packing frenzy, I’ve freed myself, if only temporarily, from my in-house judgment.
I got up this morning, in my usual hazy stupor and trudged to the bathroom, only to see that little shadow on the tile floor where the scale used to be. So, instead of my morning ego-check, I climbed back into bed, snuggled with my husband, and thought about my plans for the day.
No superficial joy.
No hate for myself, manifested by little black numbers on a backlit LED screen.
It was a very freeing experience. While I don’t trust myself to be able to give up the scale permanently, I don’t think I’ll be in a rush to unpack it. I kind of liked this… normal… morning.
Hmmmmmmm. Now what’s for breakfast?