Why weight?

Ever since I can remember I have had a scale upon which I would weigh myself.  I've always been a gold-star-getting-type-of gal: you know, the type who whenever she does - well - just about anything, likes to be acknowledged, given a pat on the back (or a nice big bonus), and told she's good / of value / an excellent blogger (hint hint).  (More on that complex another time.)  Hopping on my scale and seeing that number on the little dial (or more recently - high tech digital screen) gave me such immediate feedback on my self worth: I instantly got a score (and sometimes even a gold star).  I couldn't imagine not having it as a tool in my life by which to gauge myself.

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Since you and I have gotten to know each so very well these past few months and because I've been taught that honesty is always the best policy, I'll just come right out and say it: my relationship with this contraption hasn't always been the healthiest.  Scratch that - my relationship with this contraption has never been healthy at all.  Regardless of what this silly machine would tell me, the result was no good.  

Situation A:
I get on contraption of choice.
It tells me a number less than or equal to that which I was hoping for.
I get a gold star.
My gold star standard rises (well, in this case lowers: you know what I mean.)
I am anxious about my ability to maintain gold star status going forward.
My ability to get a gold star on future weigh-ins diminishes - see Situation B.

Situation B:
I get on contraption of choice.
It tells me a number greater than that which I was hoping for.
I do not get a gold star.
I am angry at myself.
I am unhappy.
I eat cupcakes and don't enjoy them.
I do not get any closer to a gold star.

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My lovely boyfriend Stefan is a gold-star-getting-type-of guy too, so he knew where I was coming from, but he - like so many men (what is up with you dudes??) - did not have this same lose-lose mentality when it came to the scale.  The number was just a number - it didn't have any charge. 

One night after an extra tough day at the office where I had helped myself along with a few Kara's Karrot Cupcakes here and a warm, gooey morning bun there, I hopped on my floor-fitted friend to put a number on the damage done.  Not surprisingly, I found myself in Situation B.  I let out a loud, self-pitying, surly sigh and sulked into the other room.

 

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Stefan - always the problem solver - trotted into the bathroom, picked up my distressing device, walked over to our large set of bay windows, opened one up, and tossed my machine down two stories into the middle of the street narrowly missing a nicely parked Porsche Carrera.   

At first I was furious, but then: elated.  No longer did I have to use this destructive data point as an input into my model of self satisfaction.  Why HAD I counted on it for so long to calculate my appraisal?  It meant nothing.  I didn't gauge others based on what this number was.  Can you imagine: "Hello, nice to meet to you.  How many lbs do YOU come in at?"  No, no, no.  I gauge others based on their passions, their interests, their values, what makes them come alive. 

Don't get me wrong - I don't think we should all throw in the towel on self care and beautification.  No, no, no.  Looking good and feeling good often go hand in hand, but looking good has nothing to do with that little insignificant number.   

A few days later, after hopping out of the shower and walking to my closet to get dressed, I glanced at myself in the mirror momentarily forgetting the epiphany I had had so recently.  My hair was a mess, my skin a disaster, and my body - today: the enemy.  I began to scowl at my reflection, but Stefan caught me mid-glare.  "You better watch out.  You keep looking into that thing like that and I'll throw it out the window too."

Stefan: I endow you THREE gold stars for that.

xoxo
KK