Before

I slink into the bathroom and spy my scales hovering seemingly weightlessly above the tiles, mockingly. I stare at them. They glare back at me, unblinking. I remove my clothes...then my undies...then my jewellery ~ the one ring and one set of earrings I always wear ~ trying to offload every ounce of excess weight before I mount. I step forward then halt. I remember the band-aid on my knee and peel it off. I consider removing my mascara and lip gloss, but decide that’s a tad bit loco.

I exhale all the air deeply from my lungs, then step aboard, praying for some kind of miracle; hoping there was some sort of exodus in the middle of the night that I didn’t know about. Fat cells fleeing for the promised land, leaving my body starved and barren and featherlight.


The needle soars past my usual weight...


The needle finds it’s final resting place. I jiggle up and down a little, hoping to nudge it back a couple notches to my usual weight. It flickers and stops somewhere above what I've known my whole adult life...before a year of infertility treatments.


Sigh.
Vintage Scale by Composure Photography via Etsy

Comments

  1. My scale is tucked away out of sight for right now. We dont see eye to eye on what my weight should be :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. I struggle with the scale more so than ever since beginning IF treatments over 3 years ago. I've recently lost 50 of the 50+ pounds I gained while neglecting my health because I was solely focusing on achieving pregnancy. 2 ectopics, 2 surgeries and a chemical pregnancy didn't help my emotional well being and weight control either. But, I'm done making excuses and am doing something about it. It's now or never for me.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I don't even bother anymore. I try to use my clothes as a gauge but sadly they betray me. :(

    ReplyDelete
  4. They lie, those scales. Lie like rugs.

    At least that's what I keep telling myself.

    ReplyDelete

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