When my husband and I packed up our car for a winter road trip from Baltimore to Florida we took clothing, medicines, a Keurig, a set of doggy steps and an electric flosser — but left the scale at home.
I was fed up with its calculated, coldhearted decrees. I’m not sure what I ever saw in it — I should have left it at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. It has no empathy. Not once has it left me a note saying, “way to go” or “you are a good person anyway.”
This was not the first time I had tried creating distance between us. A couple of years earlier, I moved it out of my bathroom and into the walk-in closet at the other end of the house. I hoped “out of sight out of mind.”
To no avail.
The relocation did not deter me from shamelessly ripping off my nightgown and checking my morning weight — on a daily basis. Whenever it flashed a low number, (relatively speaking) I swelled with pride. But, if I’d gained a pound or so, thanks to the previous night’s fried calamari and sauvignon blanc, I’d hang my head in humiliation.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready for permanent separation, but I was definitely up for a trial.
After the first few weeks without those daily weigh-ins, I felt liberated. I stopped teeter-tottering between “on” or “off” my diet. Instead, I began listening to my body. I ate when I was hungry and chose what I craved. One morning I even ordered blueberry pancakes for breakfast. I lost my urge for late-night bingeing. It turned out that deprivation was the most fattening aspect of my diet.
I also walked — three to five miles a day. And, not for punishment, but because I enjoyed it.
All was sublime, the breakup was working — until the day we went house hunting in Delray Beach.
Our real estate agent had suggested we preview an apartment with a sweeping view of the intercoastal. It was lovely. From the balcony I could watch sailboats maneuvering with the wind. The living-dining room combination, as the agent pointed out, “was big enough to extend a dining room table for holiday dinners.” There was an ample kitchen, and the countertops had been upgraded to slate.
And then she showed us the master bathroom. That’s where, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. Tucked into a corner next to the bidet, it was identical to the one I’d left at home. The kind you have to get on twice: The first time it displays zeros, the second time your weight.
I lost interest in the intercoastal, family dinners and upgraded countertops. The only thing I cared about was the scale. As my husband and the real estate agent huddled together in the living room to look at the comps, I excused myself and headed straight back to that bathroom. For a moment, I considered taking off my thick-soled tennis shoes, leggings, top, earrings, watch and bracelet, but time was of the essence. I did one more furtive look around to ensure that the coast was clear and stepped on — twice.
I weighed three pounds less than when we left home. And I figured I could subtract another three for the clothes.
Six pounds. It was too good to be true.
I returned to the living room and said to our agent, “Would you mind going to the bathroom and weighing yourself? I need to know if the scale is accurate.”
She gave me a “you’ve got to be kidding look” before responding “No.”
Back in our car, I wondered, what is wrong with me? Had I really asked the agent, someone I barely knew, to weigh herself — and on someone else’s scale? I was mortified.
Then a funny thing happened. For the final weeks of our trip, because I thought I had lost six pounds, I took more pride in my appearance. I let my hair go curly. I put on makeup — even if we were just going to a neighborhood diner. I wore fitted tops rather than oversized billowing blouses.
Yesterday, we came home. Before unpacking my suitcase, checking the mail, or calling my kids — I ran to the scale.
I held my breath and gingerly placed my bare feet on its base.
I had not lost, or gained, an ounce.
The Delray Beach scale was off — maybe it hadn’t been calibrated.
For a moment I was distraught.
Then I thought about the freedom I experienced without those daily weigh-ins. While I had not lost weight — I had felt good about myself.
I am better off without the scale than with it. I am no longer going to assess my self-worth based on a stupid number. I refuse to continue giving power to an inanimate object.
The trial separation is over.
I am filing for divorce — with liberal visitation rights.
Laura Black (www.laurablack.net) is an attorney, businessperson, author and speaker, who focuses on the challenges of midlife-plus women with humor and affirmation.
