I Put My Bathroom Scale in Timeout

I put my bathroom scale in timeout. Now it peeks at me, longingly through a thick coating of dust from under the guest room bed where I relegated it after it kept lying to me. 

I used to wake-up each morning, use the bathroom (every ounce counts), strip naked (every ounce counts), and hop on my digital scale. I would wait as it cycled through the numbers willing it to be even a decimal smaller than the day before. Once it beeped, signaling that it had reached its final decision, I opened my eyes to learn the results.

More times than not I was disappointed. After weeks of not reaping the reward of the weight loss I expected thanks to my commitment to daily exercise, I decided the only reasonable explanation was I was gaining muscle mass. Everyone knows that muscles weigh more than fat. Right?

To combat this losing battle and prove to myself that I was shrinking in body mass, I added the daily ritual of measuring my hips, waist, and bust. Inadvertently, I was recording the sexist and archaic information that was once used to judge women's beauty and sex appeal. “She’s gorgeous. Checkout her bod. She must be a 36-24-36.” It was not so long ago when we all knew the measurements of those famous silver screen sirens Marilyn Monroe, Raquel Welsh, and Ava Gardner. Women were held to those standards by society, and sadly, ourselves. 

I am not sure what my goal measurements where, I just wanted to prove to myself that my efforts to drop a few pounds, and rediscover my abdominal muscles, were not futile.

That didn’t work either. The fluctuations remained. The ups and downs where related to my cycle and my bloated versus not bloated days. No real changes occurred.

When I turned 40, I was happy with the way I looked in clothes and my overall body shape. I still wanted to drop 5 pounds and have a flatter belly, but I knew that would entail giving up my beloved wine. That was not going to happen. 

For a year or two I continued to measure and weigh; workout and eat right, but alas, none of my extra weight melted away.

Then the unthinkable happened. It was Summer before I truly realized it. As the weather warmed from cool Spring days to warm early Summer temperatures, I retrieved my warm weather clothes from storage and tried on my favorite shorts. I could not get them past my thighs. Clearly, I was no longer a size 6! Gasp.

I had slacked-off using the scale since no measurable changes occurred. Instead, I increased my activity level. I biked, hiked, walked, kayaked, did yoga, and lifted weights 5-6 times each week. My mistake rose from my assumption that I was getting fit and losing weight. The fact that my shorts did not make the same assumption was a rude awakening.

Undaunted, I kept trying on the clothes I had pulled from the plastic tote, keeping the ones I could still stuff myself into and breathe. I put the others back in storage for when I did lose the weight (hah). The thing I neglected to acknowledge and embrace was the fact that I was officially peri-menopausal. This meant my metabolism was not ever going to bounce-back and burn those calories like it had in my younger days.

I have never been particularly vain. I do not spend gobs of time and money on beauty products or treatments. I have never been overly concerned with how my hair looks. I have little to no fashion sense. However, like most people, I like to feel attractive, even pretty. For me, not having a bulging belly was part of that standard. I also prefer to not have zits.

Even though I did not put forth much effort to maintain or achieve a beauty standard, I spent way too much time admiring the beauty ideal in fashion and tabloid magazines. I gazed at slim fresh-faced women far too long to not have that ideal seared into my psyche as the gold standard. 

As a teenager, I owned and worshiped the Christie Brinkley's Outdoor Beauty and Fitness Book. This became my encyclopedia for all things perfect and beautiful. Nobody pointed out to me that an olive skinned, brown and frizzy haired girl would never obtain the beach blond babe looks of blue eyed Christie Brinkley even if I did her butt squeezes and covered my face with the crazy hats she sported throughout the book.

Nothing makes me feel worse about my body and life than the Title Nine athletic clothing catalog I receive a few times a month. The models are real women who have amazing athletic bodies. Each model is given a brief bio in the spreads that read something like Sharna is a mom of triplets. She is a marine biologist. She spends her free time climbing mountains, surfing, and saving dolphins from fishing line entanglements. Meanwhile a photo of Sharna shows her smiling as she runs down the beach holding her surf board with her flat, tan abs and muscular arms taunting me. The only thing missing is a backpack rigged for her to carry her three babies while she runs and surfs. I want to be Sharna!

The fact that I will never have Sharna's abs (or lifestyle) became painfully clear as I stood in front of my full length mirror gazing at my body which I had shoved into too small, low-rise, skinny jean capris contemplating how to camouflage the excessive flab of my belly that spilled over the waistband in a heap of pale white excess skin. I needed a shirt that would mask the belly blob to prevent well-meaning, but not too bright people, from asking me when I was due.

This is so not me!!!

I dug through my closet and found a shirt with a bit of extra fabric at the waist which covered my belly bulge well enough for me to leave the house thinking no one would notice. As I went through the day, the waistband of my skinny jean capris did not stretch as I had hoped. Instead, the stiff and tight fabric dug into my skin and it became painfully clear that I was going to have to buy new clothes. I told myself to suck it up. So, I sucked in my gut a plowed through the day trying to forget the discomfort of the pants which now rode up into my crotch. The fabric was fighting with my flab trying to find a way to keep me covered.

It all went well until I used the bathroom in a gas station miles from home in the middle of my work day. The pants came down easy enough, probably relieved from the arduous chore of keeping all my flesh contained. I completed my business then tugged and pulled those too tight pants over my voluptuous thighs. Victorious at getting them to comply, I sucked in my gut and fastened the metal button, stressing and testing the skill of the Chinese seamstress who ran the machine that made my Calvin Klein's. 

I exhaled in relief, and the button, under extreme pressure, broke free from the threads meant to hold it in place and bounced off of the metal stall door with a resounding clang landing with a splash in the toilet bowl. I looked down at the glimmering circle as it floated slowly to the bottom of the stained bowl glinting in the fluorescent lighting. I swear it winked at me as the attached threads waved at me mockingly in the ripples of the toilet water. It was definitely time to buy some new clothes.

I discovered tops with ruching and "boyfriend" cuts. I found that shorts and pants just one size larger fit me perfectly. Even though I was pleased with my new wardrobe, I came home from my shopping spree at TJ Maxx and went directly to the bathroom to weigh myself. I started the ritual of weighing and measuring all over.

Of course, the results were the same. Rather than get depressed and discouraged, I took a

different tack. I got realistic. I decided to stop trying to conform to some improbable ideal. I ended my subscription to People magazine acknowledging that photo-shopping made those women look perfect. I threw away those Title Nine catalogs refusing to read about all the amazing, fit women within its pages. I put my scale in a permanent timeout under the guest bed. I reminded myself that even Christie Brinkley has cellulite and wrinkles. Oh crap, she really doesn't. I guess I should have kept up on my butt squeezes and purchased an array of hats to shield my face from the sun as her book urged.

I still want to have a flat belly and thighs that jiggle a bit less. More important than that, I want to be healthy. I still exercise daily. I still eat a healthy diet. I still drink wine. I don’t worry about the size on the clothing tag. Instead, I find clothes that make me feel pretty and confident. Oh whose kidding, I look for clothes that make me feel comfy-cozy. 

I relish the fact that I am setting a good example for my girls (I hope) by teaching them not to dwell too much on looks and spend more time enjoying life and being healthy. My belly is not flat, but my abs are strong. My face rarely has zits (thanks to a tip I read in the pages of People). I have a closet full of tops that swing a bit around the waste and pants whose buttons are firmly in place and not at risk of ricocheting into public toilets.

No matter how much that scale beckons me to dust it off and replace it to its home on the bathroom floor, I will persist and resist. I will no longer measure my health or beauty by the lies it tells. I am strong, healthy, and a a bit jiggly all over.