Small Slice

It had been so long since I'd stepped on a scale that I was honestly not sure what to expect.  I froze before I stepped onto the scale, unsure of whether to take off my jacket and shoes.   The nurse sighed and said, "up you go!" and I took a deep breath and stepped on.  186 blinked at me in red digital letters.   I spluttered and stammered something about the wooden clogs and thick jacket and look!  I forgot to put down my giant purse!  But the nurse had briskly noted the number in my chart and marched off town the hall, motioning for me to follow.  

Before embarking on a new eating and exercise routine, I thought it would be a good idea to get a checkup and find out where I stand, health-wise.   I've heard that weight gain and retention can sometimes be attributed to hormone fluctuations or thyroid issues, and I secretly hoped I had something to blame my size on, other than a robust appetite and flair for sitting still.   I found out from this office visit that I am actually obese.  I'm also increasing my risk of all sorts of nasty things.   I found myself wanting to apologize to the doctor for my lack of control.

Instead, I marched myself down to the lab for some blood work.   After I got the results, I'm happy to say I'm healthy.  No little magic weight-correcting pill for me.  No, I'm going to have to go about this the old fashioned way.   As my doctor put it:  I need to eat less, and exercise more.  Well, duh.

Still, part of this process is undoubtedly relearning some of those things we know; yet do not apply to our own lives.   I decided that a good step in the right direction would be to purchase a functional scale.  After picking the kids up at school, I braved a trip to Target.   

Our Target is currently being renovated, and all the aisles are in weird places.   I wandered around for twenty minutes, with the kids getting progressively squirrelly, and finally found the right spot.  They had two models to choose from, and both were very high tech.   I looked them over for about thirty seconds, and then decided to see what I weighed on each scale.  So I could buy the one that said I was thinner, naturally.   My first-grader spotted an end aisle with animal crackers, and asked for a box.  I waved her on, and kicked off my shoes.   I was peeling off my jacket and setting down my purse when a very fit young man came into the aisle.  He stopped near my cart, in viewing range of the scale.   

My "yeah, I'm a mom, and I need to lose some weight, so bite me" bravado fled, and I sort of rustled around in my cart, pretending to look for something.   The guy began to investigate the scales, too.  Crud.

I finally kicked the scale sort of under the cart, and stepped up, holding onto the side of the basket.   It let off an ear-splitting beep, probably in protest of being forced to support my weight.  I glanced down.  The cart obscured the numbers.  I glanced over at the young guy, and he was smirking, eyes straight ahead on the display.  I tried to wiggle the cart over a little bit to see the numbers.

"Mommy," my son said in a shout. "Mommy!  What does one-seven-nine mean?"   

Okay, then.  I sighed and stepped off the scale.   I had been hoping to learn that the doctor's scale was horribly wrong.  Like the Queen in Snow White, I'd been hoping for a magic mirror to tell me what I wanted to hear.   Instead, I got digital numbers, coldly confirming that it is time to take action. 

As I slipped my shoes on, my youngest held her box of animal crackers aloft and began to shake it, hooting like a monkey.   Broken crackers pelted me as I knelt on the floor, and I leaped to my feet and grabbed the box.  The guy disappeared from the aisle, shaking his head, as I scrambled around on the floor, picking up crackers.   

Finally, with crumb coated knees and sticky fingers, I beat a hasty retreat, leaving the scales behind.   What happened to me?  I felt as awkward as my sixteen-year-old self did when I found myself nauseous in a drugstore checkout line, purchasing maxi-pads and acne cream with a cute boy from school in line right behind me.   After three kids, I can slap a giant box of hemorrhoid wipes (soothing!) and a three-pack of granny panties on the conveyor belt with nary a stomach flutter.   Why did I freak out when I thought some random stranger would overhear The Number? 

That's when I decided that I needed to blog this journey.   I need to be open, and accountable.  I need to lose the shame, and focus on the goals at hand.  I've had my moment of truth – now it's time to get started.