I am admittedly a temperamental person. My moodiness often arrives without warning and changes just as abruptly as it came, much like the weather. I’m not proud of it. It is a sign of immaturity. Ask my wife; she has to put up with it. There are many causes of this moodiness, but very often the root cause is my bathroom scale—not so much my weight, but the actual scale itself. I don’t like it and it doesn’t like me. We don’t have a good relationship even though we spend much time together, probably too much time. The scale lies to me. It is fickle and unpredictable. Sometimes it mocks me. In fact, I do believe that the scale is moodier than I am. Oh, I am sure you think this is absurd. Surely the scale has no feelings. It’s not a living thing. But I’m willing to wager that there are some of you who have relationships with your scales that rival mine. I can’t be the only one.
The whole idea sounds silly and juvenile. I mean, on the surface the thing just sits there in the corner of the bathroom rather innocently. But deep inside the scale is a tease, a flirt, a bully. One minute it pats me on the back and the next it laughs in my face with disgust as if to say, “I told you so. Go ahead dummy, have another doughnut.” I hate the scale. Some days I want to end our relationship. It’s not good for me. It’s toxic. My friends ask why I keep it around and why I subject myself to such abuse. I guess I am just afraid of how life would be without it and how I would manage to get along. I am weak.
The scale has powers. It calls to me each morning, rendering me helpless as I strip down and quickly check myself in the mirror to guess my weight based on my reflection. Then I gingerly ease myself onto its surface as if stepping onto broken glass or walking on eggshells, desperate for its approval. If the scale reveals a good number I can look forward to a pleasant day that will include a good dinner and maybe even a beer and a snack during the evening hours. If the number is bad, the sulking begins immediately as I move into recovery mode. Usually I step off and let the digital scale reset and then step on again for a recount of sorts. After all, there could be a mechanical malfunction of some sort. If the number reads the same then I accept it, but if it is different then I step off and back on again for the third time and go with whatever number appeared twice. That’s reasonable, right?
Most days the scale is kind or at least fair and I move on with my day. Other times, usually on Saturdays, the number is high and the gamesmanship begins. My mind races as I try to concoct remedies for the problem that I have created because of my lack of discipline. What should I cut out of breakfast? Should I go all protein for lunch? And what about dinner? Are there still rice cakes in the cupboard for dessert? Don’t laugh. Rice cakes aren’t so bad, you know. Sure they taste pretty much like cardboard, but with some peanut butter and a drizzle of honey they are actually quite palatable and rather crunchy, much like cardboard with peanuts and honey.
My wife tells me that cutting food from meals is not effective and won’t help to keep my weight down and that eating sensibly throughout the day and exercising regularly is the way to go. Oh, sure, that all sounds good but I know damn well that no cheese on my sandwich at lunch could make a huge difference later when I confront that digital demon in the bathroom. And by huge difference I mean two-tenths of a pound. Hey, 162.8 sounds way better than 163, doesn’t it? I’ll take what I can get. On bad days I probably check in with my digital friend a dozen times or so. I’m not sure if that is obsessive or not. Who is to say?
I’m also not so sure that the scale plays fairly. Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense. For example, how can I possibly weigh the same before and after I pee? I am certain that it is not physically possible but the scale says differently. Or how about those rare occasions when I throw caution to the wind and splurge at Stahley’s Cellarette by ordering the half-pound hamburger along with a beer or two and some fries? Then the next morning it’s back on the scale and somehow the number is lower than it was the day before. It defies logic, doesn’t it? And then there are times when I really toe the line. I eat right and exercise and forego the sweets only to find that my friend has planned a cruel trick by dropping a big number on me. Perhaps the scale has gotten the better of me, but what is a guy to do?
Besides being moody and immature I am also an inquisitive person as I have mentioned many times in the past. So I figured I should probably consult some experts regarding weight control, exercise, and obsessive and compulsive behaviors in order to get the answers for some of these questions that plague my daily existence. Maybe I’m not alone. There’s gotta be others out there like me.
“She suggested that the scale and I seek therapy if the scale is willing to participate.”
I checked in with the esteemed Dr. Michelle Schmidt, chair of the Psychology Department at Moravian College. She said that very often people develop attachments to inanimate objects and that a scale was a good example of such a relationship, unhealthy as it may be. The good doctor felt that I probably have some unresolved conflict with the scale and that I value its opinion more than I should. And the fact that the scale accepts me one day only to reject me the next actually sends me further into the obsession, leaving me with compulsions and extreme behaviors. She suggested that the scale and I seek therapy if the scale is willing to participate.
The doctor is right, even though it is not what I wanted to hear. I really should cut the ties, but I know deep down that the scale has my best interests at heart. It wants me to put up a low number, to succeed and to be happy. It pushes me for my own good, and it hurts me because it loves me. I don’t want to let it down. So at this time therapy is not a possibility and not necessary. I just need to work harder. The scale makes me want to be a better person.
As a culture we are defined very often by appearance. This is a sad but true statement. We often judge others by their appearance, and what’s more is that we are often too critical of our own appearance. Why is the number on the scale so important? It is only a number. Shouldn’t we simply strive to be healthy and to feel good about ourselves, eschewing the numbers and focusing on the state of wellness? This notion for a moment seemed to make sense to me, but how does one go about reaching that state of inner harmony? How does one feel good about one’s self while not focusing on poundage? Once again I decided to reach out to someone in the know for some solid answers.
I stopped by Steel Fitness in Bethlehem in search of the truth, knowing fully that I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from anyone. The gym was only sparsely populated but the crowd picked up during lunch hour. I later learned that all the personal trainers were occupied with their clients. As I waited, I had time to review the Steel Fitness Seven Steps of Success that included seemingly sound advice like setting goals, tracking food intake, being accountable and so on. Nowhere did it mention the importance of keeping track of weight. Oh, boy.
After a few minutes I was able to speak to Jen Washburn, a personal trainer who probably weighs 90 pounds with a rock in her pocket. I doubt she has a scale at home. Anyway, Jen told me that too many of her clients are consumed with their weight and the number on the scale. She said the number has too much control over a person, and that the feeling of being controlled only makes it worse. Jen emphasized that her clients must first get past that mental roadblock and understand that muscle does actually weigh more than fat and that their weight won’t necessarily or immediately go down even if they exercise and eat the right way. Her clients often get discouraged because of the lack of weight loss and say that their program isn’t working. Jen’s suggestion to them and to me is to get rid of the scale altogether, or to only check our weight once per week at the same time on the same day. Wow, once per week. That was shocking to me and so different from my routine. Damn, that woman!
I returned home, ate a sandwich (sans cheese), and pondered over what I had learned. Maybe the experts are right. Maybe my scale serves no real purpose after all. Maybe this master and slave relationship should come to an end. Maybe I should just focus on feeling good, eating right, exercising regularly and not worrying about the number. Que sera, sera. Or maybe I should just finish my lunch, take a quick pee, get undressed, and head upstairs to, well, you know. Peace.
by vince ramunni | illustration by melissa rose
