I did not care about my weight today. Not the reference to my body or what I think she looks like, but a tangible digitalized figure I was privy to view on a screen.
Ironically, I just posted about “losing weight” and respecting that process as it has unfolded. Today, I had a doctor’s appointment and they weighed me – clothes on and all – and ha! I have not lost weight according to this doctor offices’ scale. It is not far from my usual, which frankly I don’t even know because I don’t own a scale or make use of one with any regularity, but it was more than I expected.
In the past, this would’ve looked like a lot of things: immediate rise in both blood pressure and heart rate, flushed cheeks and sweating anxiety gnawing at my insides. Immediate desperation for texts of approval, validation and “you’re OK, Alison – it’s just a number”. The temptation to ask the doctor how accurate the scale was, if we could weigh my clothes separately, how much they think water and food affect the number. The commitment to change my intake of food and beverage to accommodate my terror, be it depriving or rewarding, in order to change my body and mind – to take the edge off the feeling I didn’t think I could handle.
In the past, I would’ve concreted the knowledge that I had a doctor’s appointment today, and not eaten normally over the weekend or this morning. I would’ve withstood the need to drink enough water and work as minimal clothing as possible. I would’ve prepped others that I was going to the doctor and that I was probably going to be weighed (side note: if you cannot handle being weighed, you can request that you not be and give them a number or turn your back and request that you not see the number. You are the patient and you have that right).
Today, I saw the number, I felt surprised, and I let it go. I had a rational reaction to something outside of my control. I had a rational conversation with myself that ended with “that’s interesting” and “you’re enough”. I knew I had drunk over 90 ounces of water already, eaten 2 carb loaded meals and eaten normally all weekend. I knew my hormones were wherever they were and that adds weight. I knew I had added muscle despite lifting significantly less because in between becoming a goat on the side of a mountain, I am trying to become Tarzan swinging through the Amazon. I had my work clothes on – pants, a shirt, blazer, underwear. I swear my bra weighs 2 pounds at least ? I also knew that my clothes have gotten looser, I am the healthiest and most functional I’ve ever been, and it has no fucking baring on who I am anymore.
If I weighed 130 and not almost 140, I wouldn’t be a better employee or better girlfriend. If I weighed 120 and not almost 140, I wouldn’t be able to run up hill faster or carry heavier weight. If I weighed 135 and not 139, I wouldn’t be a better daughter, sister, confidante or friend. In fact, weighing any differently would probably mean that I’d be less of any and all of those things, because I’d be so preoccupied with the incessant need to weigh what a digitalized screen told me I did that I wouldn’t be available anyway.
Fuck that. Today, the only prep I sent the Universe was to my energetic deity overseeing my life, which includes my weight. As I followed the hallway, I made sure to ask for strength and grace and an unattached reaction to whatever it was that came up in the office. And guess what? My prayers were all answered.
And I returned to work, I kept drinking water, and I ate my next meal because I was hungry.
Imagine. There really is freedom, and it has nothing to do with what you weigh, or what you think you should.