Living to Scale...

Several years ago, I participated in the National Writing Project.  It was an intense six-week course of writing in which I really began to discover my voice.  While I wrote many pieces in that time, there has been one that has been on my mind a lot lately.  When I pulled it up and re-read it, of course I wanted to revise, but I think the words we give to our thoughts hinge on our experiences.  I have had a slew of experience since originally penning this, so my plan is to revisit these thoughts and feelings in a later post.  Until then, the original:

Living to Scale

My sixth grade teacher told me I looked great one day, after I’d dropped two pant sizes.   Finally, I was adequate…    

That god-awful scale had an orange plastic base with a white dish on top to hold the food being measured and weighed.  Its box was ripped and falling apart from taking it out and putting it back at every meal and snack.  Mom would be at the sink, washing vegetables and meat for hers and my sister's meal while I had to weigh each portion of my own before they were cooked, the Weight Watchers book open so I knew how much I was allowed.  

I remember tiny lines on the metal at the front of the scale, measuring my spirit at every hash.  I remember the red slit dropping lower as the dish, filled with my self, rested on top.  I measure perfectly to the line, never drop too low, never put more of me in that scale than it could handle.  I could always be lighter, but never, never heavier; no more than six ounces of fish, or whatever the magic number was, all the while praying I was losing more this week than last.  If my prayers are answered, Mom will be so proud; everyone will be so impressed.  

The grass opened up to a big hill on those weekly treks for weigh-in at my aunt’s house.  Every blade meant a calorie to me, one more to burn off in that ten-minute walk.  I wondered how much Pepsi I could afford if I took the long way instead.  Every tree pointed accusingly at me.  

“How many calories did you have today?  Everyone will know when you step on the scale!”

And the scale never lied; it was brutally honest.  

“Only two pounds this week?  You were doing so well before!  You’ll have to make sure that red gash stays afloat this week.  Less fish and chicken, definitely less rice.” 

Funny how I always feared the bloody gash dropping too low on my scale, but rejoiced when I was lower on my aunt’s.    

No one else I know weighs their food.  No one I know has to lie on their mothers’ beds, listening to Madonna and rolling a rolling pin up and down on their bellies while their sisters watch to time them and make sure they are actually doing it. Does anyone else have their Valentine’s Day candy hidden from them?  

But the trees couldn't care less, and the blades of grass, weary from my steps, were tired of hearing it.

Another trip to my aunt’s for the weekly weigh-in, like a god-damned heifer, only instead of a blue ribbon for growing, they celebrate me dwindling away.