Scale Induced Ice Cream

The scale has a sense of humor.

I’d decided I’d like to lose weight. Ten percent of my current body weight, in fact. It’s a good goal. I hadn’t weighed in yet, but I knew that I was looking at a minimal loss of 28 pounds. Maybe 30.

So I peed, washed my hands, stripped out of my clothes. Took the scale out from its hidey hole. Spent some time fidgeting, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, and then back again. Finally took a deep breath and stepped onto the scale. With supreme effort, I managed to avoid shifting while on the scale. Five seconds is a long time to wait.

The offensive number so blandly displayed in the little box couldn’t be right. I waited for a moment. Closed my eyes, opened them again. Yep, it definitely said 3-2-0. What?! That couldn’t be right. I laughed out loud, so that the scale knew I got the joke.

“But seriously. We’re going to try this again, scale. Give me the real answer this time.”

I stepped off. The digital numbers clear and I wait a few more seconds then climb back on. An even longer five seconds finds me at 320.2 pounds.

“Scale! I did NOT gain .2 pounds in ten seconds! Take it back!”

I snatched it up from the floor and put it back in its hidey hole. I had a sincere wish that it would rot, and then be forgotten, along with those horribly affronting numbers. 320.2 pounds indeed.

What’s a twenty one year old woman to do when she learns that she weighs 320.2 pounds? The answer is obvious—I needed to mull it over. Three minutes later I found myself on the couch with half a pint of Starbucks ® Java Chip ice cream and a fork.

Sometimes spoons aren’t sharp enough to cut through really hard ice cream, ya know?
Obviously, my mother was to blame. She didn’t teach me correct nutritional habits. Apparently I grew up on raw hot dogs—something she never stopped. I remember sneaking into the kitchen at night and stealing cookies. When my grandma would ask me what I was doing, I would hurriedly stuff it into my mouth and mumble “nothing” around crumbs. Or maybe my step-dad was to blame. There was a time I really wanted to play football, and he told me I wasn’t allowed to play if I didn’t run until I vomited. Really, running-until-puking doesn’t appeal to an overweight twelve year old. Maybe it was both of them, and the fact that when I was in high school we had fast food four nights out of seven, and I was left to cook for myself the nights we didn’t eat Wendy’s. Damn my parents!

I was filled with righteous anger at my parents as I ate that ice cream. About halfway through it, I stopped, and considered what I was doing. I was so angry at weighing over 300 pounds that I was—not exercising. Not journaling. Nope. I was eating ice cream. Maybe, at twenty one years old, I can’t really blame my parents any more. Maybe, at twenty one, I need to look at what I’m doing wrong.

So with one last bite and a deep sigh, I put the cap back on my ice cream and put it back in the freezer.