My parents’ bathroom scale had a slim window through which I could watch the numbers blur back and forth when I stepped on it. Waiting for that thing to settle on my weight was my first brush with roulette. I had a number in my head and all my happiness was pegged on it coming up.
Women never give their weight, unless they’re proud of it. It’s the original “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Since only thin people were telling, I grew up believing most women were between 102 and 112 pounds.
Unfortunately, I passed 102 pounds sometime in the fifth grade. Never did I think about my height and frame. Never did I consider the heavy muscles I earned through ceaseless ballet classes. Never did I contemplate the possibility that one-size-does-not-fit-all. Individuality was fine for personality. When it came to weight, there was acceptable and unacceptable.
There was even a chart.
Any gal who has bought nylons knows about The Chart. It is a tight grid composed of miserly five-pound boxes stamped on the back of every pantyhose package. Find your box; get your letter – A, B, C, D, etc.
Like a real report card, the lower your letter, the more help you needed. Control Top, Shape-Enhancing, Extra-Firm Support. Eventually you were paying twice as much to be half as comfortable. Privately, I aspired to be Valedictorian of pantyhose or, at least, on the honor roll. And I knew how many five-pound boxes it would take.
Like most women, I subscribed to the Five-Pound Fallacy, the ardent belief that five pounds can make a huge difference and one could lose those five pounds in five days.
Many, many desserts were lost to this lost cause.
Although I exercised and sacrificed, those five pounds came and went as they pleased. Never mind that five pounds was the margin of error on my parents’ scale. That thing may as well have been measuring my soul every morning.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Things changed when I got married. Although I knew my weight on my wedding day, I didn’t know it the day after. My husband and I didn't register for a bathroom scale and it wasn't worth breaking our tender budget to get one. Besides, I didn't miss being judged before breakfast.
Then, I got pregnant and gaining weight came with the territory. A nurse told me a secret. “Get on the scale backwards and I won’t tell you the number.” It seemed childish, but it ensured I left the office with only one number in my head – my child’s heartbeats-per-minute.
After my daughter was born, I remained ignorant of my number. I knew I lost my baby weight because my pants fit again. No judgment. No skipping dessert.
Women never give their weight, unless they’re proud of it. It’s the original “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Since only thin people were telling, I grew up believing most women were between 102 and 112 pounds.
Unfortunately, I passed 102 pounds sometime in the fifth grade. Never did I think about my height and frame. Never did I consider the heavy muscles I earned through ceaseless ballet classes. Never did I contemplate the possibility that one-size-does-not-fit-all. Individuality was fine for personality. When it came to weight, there was acceptable and unacceptable.
There was even a chart.
Any gal who has bought nylons knows about The Chart. It is a tight grid composed of miserly five-pound boxes stamped on the back of every pantyhose package. Find your box; get your letter – A, B, C, D, etc.
Like a real report card, the lower your letter, the more help you needed. Control Top, Shape-Enhancing, Extra-Firm Support. Eventually you were paying twice as much to be half as comfortable. Privately, I aspired to be Valedictorian of pantyhose or, at least, on the honor roll. And I knew how many five-pound boxes it would take.
Like most women, I subscribed to the Five-Pound Fallacy, the ardent belief that five pounds can make a huge difference and one could lose those five pounds in five days.
Many, many desserts were lost to this lost cause.
Although I exercised and sacrificed, those five pounds came and went as they pleased. Never mind that five pounds was the margin of error on my parents’ scale. That thing may as well have been measuring my soul every morning.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Things changed when I got married. Although I knew my weight on my wedding day, I didn’t know it the day after. My husband and I didn't register for a bathroom scale and it wasn't worth breaking our tender budget to get one. Besides, I didn't miss being judged before breakfast.
Then, I got pregnant and gaining weight came with the territory. A nurse told me a secret. “Get on the scale backwards and I won’t tell you the number.” It seemed childish, but it ensured I left the office with only one number in my head – my child’s heartbeats-per-minute.
After my daughter was born, I remained ignorant of my number. I knew I lost my baby weight because my pants fit again. No judgment. No skipping dessert.
I know I’m not cured. Whenever I encounter a bathroom scale while visiting friends or family, I’m on it, squinting my eyes, not breathing, a number in my head. Fortunately, I’m in my own bathroom most mornings, where ignorance is bliss. And that bliss extends beyond me. I have two daughters who are in the prime scale-watching years. I don’t know their weight and neither do they. They are strong and healthy and that is all they need to know.
The rest is just pantyhose.
Nicole L.V. Mullis can be reached at nlvm.columns@gmail.com.
You can find her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter @NicoleLVMullis.
The rest is just pantyhose.
Nicole L.V. Mullis can be reached at nlvm.columns@gmail.com.
You can find her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter @NicoleLVMullis.
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