Five years ago, after losing seventy pounds, I found packing clothes for a weekend getaway more exciting than anticipation of the vacation itself.
Goodbye, bathing suits with tummy control, or better yet, the ones with a thigh-skimming tutu ruffle designed to conceal upper leg jiggle. Suitcase, say hello to a sleek little white number.
I wish I could say this fashion accoutrement was a pretty poolside bit, or a sheer-in-all-the-right-places sundress. But nope.
It was my scale.
Yes, indeed, I packed my scale. In a suitcase. For vacation.
To Eat, or Not to Eat? That is the Question.
On the road, my husband asked me the Usual Big Question:
“You’re going to indulge a little, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t referring to excessive souvenir store purchases of mugs emblazoned with Amish buggies and the like.
This was a food question, a direct reference to my bird-like eating habits.
Although we were headed to the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish Country, the buffets situated around a five-mile radius of the Motel 6 we’d be staying in seemed to scream Sin City rather than quilt and buggy simplicity. The buffets, like Vegas, oozed with flashy, over-the-top decadence. Bedazzled biscuits. Eyes, and donuts, glazed over. Neon colors as far as one could see, and the steaks, piled high.
“Well, aren’t you?” he persisted.
“Yeah,” I paused. “A little bit, anyway . . . ”
My voice trailed off, both of us knowing full well my response meant I might, emphasis on “might,” have an extra bowl of strawberries at breakfast or gasp! perhaps even put cream in my coffee.
This, my first big trip after having lost all my weight, was borderline terrifying. I imagined this is how a recovering alcoholic might feel heading to Munich with a friend, smack dab in the throes of Oktoberfest, sixty days sober.
He smiled. “Well, I hope you do. You really should just enjoy yourself.”
Surely, this was not the time to tell him the scale was accompanying us on the Jersey Turnpike.
Memories, All Alone in the Refrigerator Light
Truth is, I was scared.
Scared that somehow the “old” me would come back in all its dessert après dessert glory. It was a world where I deemed entire meals as mere appetizers, then sat surrounded by empty Chips Ahoy!® sleeves while watching chocolate chip sediment thicken at the bottom of my milk glass.
It wasn’t so much the fear that a taste of something “bad” would trigger the urge to consume out-of-control proportions, but rather that the sheer sight of it all could trigger memories I’d rather forget: The young boys in the car next to me who made a pufferfish fat face in unison, then sped off laughing. The times I’d misjudge my own size, trying to glide through turnstiles with swanlike finesse, only to resort to the Sideways Tuck ‘N Wiggle Entry method. My mind was a delicate rose, my body, a bull in a china shop. Or, more likely, a pastry shop.
Hence, the scale.
It was my security, having always been at my side as it dropped from above the 200 mark, sinking to 170 . . . then below 150 and so on. Simply knowing I had it with me created a sense of calm that would surely keep me in check during this buffet vacay.
So, with every opportunity back at the hotel, I’d tote my white must-have accessory into the bathroom, explaining my restroom lingering as a “much needed floss” (darn that annoying beef stuck between those molars) or over-hydration (“whew, all that water . . . wowie!”) All the while I was anxious to see what number the scale here in RollingPinSinCity, away from my yogurts and treadmills, would yield.
