Today began as many Saturdays often do. I woke up at 10:30, had a bowl of Cheerios with milk and frozen blueberries, did the crossword, went on a Starbucks run for mom and myself, then took Georgia for a walk around the block. (Note: if you are an easily frustrated person like me, I don't advise attempting to train any sort of rodent how to walk on a leash- it may be cute but I'm pretty sure my Guinea Pig thinks it's a punishment so she just sort of sits there glowering). I'd managed to get her to move about ten feet from the house when I saw a familiar shape and figure resting in a crate on a neighbor's grassy curb. It was white ceramic with black rubber footpads and the all too sinister dial of numbers under a circular window of clear plastic. Now, when I see a scale, I'll tell you what it feels like. My heart jumps about two inches into my throat and I feel like I've been spotted in the hall by my High School History teacher who's class I just skipped. It's terrifying and guilt producing.
I haven't weighed myself in over three months, and I honestly don't plan to anytime soon. I know I'm heavy right now and honestly, I don't need that judgmental red needle shoving it in my face. However, finding a lone scale right outside my house feels a little like fate and I'm not one to pass on something that feels like it's meant to be. How to snatch the fifteen pound apparatus without Mrs. O'Leary poking her head out the window and bellowing at me though? I thought about this while Georgia hovered under my ankles, chirping to go back in her cage. I brought her back into the house and thought about it some more.
About ten minutes later I just went for it. I grabbed one of our empty blue recycling bins and wandered innocently down the street. I picked up the scale and put it in the bin, then walked innocently back towards my house. When I was hidden from sight I laid it on the ground and pressed my palms down on it, just to see if it appeared functional. I think it works... I took it over to our car, opened the trunk, and slid the scale under my dad's golf clubs and gym bag. It is safe and sound for the time being, until I can find a time to move it to the basement or something.
Thing is, I don't really want to use the scale. In all honesty, it might not even work! It was in the trash, right? But I have to believe that having it in my possession is good. Not healthy, but... somehow good. The only times I've ever used a scale religiously was when I was at a low weight and needed to make sure I stayed there. Those were the days when things felt good. I have to hope that things will be good again.