Why I no longer weigh myself


Almost a decade ago my former husband went to South America, he was gone for two weeks.  This was his, I am going to leave her but I want to pretend I am just going to visit alone because we cannot afford to take all of us, and my sister really wants to help plan the end of our marriage, because she is diagnosing us as codependent from 3000 miles away, visit.  Whatever, he was a selfish culo anyway.

While he was gone I experienced the dramatic freedom of not weighing myself.

When he came home I told him this, thinking for me it was a profound revelation, he of course took it personally.  Why wouldn’t he?  He had spent the better part of a decade telling me my shoes weren’t high heeled enough, my skirts too long, my cardigans, frumpy, and admonishing me for not walking enough, replaced by not far enough, replaced by not fast enough replaced by why don’t you, curvy large breasted woman, take up running?

You’ll put your eye out kid.

As if I don’t find enough to criticize on the inside of my brain.

He also made it quite clear he did not find me attractive.  I had taken to a variety of diets, that never got me below 180 pounds.  When I was on the South Beach Diet, not eating any carbs at all and almost went insulin overload after exercising, of course I told him, I need to eat now, we went to the lab where he was studying chemistry, “I will only be a few minutes.”  Half an hour later I said I need to eat NOW.  Of course this was weakness in his eyes.  I was shaking, clammy and sweating.  I needed to eat.  NOW.

He thought I just wanted some of the stale off brand Oreos on someone’s desk I guess.

I also did Weight Watchers and lost 20% of my weight, but plateaued for six months, they gladly accepted my money though.  Why do they hate avocados, almonds and walnuts?  Exactly?  And do they really think someone would rather eat twenty of their nasty ass crackers instead of ten M&Ms?  Pshaw.

Like a cow in a stanchion I let them milk me.

Meanwhile we would go out for ice cream or Italian and I was expected to practice willpower.

Willpower – the magic strength that comes to you while your husband and daughter are chowing down on ice cream.  Or pasta.   This Caesar salad with for fork tine worth of dressing on it, no croutons and a sad little baked piece of haddock is so yummy especially since it is only seasoned with this wilted lemon wedge.  MM MM.

I exercised an hour or more a day.  Even going to the gym with him, he of course was getting all fit for his new love.

I had begun to weigh myself daily, oh and not just once a day.  I weighed myself in pjs when I first got up, naked after my shower, in my clothes, after pooping, after I had a couple beers, before bed, naked, and then again in my pjs.

It was like a chain one of the ones that holds an anchor on a giant ship.

The least amount you weighed that day, was the amount you weighed.  That was the magic number.

While he was gone that summer the freedom was almost religious.  And when he left that fall for a naturally thin woman (to match her twisted evil manipulative insides, bitch) I lost a lot of body fat, still not going much below 190 but walking 20 strenuous outdoor miles a week 10 in winter, and yoga twice a week, and eating my food (not eating out a lot, eating wholesome, low meat, low dairy) I was the most fit I have been since the 1/2 pack of cigarettes a day, pot of caffeinated coffee, one meal a day and juice for breakfast pre pregnancy days when I weighed 110 pounds with big boobs.

I now only weigh myself at the doctors office, more frequently than I would like because I wish I could manage to go just for annual checkups but alas, every time I go they send me to a specialist.  The secret lives of doctors revealed, specialist roulette.  Which one will you send the next patient to whether they need it or not will it land on red or black, will it be the neurosurgeon or the proctologist?

It wasn’t until I moved in with a narcissist who verbally abused me that I really packed on the pounds.

“You are a fat, lazy slob.”

And during sex grabbing my beer belly and saying “I just don’t find this attractive.”

Thank God I met Tommy.  He doesn’t say a word.  And still wants to have sex with me.

And I still refuse to weigh myself.



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