The number you are on the scale is the number you go by.
The least amount you weigh on any given day is the amount you weigh no matter what. Even if you have been going out both ends with a stomach virus, you weigh yourself. Yes.
So the next time a medical professional asks you you can tell them.
I weigh the magic number.
I am worthy. I am not disgusting in the eyes of men. I am not repulsive in the eyes of culture and society. I am still wearing fat clothes though. Do these people want my money? Could they make something attractive in my size?
But then there is the day where you have exercised like a beast for days, have lived on twigs and sticks, and lettuce and haven’t touched fruit, or sweets or pasta or bread for days and you get on the scale and the magic number is now:
Magic number = x where x is < the number on the scale. An ounce less, a pound less, five pounds less, a dozen pounds less.
Sad trombone, screaming monkeys, witch laugh, sobbing babies, critical screeching while you crouch in a corner.
You have failed to lose weight despite your best efforts, in fact you have now gained weight.
This moment is the worst moment of your life.
And then I say fuck this, I am going to the store and I am buying pop tarts, Oreos, Creme horns and Eating a giant plate of pasta with garlic bread.
And a week later – magic number is somehow back.
This is why I do not weigh myself.
I have been eating relatively well for a month.
I suspect I will have gained weight when I go to the doctors this morning.
It is inevitable.