I finish pissing and step up onto the digital scale for the 3rd time today, with more eagerness than the occasion warrants.
There are water stains on the reflective black surface from the kids swinging their wet hands over to reach the hand towel after washing up. Every once in a while I’ll bend down with a damp washcloth to polish it up, but it’s been some time and tonight I don’t care nearly enough to risk a tweak in my lower back to have a spotless LED screen tell me what I don’t want to know but can’t help but ask again.
It’s 9:44pm.
Cool, four tenths of a pound lighter than after lunch but shit, .7 lbs heavier than when I woke.
None of that adds up.
I hiked 5 miles today. I was at the gym last night. I had nothing more than a protein bar in the morning and lunch was hummus with chips, grapes, celery and some peanuts. What am I doing wrong. What am I doing.
This is senseless, these figures framing my figure with two sides of a decimal point, but the numbers waste no time affecting my mood.
I stand sideways in front of the bathroom mirror, my clammy bare feet on the yellow and white zigzag striped rug, a grey Toyota Racing t-shirt tucked into red gym shorts. This shirt didn’t fit a few years ago but that’s of little consolation right now.
I’m convinced, or I have convinced myself, if those are indeed different, that I look so much fatter than I did a couple of weeks ago and far bigger than this morning in this same mirror but with natural light coming through the window which for the first time in over ten years has a curtain in front of it.
My eyes can’t be trusted, I tell myself, but there are numbers ready to validate whatever it is I want to have proved. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
I’m raising two girls who love ginger snap cookies, ice cream, and making a mess in the kitchen baking everything that counts salted butter and brown sugar as key ingredients.
I am raising daughters who love to ride bikes around our neighborhood, wearing helmets and smiles while cutting through the cool air of a weekend morning.
I am raising daughters to love and care for their bodies but I hate mine.
Curiously, I was less troubled by my shape when the scale screamed 300.
Now that it tries to cheer me up with 247.6, 255.1, and 253.8, I’ve grown manic about my stomach, my ability to feel my rib cage when I lie down flat on my back, and my chin, the 2nd one to be specific. Too much time is now spent looking at my profile and my face straight on in the bathroom mirror, searching for undeniable proof that I’m throwing away my last best chance at being psychically fit and long for this life.
How To Raise Daughters To Love Their Bodies When You Hate Yours.
I’m sorry but this isn’t a how-to blog post from a dad who’s figured it out. I’m asking the question here because I’m losing my shit about gaining back the weight I’d lost, about losing the marbles I desperately want to keep.
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