*Content note: This piece deals with body-image issues, and mentions disordered eating.*
“Could you step on the scale, please?”
My reaction to that simple request, as always, is both visceral and invisible. Obediently I take off my shoes and step up. Meanwhile, the familiar crawling, itchy tug of dread – the preemptive prickles of shame – the leaden sinking knowledge of impending failure. Meanwhile, my Feminist Brain scolds me. “You are a liberated, feminist woman who believes in radical body acceptance. You have nothing to fear from a scale.”
This scale is digital, thank cat. So much faster than the analog ones with those little weights that you watch the nurse slide, judgment in the click of every little black marker she has to add. Digital, so it rips the band-aid off faster, blinking out a cold and unyielding 181.