Wednesday, March 28, 2012


I rarely do it, because my husband says my mental and emotional health is much better when I don't. But something compelled me that day, something dark and evil and perfectly rotten. I knew it was a bad idea as I did it, but I couldn't stop myself.

I stepped on my scale.

I stepped on my scale in the middle of the afternoon, fully dressed. Yeah, so stupid. Everyone knows the best way to weigh yourself is naked, first thing in the morning, before an ounce of food or drink has passed your lips. But idiotic me didn't have the self-control to wait. I stepped right up there, hoping for the best, but cringing just in case.

And wouldn't you know it, I did NOT like where the needle stopped.

Immediately my heart sank, my mind condemned. Any good feeling I had about myself for the last month evaporated. In the preceding week a stranger at a restaurant told Drama Queen she was lucky to have such a shapely mother, a woman told her coworker I had great legs (although I wonder if she is due for an eye exam), and a guy at the gym asked me what I'd been doing because I looked like I lost a lot of weight. But all these good, encouraging words were nullified the second I saw that number on my scale.


I know I'm not alone. You've done it too. Every woman knows the familiar angst of reaching and/or maintaining that magic number. Every. Single. One. That includes the chick you're sure would be taken into the next county if a strong wind came up, the babe who looks spectacular in sweats, and the grandma who's more fit than you. Every girl asks, "Do I look fat in these jeans?" We dismiss flattering, sincere remarks because of that stinking number on our scale. Why do we do this to ourselves? Where did we get the idea that our worth is based on our weight?

Why do women with wit and beauty, brains and spiritual insight, women with gorgeous smiles and impressive accomplishments, competent, reliable, dependable women, greatly loved by God and others, feel defeat and shame because of an arbitrary number on their bathroom scale? Why do we give it so much power, significance? Why does it sap our confidence and tell us we're less than we should be?

Does Satan hold a lottery in hell where the winners get to live in someone's bathroom scale, tormenting the owner for a lifetime? Now that's an easy demon gig!

Why can't we see past the illuminated number between our feet? How do we fight this tendency to give our scales this much power? How do we deny this preoccupation? How do we remember what is true and live like we believe it?

Do we start by throwing away our scales, by letting God, not an inanimate object, decide what our perfect body should be? Can we concentrate on being healthy and strong instead of being a certain weight?

I wish I could solve the puzzle and have a checklist to freedom from the tyranny of the bathroom scale. It grieves me to see so many amazing women drug down and immobilized by something so dumb. Satan's playing a good trick on us, girls.

We've got to resist the temptation. We've got to say, "I may not like the number on the scale, but it doesn't define who I am." We need to look in our mirrors and proclaim, "I am a healthy, blessed woman, dearly loved by God." We need to give Satan our heel and shove that stupid scale where the sun don't shine.

The king is enthralled by your beauty; honor him, for he is your lord.

Psalm 45:11

Let's honor God with our bodies, not our scales.

How will you fight this tendency to give your scale too much power?

Photo Credit: -Paul H-


dianne said...

Remember (if you can), muscle weighs more than fat!

Tami Boesiger said...

Dianne--You get all the brownie point today, sister!

Cin said...

I've always thought the pants don't lie. I've been unable to button several over the past few months. My sweet husband says that he's dried them too long. That's kind, but I know it's the cake...