Burn Those Mo-Fo Scales

A few years ago my weight made my day, literally.

If my weight was up my mood was down and by down I mean down in the fiery pits of sooky-la-la-hell. Picture hyperventilating, tragic tears, snot everywhere, kicking stuff like a tempered two-year-old and eventually a hurt toe or two, it’s a pretty sight huh?!

On the other end of the scale (pun intended) if my weight was down I was up. Up in the clouds, high on happiness and full of confidence. Seriously though the only difference between a good and bad weigh day was a cheat meal and a decent shit.

One particular down day, of which there were many as it seemed just breathing my own farts could make me gain, my husband threatened the life of my scales. So when my tears didn’t dry up after the umpteenth time of him describing how he saw me and that the scales couldn’t rate sexy or awesome he honoured that threat by taking it to the next level.

He kidnapped my scales!

Yep, kidnapped that silver-tongued weighing machine without so much as a ransom note and he threw it powerfully over his head and directly at the driveway beneath our first floor balcony. He then pulled out his keys, threw himself frustratedly into his car, turned the ignition and proceeded to drive over them. Not satisfied with the crunch he ripped it into reverse, drive, reverse – you get what I’m saying? And then when he felt sure the scales were unusable he parked his ute on it as a final triumphant winning move.

I was devastated. Silly I know but I really was! How was I going to judge my day from now on if I didn’t know how fat or not-too-fat I was? Did I really have to wake up and just be happy? Is that what the rest of the world did?

I’ve told this husband-car-smashing-scales story before but now I’m out the other side, not completely cured but living better than I have before, I see this story differently. I also see it as a must for all women, everywhere, who choose their mood in a negative way because they listened to this mean girl machine! She is a mean girl compacted, digitalised and she doesn’t even have to speak to make you feel shit about yourself. Who are you giving your power away to?!!! If you must give your wonderful womanly power away at least make them living breathing humans! And by ‘if you must give away your power” I mean DON’T FUCKING GIVE ANYONE YOUR POWER EVER! Living, breathing or machining.

It does not matter how much you paid for those scales. It does not matter what excuses you come up with. If you weigh yourself every day or as in my case back then three times a day then you go NOW and you get that mother-fucking number thingy and throw them at the driveway and reverse, drive, reserve, drive, repeat and park on them! And no I won’t pay for your punctured tyres be smart about it ladies cover it in cardboard if you have to. If you don’t have a car, get a hammer, don’t have a hammer, get a bat – but not the perfection bat because that’s imaginary. Throw them in a bonfire if you can’t beat them to death and stand there triumphantly watching them burn! DO something significant to those little gravity defining mofos!

Was my pep talk not enough? What are you still doing here? Can’t let go? You want more?

Well, here’s ten reasons why you should amputate those fuckers from your life:

1. The scales WILL NOT tell you who you really are! That bitch will never give you the answers you are looking for! No. NOT. EVER.

2. The scales will not tell you how your genetics influence your weight/height/body shape. They will not tell you whether you are a petite dainty babe or a complete glamazon or some beautiful specimen in between. It only gives you a number. JUST A NUMBER! Like this – 67 – or this – 84 – or this – 72.47567296 – …. Numbers! NOT genetic make-up. You’ve got your Dad’s legs, your Mums waistline and apparently your Great-Aunties nose … A scale can’t calculate that whole bundle of gloriousness!

3. The scales will not tell you how funny/smart/creative you are. They can’t tell you that you have a killer backhand in tennis, that your kids/husband/dogs think your laugh is the one of the best sounds to hear ever in this world or that, if there was such a thing, you would have earned a Masters Degree in parenting/kicking arse by now.

4. The scales just stress you the fuck out … Don’t they? Then why do it to yourself? We are smarter than that. We are worth more than that! Life CANNOT be defined by that!

5. The scales cannot tell you your ‘correct’ or your ‘ideal’ weight. Why? Because it’s a stupid fucking machine! A stupid fucking machine that someone invented to make you feel bad about yourself! And they continue to do so and they win! Why let them win?!

6. The scales tell you nothing about your actual state of health. Nothing! It may give you your body fat percentage or your hydration level but can it really? It doesn’t take your blood and then calculate your cholesterol. It doesn’t evaluate the arteries in your heart, your pancreas function or tell you that you have a fatty liver. Other machines do that. Let them make you feel bad – but only to make you do something positive about it!

7. The scales can actually hinder your efforts! How? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the statement, and probably, like me, scoffed at it too, that “muscle weighs more than fat”…. It actually really does! So if you are exercising and eating well and your weight is not shifting (or it is going up) then could it be possible your shifting fat and building muscle? Could it!?! But no you see you’re weight has gone in the wrong direction and you throw in the towel, sit on the couch, crying into a bag of caramel popcorn and chocolate. Don’t worry I’ve done that too a billion times over!

8. The scales can’t and won’t tell you that you’re due for your period, if you ate a cheat meal last night or if you haven’t been to the toilet in a few days. It cannot tell you that you are retaining fluid or if you’ve lost centimetres off your waistline. A tape measure can, your clothes can but not that mean girl machine.

9. Weight is your gravitational pull. Your mass is your matter. But none of it matters if you’re healthy and balanced in life. Your scales will only tell you your physical earthly mass. Not the depth, the intensity or the worthiness of your mass. It cannot tell you that your laughter is contagious, your smile lights up the room like sunshine or that you look totally fucken hot right now even though the scale says a number that isn’t socially acceptable to you.

10. The scales will only confuse you, haunt you and give you reasons to whip out your perfection bat. It’s a mean girl disguised as a helpful health machine and it will take away your power – if you let it.

Who’s the one in charge of your health? 

Who’s the one in control of your body? 

Who is the only one who can change who tells who what to do?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the scales!

Wear it. Own it. Be it….. And by ‘it’ I mean YOU!

One love,
DRK xxx

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The Diet Wagon

I am known for my honesty. Here especially. I tell it like it is and I own my shit. So here’s a dose of reality and shit-owning….

There was a wagon fall…. Last night…

In fact I started to lean precariously over the edge of that said wagon by mid afternoon yesterday. I’m not sure what the trigger was, not sure that it even matters but what I do know is it started with the desire for chips – hot salty chips – my greatest weakness.

And I came close. So close in fact just a mere 25m to the driveway in fulfilling that desire only to back out at the last minute – I was proud. Real proud. I think I even high-fived myself …. Yep, seriously I did!

But then ….

THEN my mouth fell into a pile of Smarties. There’s no other explanation as to how they got there. Worst of all I don’t even like Smarties.

And then it was caught chewing on the leftover sausage roll that was covered in sauce. I’m partial to savoury pastries but I don’t even like sausage rolls.

And then. And then AND THEN……. I found a pile of salt & vinegar chips in my hand which were on a conveyor belt to my mouth. Again, I’m not even a fan of these!

Seriously?! Why?!

Now instead of fulfilling the actual craving I had yesterday I went and consumed 3 times the crap! 3 times the things I don’t love, that I hardly even like and certainly never crave.

Ok, so whats the damage? Well I’ve gained a little and I am actually feeling a little shocked seeing as I have been doing so well. I have also set myself back a few days which means I will not reach my goal of 68kg tomorrow. Which, of course, then snowballs and effects my goals for the following week, and the week after etc, etc.

I tried to talk to my husband about it but that was after I had almost bitten his head off when he cocked his head to the side and asked, while I was eating a minuscule piece of pepperoni, how my diet was going? Really dangerous territory! In fact if I wasn’t so concerned about additional calories his head would have been seriously fucked up!

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Anyway my conversation with him about stuffing up yesterday went a little like this:

“So, I was craving hot chips … And then … And then I didn’t do it…” **insert*unregognisable blubbering** “I just drove on past… And then I slipped over … And then there was these smarties in my mouth ….” **insert**laughing-slash-crying-slash-blubbering-slash-indecipherable** He just sat there bewildered. No idea what the hell I was talking about and he just couldn’t get his head around the smarties comment. He totally didn’t get it. Fair enough I suppose and hey I think it’s almost THAT time of the month  though I’m not going to tell him that!

As a result of my fall yesterday my wagons parked up today. I am neither off it nor on it. I am confused by it and angry with it. Slightly disappointed in it and working on the courage to get back on it. I haven’t given up. I’ve eaten well today – bar that slice of pepperoni – I’ve been for a walk and then I went for a jog (or a faster walk by other definitions) and I plan on having a small protein and salad meal for dinner.

This wasn’t an epic fail but it was still a try hard fail. I’m not looking forward to the ‘numbers’ tomorrow and yes I know I should just not weigh myself – but I know I will. It’s a force greater than me sometimes – the pull to know if I am getting closer to or further from my ‘ideal weight’.

Hope your wagon journeys are safe and on a flat surface – leave the bumpy shit to me! I’ll be back!

One love,

DRK xxx

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