Feminism, Scales, and Me: A Love Story

I’m glad to join the author in being human. I love me and I love my body. I also acknowledge that I have my bad days, too, but I still love my body.

Disrupting Dinner Parties

“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.

Click through for image source If I hold my breath, will I be lighter? Hang on, I forgot to take of my glasses.

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