A year without scales...

You have been criticizing yourself for years, and it hasn't worked. Try approving of yourself and see what happens.
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You have been criticizing yourself for years,

and it hasn't worked.

Try approving of yourself and see what happens. 

                                                                                                 -Louise L. Hay

 

 

It happened just over a month ago. My youngest daughter was sick and I was fairly certain that she had Strep. So I bundled her up and drove out to an after hours clinic. When her name was called, we stepped back behind the doors and were quickly whisked away for vital signs and weight. As she stood there looking at the "torture device" she asked me in the softest little voice, "Mom, should I take my shoes off".

 

Luckily, this is a practice that I gave up years ago. So I quickly retorted, "No honey, it doesn't change anything". But the sting was still there.

 

My hope is that she was just asking if there was a proper way to step on the scale. But my fear has gotten the better of me and I have been examining and reexamining that scene to sniff out anything that I may have missed. My fear, and the fear of so many Mom's out there, is that my perfect little lovie believes that her value is somehow tied to the number that appears on the scale and by removing her shoes she will get a better number.

 

I grew up in the age of eating disorders. My parents and my friends parents were trying to balance the media "ideal" with the plethora of fast food options that were now available all the while helping us create a healthy body image, something that prior to this time apparently just happened. We were surrounded by models that claimed the way to happiness was a size 2 and ads that claimed that happiness came from a red box with a smile on the front of it. Most of us emerged slightly shell shocked on the other side of adolescence.

 

I fell into the majority that, at least for a time, tried to purge. (Just writing that word, I'm surprised at how neat and tidy it seems compared to the harsh reality.) Luckily for me, I was blessed with an iron clad stomach and was never successful, so I never became part of the group. Something I desperately wanted, but of course looking back I am grateful for that blessing in disguise. 

 

A lot of attention has been placed on the media lately as people begin to realize that so much of what we have thought to be real (because pictures don't lie) is in fact fake. Those little rolls that appear with natural movement are photo shopped or airbrushed out. Wrinkles are removed, natural skin tones are softened to the point of a cartoonesque quality.

 

I am so glad that I am raising my girls now instead of back when my parents were. I have tried to use words that build them up and make them feel powerful instead of words that make them examine themselves in a harsh light. And now I have proof of what is real and what isn't. When we flip through a magazine we point out where things look fake or phony and I hope it is helping, but I think there is more that I need to do.

 

My girls, and my boys, need to see me loving all of me. To be honest, the only time I have felt completely comfortable in my own skin (except, of course, for those years when I didn't realize that I shouldn't, we will say from birth to 5) was when I was pregnant. I loved the sweet roundness that moved under my skin. My hips and thighs dissolved under a blanket of expectations and no longer held my focus. It was bliss.

 

It has been a long time coming, but I am finally there again. I love all of me! My yoga practice has probably done the most to help me appreciate everything about me. I love the way my toes splay and shift as I stand in tree pose. I love the strength of my thighs as I slide into side angle pose. I even love the way my skin touches as I arch back into warrior one, because that is reality, because I'm not airbrushed.

 

I think it is time though, to take one more GIANT step forward and step off the scale for a bit. Even though I love me, I have been giving too much power to the little black box that merely announces the relationship between the gravitational pull of the earth and my mass. It has the power to take a good day and shade it with self doubt and belittlement.

 

So, as the only New Years resolution you will hear from me for the year (there are others, but I'm choosing to keep them to myself), I resolve to put the scale away for a full year and see if approving of myself day in and day out does more for me than the constant echo of a number has for all of these years.   

Because I am not that number on the scale. I am so much more and so much less.