I have one of those Biggest Loser-type scales. No, not the oversized, declare your weight to the world type; just the kind that likes to dance around a number before finally settling on something. And while that's all good and suspenseful on television, naked in my own bathroom is neither the time nor place for suspense.
Now, I'm not the type of girl to really subscribe to numbers. We are all-too-obsessed with them in our culture. Are you a size 10 or a 14? Maybe a 2? It's just a number. So why are we so concerned with what one scale says? And they're all different. Let's not fool ourselves - the scale at the doctor's office says something different than the one at home, which is different than the one at the hotel or the friend's house you're visiting, which is very different than the mandatory truck scale on the interstate. (I don't recommend this one; the attendant usually frowns.) And a size 6 at one store is another brand's size 10. So who is to know what a number says?
As someone who has, in her life, been both scarily underweight and clinically 'obese,' I can tell you this: What really matters is how you're rockin' it in those jeans, sister. What really matters is how you feel when you look in the mirror. What really matters is everything immeasurable - your confidence, your love, your beauty. These can't be quantified in numbers.
Yet there's something about the numbers, which is why I come back to this: when I'm standing on my Biggest Loser-wannabe scale and it's searching for a number, is it wrong that I jump off when it decides to start climbing by ones? I mean, there's no telling how much higher it will go. If we're just adding on pounds by the second, I'd rather not see where that train stops. I'll just take the ballpark average, subtract a few for good measure, and slap it on my driver's license.
Then rock it in these bootcut jeans with curves in all the right places and the size tag ripped out. Hey, it's just a number.