It’s Monday morning and the alarm goes off.  My eyes squeeze shut as I realize it’s time for the weekly weigh-in. So tempting to sink back into oblivion. Pretend it’s still Sunday and I can lay under the duvet a little longer. I turn my head over to the cool side of the pillow. I try to force back into my last pleasant dream but the alarm won’t shut up.  It’s time to wake up and the day can’t be avoided. 

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My eyelids flutter and I wake up but stay laying on my back.  My fingers press in to define my stomach muscles. I pinch the fat around the sides.  Am I pinching more or less than last week? Can’t tell. 

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I pull the covers away and lift my thighs to the half-light. Is there more or less definition than last week? Can’t tell. 

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I push myself to a sitting position at the edge of the bed stretching my muscles. Trying to see if I am properly sore from yesterday’s workout or if I should have gone harder.  I’m taking my time and I know it. I'm delaying the time when I’ll have to step on the scale. 

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I stumble into the bathroom and pee first (just in case it makes a difference).  I stare at the white bathroom scale laying in the corner. Will you be friend or will you be foe? I hesitate because I know it determines not only my mood but also my week. I lose weight, I get to keep my workout and food the same. But if I don’t lose weight … ughhh. I am in for more cardio and more restricted foods. 

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I pass by the scale without a look and wash my face. Wretched scale. I gargle with mouthwash and brush my teeth while giving it a sideways glance. Detestable scale. I put on eyeliner. I brush on mascara. Accursed scale. That damn white scale with the non-slip surface. (Why non-slip? Do people actually slip while getting on a scale? Or do they just faint away when they look at the number?) 

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No use waiting. It’s got to be done. So I step gingerly on the scale, thinking of butterflies, balloons, anything light and airy. I plant my feet flat, say a prayer and gaze down. The digital bar dances around the display screen and I’m still holding my breath. (Maybe I should stop holding my breath? Does holding my breath increase or decrease my weight? Every ounce counts.)

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Finally, the bar stops its dance and settles in. An error message? Really? 

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Off the scale again. And back on again. In the seconds before the final revelation, I visualize my future. The joy of the “Yes!” When the number is good. The deflation of my very soul when the number is bad. 

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The digital bar does its interminable dance all over again.

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Good week?  Bad week?

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Come on. Don’t tease me.

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Will you be friend or will you be foe?