So, today I broke my scales.

I did. Not with my weight but with my foot. I stomped on them in frustration after they gave me three different weights with a 5kg fluctuation. 5kg is a lot and I am not in the mood to have my head messed with BY SOME STUPID SCALES. So I broke them properly. That’ll teach them.

For many years I didn’t have scales. Somehow some came into our house – and they were those tricky ones that measure your BMI etc. Useless when they toy with your emotions by 5kgs. I don’t think I’ll replace them.

Scales are evil things, really. A few weeks ago, I was feeling OK about myself. Positive about my new curves. I decided I would treat my post-baby body like a new haircut. Wear my curves for a while like a kind of costume. I thought I’d lost some weight since giving birth although it was hard to be certain because I was so scarred from the last time I tried on my jeans, I’d returned to the security of elasticised waistbands.

Then I went to the doctor for a check-up which included being weighed. The number on the scales (which I sadly couldn’t break because they weren’t mine), was a good 5kg more than the number I had in my head. And suddenly, I felt crap. Fat. Ugly.

Why does a number hold such power over us? It’s the same with clothing sizes. Having said that, I bought my first pair of pants since having a baby. They were two sizes larger than usual but I didn’t care. I was so excited to be able to do them up, I felt like I’d won pants lotto.

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