Bon Bons to Yoga Pants

Chapter 5- The Scale Room

The Scale Room was an overstuffed bathroom with pictures of kids dressed up like flowers. A basket of toys hung over the side of the bathtub, a bowl of stale potpourri sat on the back of the toilet, and entirely too much baby blue wallpaper filled the walls. The theme for Jaws played in the back of my mind when I stepped inside. There was barely enough room for me and Bitsy both, which made me feel even more awkward. What was I supposed to do with my hands? I opted for tucking them in the pouch of my sweatshirt.

Perfect. Cover up that stomach.

"Just step right on the scale," Bitsy said, motioning with a tilt of her head to the square of doom on the floor. She scribbled something on an old clipboard, and I hesitated.

"Can I take off my shoes?"

"Sure."

On and on she wrote, increasing my paranoia with every second. Was she recording state secrets? Was my weight going to be one of them? I shucked off my tennies and wished I'd worn something besides the heavy sweatshirt. I could deduct ten pounds just taking that off, no doubt. I stared at the scale, mentally preparing for the inevitable wave of self-loathing that accompanied every weight measurement. What a particularly heartless foe the scale could be.

As if she smelled weakness, Bitsy glanced up at me, one eyebrow arched so high it almost touched her brown hair.

"Well?"

"I need to prepare myself." I let out a long breath. "Do I have to see the number?"

"You don't have to do anything, but I highly recommend that you face your starting point. It can be very motivational when you don't want to work out, or when the donut calls. And trust me; they will call."

Donuts and I had such a good relationship these days that they didn't even call anymore; they walked right in the open door of my mouth. Just thinking about pastries made my mouth water. Apple fritters were my favorite. They had that sweet glaze on top that had just a hint of—

"Stop daydreaming about donuts," she snapped. "You can't put this off forever, Lex."

Lex? I wanted to say, annoyed. Since when did we start chatting on a nickname basis? And how did she know what I was thinking about?

"Right," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "I can do this."

My heart skipped a beat as I stepped on her uber-expensive, from-the-future scale that analyzed everything except DNA coding. I stared at the wall, my heart in my throat.

"Okay," Bitsy said, fingers flying across her phone screen again. "259."

"What?" I screeched, my eyes bugging out of my face. "When did I gain 10 pounds?"

"When did you last weigh?"

"I don't know," I mumbled, stepping off the scale. "Few months ago."

"You were at 249?"

"Ish," I hedged, met her expectant stare, and capitulated with a sigh. "245."

Bitsy said nothing about my purposefully terrible math skills. Having only ten extra pounds sounded so much better than fourteen, but it didn't matter. I always rounded down.

"Can I take off a few pounds for my clothes?" I asked hopefully. "Oh, and it's the end of the day! This is all water weight and stuff, right?"

Bitsy shook her head. "No. Your clothes don't weigh a couple of pounds, Lex. Sorry."

The shame hurt. 259.

My highest ever.

"You're inactive, right?" she asked, unaware that what little self-esteem I had writhed in agony on the floor.

"Inactive?"

"Do you work out?"

I snorted. Jab that fat girl knife in a little deeper, Bits.

"I'll take that as a no . . ." she drawled, her eyes back on the clipboard. I sat on the toilet and tried to imagine myself in a happy place. Chipotle. Eating a burrito. With avocado and the corn salsa that had just enough spice but not too—

"Based on my calculations," Bitsy said, continuing in true drillmaster style, "in order to lose roughly a pound of weight a week, you may consume no more 1,800 calories per day. I'd probably consume at least 1,500 while starting. There are several apps you can use on your phone to track every single bite of food you take. Everything. Or you can write it down the old fashioned way, I don't care either way. Then, when you report back next week, I want you to tell me how many calories you burned each day, and how many you consumed."

The burrito of my dreams popped.

"1,800 calories?"

My sister had given me a similar number, but I hadn't actually looked at the dieting outline she'd drawn up on my behalf. All I saw was Lexie's Diet Plan written across the pages and tuned it out with a visit to my best friend, Little Debbie.

"It's more than some of us get," Bitsy said with forced cheer. "I'll be living on 1,300 calories."

"Is that humanly possible?" I asked, stumbling back into my shoes, fairly confident I could nom 1,300 calories at breakfast.

"Yes. I've done it plenty of times."

Plenty of times? What did that even mean? Was I doomed to a lifestyle of continual dieting and perpetual self-hatred on the scale? She read my mind again.

"Don't be discouraged, Lexie. It's good to face down your demons and hit rock bottom. Then you have nowhere else to go but up."

No, sister, I wanted to say. I've seen rock bottom when Dad died, and it's littered with sugary treats.

"Right," I retorted. "Don't be discouraged."

Was she kidding? Not only was I now on a diet that didn't involve Fruit Loops, but I had fifteen more pounds to lose than I thought! Visions of dinner started to dance through my head like sugarplums in the old Christmas poem. I'd find comfort in French bread and lasagna.

"Don't do it," Bitsy said, reaching for the door handle, her sharp eye on me. I reared back.

"What?"

"I know that look. You want to go home and eat to make yourself feel better. That's the last thing you should do."

I cleared my throat. Bitsy was getting downright freaky. "Of course not. I was going to . . . go for a walk, or something."

Ha! I haven't been on a walk since I was fifteen.

She studied my face, her lips pinched and eyes narrowed. Her kids were probably perfect angels; no human soul would dare misbehave with a look like that coming at them.

"You can do this, Lexie," she said, pulling the door open. "But it's going to be hell. Just embrace it and push through the suck."

I followed on her heels out of the close, overly pastel blue bathroom with relief.

It's going to be hell. Just embrace it.

The only thing I wanted in my embrace was a jelly donut.

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