Smile Now, Cry Later~ My Relationship with my Bathroom Scale

There aren’t too many things in life that I have a love/hate relationship with. But my relationship with my bathroom scale probably ranks right up there with my love/hate relationship with my thighs. Since I started working out and losing weight I’ve become obsessed with my scale. Oh, it’s not one of those funny, ha-ha obsessions; it’s an unhealthy one.

I drag my $19.98 Wal-Mart digital scale out every morning I wake up. Of course, first I pee to make sure I get rid of any water weight. I carefully place the scale on my tile and slowly get on. If I don’t like the number I go through the whole rigmarole:
1. Take a dump. Nothing like cleaning the pipes, right? Rid myself of any unwanted waste and the chicken pita from the night before
2. Do a few jumping jacks
3. Scoot the scale onto a different floor tile and another and another
4. Log my weight in my handy-dandy journal that I keep in my vanity

Does it work?

Hell no! I usually end up weighing more than I did before I took a crap and did the jumping jacks!

It’s so frustrating. Maybe it was better when I didn’t care about my weight. I used to go to my annual gynecologist appointment and dread the whole weigh-in. I’d sit in the lobby with all the other women and think about that stupid medical scale. When the nurse would finally call my name after 2 ½ hours, she’d go through her whole spiel:

“Hi, Sandra. How are you today? If you wouldn’t mind hopping on this scale so that I can get your weight and then I’ll get your blood pressure…”

I place my purse on the chair next to the scale and proceed to take off my heels, my necklace, bracelets, earrings, watch, wipe off any excess blush, brush out any added hairspray and remove my nail polish that might interfere with my true weigh-in. If I could get butt-naked in the hallway, I would. I stand on the scale and tell the nurse:

“Umm, I am going to turn away while you take my weight. I do NOT want to hear you sigh. I do NOT want to hear the scraping of that big ass square weight slide across the metal that alerts me that you need to add more lbs to the scale. I do NOT want to hear your pen write the 3 digit numbers on my file. I do NOT want to know what my weight is. Just smile and return the metal square thing on the scale back to it’s original position when you’re done. And by the way, when was the last time the Department of Executive Administration Weights and Measures came by to conduct an inspection on this particular scale??”

A bit drastic? Not to me.

I sit down and she takes my blood pressure. She tells me that my blood pressure is a little high. NO KIDDING? After placing my fat ass on the scale, my blood pressure probably won’t go back to normal for at least a few hours.

So, as you can see…it’s been a turbulent relationship-me & my scale. I try and keep the healthy mind-set of ‘As long as I look and feel good, who cares what the numbers are’. Yet, there are those mornings that I want to take the scale and fling the damn thing out the window…

but then…

I’d have one less thing to complain about.

An Open Letter to My Vagina...

As most of you know by now, I'm pretty open when it comes to my body parts and all the primping and upkeep that I speak so freely about. But when I came across an article about 'Vaginal Trainers' in this month's Cosmopolitan, I thought it was a joke. Yes, there really are V.T.'s out there that will help get your vagina in tip top shape! It's not enough that we're forced to do Kegel's to keep those muscles in shape, but now we have weight sets? This article moved me to write an open letter. Yes, an open letter to my vagina....

Dear Vagina,

I hope you know how lucky you are that you have an owner that takes such good care of you. When I was young lass, I would jokingly refer to you as the 'front butt' or 'pee-pee' or if I wanted to go back to my ethnic roots, 'chocha' or 'pek-pek'. You weren't of much use to me back then, you were what you were.

Then puberty hit...

I didn't want you to grow hair. I think it was partly because I knew that it meant I was leaving my Barbies and cartoons behind and now entering the world of bras, boys and pads (ugh).

I resisted.. but you insisted. And you started to sprout hair every which way you could. The once lovely, pristine patch of skin was now overtaken by an ugly, wirey sparse rug of hair. I was scared to shave you because of all the horror stories about hair coming back 3x thicker. But as time passed, so did my wrath against womanhood.

I knew the time had come to embrace you; because with you came boobies....yay!

I remember when you decided it was time for me to have my first period. I was turning 13 and you couldn't wait until I was at home or maybe in the shower. No..you waited until I was walking on the balance beam playing around behind the school with my friend, Cheryl Delz. She noticed the rust colored spot on my jeans and informed me of my impending doom.

"WHAT?! No! I can't start. I'm athletic, I'm skinny, I'm too young to start my period!! I probably held my pee in for too long!"

I was in denial.

But you remained adamant.

You insisted I move into the next stage in my life.

I know you hated being suffocated by the pillow-size pads that my mother insisted on buying me. And God forbid if I asked her about tampons. Tampons were for 'non-virgins' and I'd "rupture my hymen" if I tried sticking a tampon in you. Girls were dying all over the world from Toxic Shock Syndrome! (Mom had a way of being a little over dramatic). I hated going to the store to get the big, orange box of Freedom pads. There was no way to be discreet when you were at the grocery store. The big ass box took up half the shopping cart and I always prayed that I wouldn't run into any cute boys from school when we lugged around this box of pads with a graphic on the front of a woman in a flowing dress running on a beach; that cheesy picture will forever be imprinted in my brain.

The teen years came and gone. And as the years passed I became more comfortable with you. Sure, I know there were times when I was a teen when you felt you were ready to take that big step and leave the 'V-Squad' (Virgin Squad), but I held onto my morals and didn't let that happen too early. It wasn't easy. Oh boy..it wasn't easy...but I knew you were too precious to give away to just anyone. And when that time finally did come, I made sure the it was right and that you, along with my heart, would walk away unscathed. I know it wasn't all that it was made out to be...it was my first time..and yeah, I agree..it pretty much sucked.

I was so proud of you when the time to have babies came around. You refused to let me go to the operating room and have my gut cut open. You insisted that you were going to help me push these 10lb babies out naturally. I worried that you'd be stretched out forever...that you'd never go back to normal...that sex would be like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. But you again, you didn't dissapoint me. You regained your strength (and some muscle, I might add).

When I decided that I wanted to change you around a bit and chose to introduce you to Brazilian bikini waxing, I know you were nervous. But I could tell you were excited and impressed by the end results. You looked like a new 'you'. You had the option of the "Playboy"- clean cut and bald or the "Landing Strip" (aka as The Hitler)...and you looked glamourous either way. You could pull both looks off and I was rather impressed. You were red-carpet worthy.

As I've gotten older, I've also tried to keep you in shape. No,I haven't resorted to the vaginal weight set. But I do the Kegels when I'm at a redlight. I hope you've noticed how strong and more limber you've become. I think I see some definition forming!

The whole concept behind this letter to you, was one of gratitude. I also want you to know that I will always have your back. I will never let you down. I will never let you look like Chewbacca from Star Wars or subject you to any piercings. I will never, ever suffocate you with XXL pads again (Tampax Pearl tampons are the best, don't you think?) or ever wear cameltoe jeans to irritate you.

I hope you appreciate all the effort that I put into you to make you look snazzy and feel your best.

We only get one vagina in life...and I'm glad you're mine.

Self Nurturing~ The Art of Being Good to ME...

I recently attended a women's empowerment seminar and learned a lot about "Self Nurturing".

As a mother, this word was foreign to me. I really couldn't comprehend the actual nurturing of myself. I mean, really... my family came first and if there was a miniscule of time left, it didn't go to me. It went to other areas of life that needed tending to (i.e. baked goods for school, Girl Scout meetings, science projects). But for the last 8 months, I've been trying to carve out that "me" time...

Alice Domar, Ph.D. defined self-nurture as "caring for yourself and putting yourself amongst your own list of priorities." Right away, we automatically think about how selfish a behavior that would be. But...why is it selfish to want to be happy and to take care of yourself and your needs? Stress, right now, is the number one problem cited by American women, mostly because balancing work and family is so hard. And when we juggle them, we leave ourselves last which takes a huge toll on our mental and physical health.

Self Nuture. That's what I've started doing 8 months ago. I've dedicated time to myself to get back in shape, reconnect with close friends and just take that 'breather' that I need. I'm not a party animal on the weekends by any stretch of the imagination, but I've been carving out time, every couple of months to fly out to my hometown, San Diego to see my family and friends...solo. Even for just a couple of days, I truly appreciate that alone time. I think it's made me a better person with a more appreciative, more grateful view on life.

It's hard amidst all the chaos of our daily family routine to find restorative moments that can be squeezed into the schedule. But, I'm much more conscious about my life and find myself deep in thought about what will help me get through this time better, what my needs are, and what I can do for myself the next day. Even something short and very simple, like my drive home from work listening to my iPod, can help me regroup.

I get very emotional when I think about this "perfect person" that I've been struggling to be all my life: the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect friend. And it's still a struggle to give myself some compassion instead of pretending to be strong all the time. I stop myself during these moments and I think about what's worked in the past to make me feel better~ calling a friend, watching a funny movie... I think about what recharges me and brings out my strength. And when I think about it..it is my San Diego getaways that I do by myself. For a few days, I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. I don't have to bathe anyone, cook, clean or break up fights. I don't have to clean up dog poo or do laundry. For those few days, I can be irresponsible (to an extent). But most of all, I feel like I'm giving myself the gift of time, and I really enjoy it...and I'm blessed to have it.

The catch? The catch is that to find that time, and then take it, we need to believe we deserve it -- and the bottom line, it seems to me, is that we must. I was always the one saying, "I'll take some time after they get out of school.." or "When things slow down at work, I'll do that...." Postponing self-care until "life calms down" can mean a very long wait.

And life is too short.

I truly believe the words of Dr. Alice Domar, "From my experience, you are not the best mother, daughter, wife, sister or friend if you have depleted yourself. When you feel exhausted, resentment starts to build up, and your loved ones can sense it. . Taking "you" time is crucial and should be guilt free.."

In the end, it's not selfish to do what allows us to continue giving to others.

It's not selfish to treat ourselves with the same thoughtfulness we show those we love.

When I'm doing for myself, every cell of my being is fully alive...and nothing could make me give it up.

I owe to my family....

but most of all, to myself.