Midnight Orchids

There is no greater act of self-sabotage for a woman than stepping on a scale first thing in the morning—but we do, nonetheless.

Naturally, I have two scales in my bathroom: one regular, one digital. They’re like double agents. I interrogate both to see which one is telling the truth. I put them together and if I don’t get the answer I like, I move them around, different rooms, different surfaces all for the sake of accuracy and assurance. I need to weigh up the risks and rate them. If one is kinder than the other, that’s the one I believe. It’s usually the regular scale that is preferred.

The digital one is unstable and erratic. It’s like a hyper-vigilant FBI forensic detective, that will pick up the weight of an ant, a dog hair and a drop of water and add 5 kgs. It’s also a part-time drag queen. “Noh! gurrrrrrl! I was expecting Plus Size Barbie and not the elephant in the room. Step away from the scale. Whattttttt!!! There’s more of you?”

This is not what I need before coffee.

My hips arrived at High School before I did. They just seemed to grow wider every day, as if they were on hip steroids. I became so self- conscious that even in the heat of summer I refused to be seen without my school blazer. My school shirts popped their buttons, and I couldn’t bend in my skirt.

To distract myself from my ever-burgeoning body, I focused on my studies because that was easier than trying to understand what was happening to my body.

The great tsunami of kilograms seemed to ease off in Grade 11 and things seemed to settle down in their correct positions. University arrived and the kilos somehow disappeared, but the picture I had of myself didn’t. I was the poster girl for body dysmorphia plastered over with unrelenting body shaming comments hurled my way, from friends, strangers and family. You soon learn that the safest place to be is invisible or indoors.

My scales would regulate my moods. I watched the grams creep up throughout the day, only to disappear, then two days later, return accompanied by 5 more friends in tow. Some mornings I would glance in the mirror and growl: “Ohhh-maaaa-gawd! Where are your eyes? Why three chins today? There were only two of you yesterday!”

For years I denied myself the pleasure of eating. I counted calories, dreaded mealtimes, and I weighed myself.

Now that I am in my silver years, there is only one scale, and I care not for its disagreeable digits. It’s become a thing I drop my clothes on instead of the floor as I step into the shower.

And then, I had an epiphany: the art of this war is peace.

In the last months of my mother’s life, as cancer ravaged her body, she said: “Please just eat what you want. Enjoy it. Stop depriving yourself. You are perfect just as you are.”

I have learned to accept and love myself. I am a woman, not a child, and my body tells its story. My stretch marks? Silver linings of a glorious rite of passage. Grey hairs? Wisdom earned. Cellulite? Life’s gentle reminder that nothing is perfectly smooth. Rolls and folds? Secrets I have yet to uncover.

The only scales I want to balance now are the rhythms of my life—and to share them with those who dance through it.

Perhaps… I’m PHAT like that.