The Weighting Game

Let's be real here. I haven't weighed myself since I graduated from high school. Sure, I've been to the doctor's office and stepped on a scale, but I have always found a way to notice a chip in the paint on the wall or found the tile more interesting than the clack of the scale sliding into balance. As the nurse scribbled down the pounds and ounces that make up my physical form, I have consistently managed to block the scraping of pen against paper by readjusting my shirt or checking the time on my phone all the while thinking, "They're judging you."

Going into my last semester of college, I have done a lot of things. I've balanced two majors, two minors, a 3.8 GPA, and a part time job. I have managed to scrape up a wonderful friend group, was the president of a sorority, and attended as many family functions as I could. I've developed a voice as a young woman during a time when having the strength to be heard is as necessary as the ability to breathe.

I thought I had become utterly at home with myself. However, I have only slowly began to realize that I saw myself from the neck up for a very long time. I saw a level-headed, determined, and intelligent mind with solemn eyes, a once-broken nose, and freckled cheeks. I found a strong jaw with a dimpled chin and a forehead with skeptical looking brows, but as my eyes slowly scanned down past my chin and reached my clavicle, I could only find things that had gone horribly awry.

I was too short. My hips were too wide for my frame and my breasts too large for my short torso. My shoulders could rival a linebacker's and my calves were so big I could practically hear my skinny jeans begging for mercy. My feet were too skinny and small compared to my tree stump legs and pointed inward so terribly I felt like every time I took a step I should have been shouting at someone named Jenny to run. Wrong, wrong, wrong. All of it was wrong.

So to combat everything that was wrong, I began to perfect everything I thought was right. I dyed my hair a multitude of colors. I bought eye shadow palettes and contour kits. I swept on highlighter and lip gloss, pierced my nose, and started a skin care regimen. As I began to feel more comfortable on the top, I slowly started peeking below. I found myself reading and watching plus size bloggers. I started experimenting with shapes and styles. I began to wear sleeveless shirts and skirts that hugged my hips. I stopped awkwardly sneaking into the plus size section and boldly ignored the straight size section. I started trying on clothes rather than seeing something I liked and ignoring it because I just knew the garment wouldn't look good on me.

Slowly but surely and quite unintentionally, I had somehow managed to accept all of the issues I had with my outward appearance. I looked past my neck and began to love every freckled, pudgy piece of myself. I felt completely at home and embraced my body for its stout nature.

During this entire process, I have found that loving oneself does not equate to the size of a pant or to the weight balanced on a scale. Embracing your body takes time and effort. It takes a good cry in the shower and a great bra fitting. It takes a day of eating an entire pizza and watching a full season of Vikings which, in turn, takes a day of drinking plenty of water and opting for just an apple instead of apple pie.

This weighting game isn't a battle between you and the nurse or the scale. Rather, the weighting game is a game we play against ourselves. We move a pawn this way and that way, hoping to gain some sort of advantage. Perhaps it's time to flip the board over and start a new game, one free of judgment and societal pressure. A game that's free of the slogan, "They're judging you," and is replaced with "You are worth so much more than your weight."

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Love,

Heldie