One Saturday morning, a month or so back, I was out on my speed-walk when I ran into a sign. ‘Check your BMI’ it read and had an arrow pointing in the direction of a residence-turned-hospital. My BMI was the least of my interests. I was a healthy young woman, with a tiny tummy bump. Apart from the tummy, my body was perfect for me. I was curious about my height though: was I a 5”4 or a 5”6? I’ve never really known and tape rules don’t measure it right. So I completed my 45 minute lap and returned, bouncing in with my sneakers and confidence.
70. Seventy fucking kilograms.
That was what the scale said. Frankly, I thought the nurse was lying. Wanted to prey on my insecurities and get a regular visitor. Then, I got home and that scale read 70 too. Could they be in cahoots? With these days of technology and apps, was it so impossible to imagine the online persona of both scales interacting on a social networking site… scalebook? Poundchat? Instaweight?
Scale at home: did anyone check some jogger’s weight in the past hour? This girl, that hasn’t touched me in a year, just plopped herself on me with the anger of a mad turkey.
Scale in hospital: Oh yeah… me. I told her that her her weight was 70kg… you should have seen the look on her face dude, hilarious!!
And bang-bang-boom, the scale at home spits out 70kg.
We’ve all seen the movies about the rise of machines; this situation cannot be so far-fetched. Yes, I have noticed my jeans and skirts getting snug, but who is to say the drier isn’t in on the mind-fuckery too and using excess heat to make them smaller. What if the machines have decided on driving us quietly insane instead of rising against us? They know how women and weight gain are never in agreement. They can be using that against us!
I know you guys are sniggering and murmuring that I should better go do some push-ups and cut out carbs. But hear me out, Because today… today, they tell you you’re 10 kg over your normal weight… tomorrow they make you elect a clown for a president