Upon entering my hotel room oasis, my eyes instantly swivelled (well, straight after delighting in the deer) to a set of scales sinisterly skulking beneath a shelf.
Stand on me Poppy. They coaxed, all-come hither. See how much you weigh now.
I was in turmoil. I knew I’d lost a little, but what if I jumped on and the scales didn’t reflect a number I was happy with? My last weigh in at the gym which I did on a whim (and wished I hadn’t) had set me at 52.5kg. Not overly ok with the figure (both number and form) but it was an acceptable weight that kept Deb a bit happier and me only slightly stricken.
Before I knew it I had clambered on, hiking boots and all. That way if a number came up that set me all hysterical, I could justify it with my hiking boots by deeming them a good few kilograms themselves (ridiculous rationale or clever coping mechanism?).
It displayed back 50.1kg.
I was in shock. What the fuck?
I took off my boots and took a deep breath.
I lay down on my bed all dizzy and discordant. I hadn’t been that weight since second year Uni, when I got to my skinniest point. I always held it as the ultimate, optimal Poppy in my mind; the size to get back to, the winning one.
But here I was, back. Even a little below. And it didn’t have the burst of sheer bliss I’d expected.
Don’t get me wrong. Instantly, I was over the moon when I saw the digits. I went and weighed myself on two other sets of scales to ensure it was spot on. But then I stopped and thought: ED was the one smugly celebrating, popping party streamers on my inside and congratulating me like I’d just graduated with honours. What did Poppy think?
I’m not going to deceive you; I was fucking stoked. That weight meant my BMI was at 17.8, meaning I’m officially classed as underweight by a good one point. Isn’t this what I always wanted? Haven’t I been holding out for 49? Isn’t this an achievement?
No. It’s not.
Becoming a yoga teacher was an achievement. Conquering Base Camp (if the bloody plane ever gets airborne) will be an achievement. Even eating a bit of bread bun on the plane yesterday was an achievement (oh yes I did!!!!!).
Getting down to a weight that is considered unhealthy for my height is not an achievement at all. It’s a failure. It’s not winning. It’s losing. It’s losing to ED.
I thought of Deb and her fear of me getting below 50. How would she feel on finding out? Was I so selfish that I’d cause my mum worry and upset, just to preen in pleasure at the neon numbers?
I wished I’d never jumped aboard. I hate weight. I don’t know why I gave into the scales’ seduction. And now there’s a whole new risk of fear; will this now become the set standard for myself? The number that is held as gold, and cannot be surpassed? I’m fucking terrified. I’ve been making UP steps but I may have encountered my first real slippery slope.
My mind is muddled. I’m crazed with confusion. I’m happy but heartbroken. I’m gleeful but glum.
It’s a weighing heavilly on my mind.
(I’m not sharing this to show off and parade around the figures. I’m keeping this as raw and honest as I can. No doubt I’ll have a freak out in an hour’s time about publishing this post. But in order to be real, I can’t sugarcoat and candy floss and gloss. So it’s all out in the open. Wort(man)s and all).