4 years ago today, I stepped on the scale in gym class, as a spunky and carefree 11 year old. I was a chubby, innocent, lighthearted spirit, who was just a little too loud and a little too outspoken. I sold girl scout cookies each year and worked my butt off to add badges to my little brownie vest. I went to gymnastics each week and overflowed with happiness and pride when I mastered a new skill. I lugged my baritone (similar to a tuba) through the halls of my elementary school and onto the big yellow school bus- back and forth, everyday. I loved when people made comments about how strong my arms must be, how many pushups I must be able to do from carrying that heavy load here and there. I can't recollect anyone ever commenting that I was too small for that huge instrument. Maybe I chose to learn the biggest instrument because I thought it would suit me best. Maybe it suited me best because I pictured myself as a deep-voiced, masculine female whose picture would be plastered on the Wall of Fame many years from now. Maybe way back in fourth grade when I was presented with the pamphlet displaying 20 instruments to choose from, and I chose the baritone, maybe then I was already developing a distorted sense of self at age 9. Only one other girl played the baritone with me. Her name was Grace. Grace has an odd relationship with food.
It was no big deal, I mean, they weigh everyone at the beginning of every year. The scale just measures your relationship with gravity, for crying out loud. It's painless and effortless to be weighed. You step up onto a small, square metal platform, and watch as the nurse slides that little thing back and forth until it appears to be balanced. Then they say "Okay, thank you. You can step off and put your shoes back on," and you quickly shove your feet back into your sneakers and run over to where your friends are chatting and giggling. That's how I used to look at it, and desperately wish I still did.
This specific year, after a summer of hanging out by the local pool, traveling to Virginia and then exploring the museums and historic landmarks of Washington D.C., I had not thought about my weight for even a second. Until the first week back to school that year, I never really considered going on a 'diet'. Most 11 year olds haven't, of course, and there's reason to be concerned if they have. As I stood in line to be weighed that afternoon in gym class, I wasn't really expecting the scale to read a number much higher than 100. When it was my turn, I hopped on with no hesitation like I'd done every year, not knowing it was the last time I'd ever step foot on a scale again without inevitable tears and anxiety.
When I stared in shock at a three digit number that was substantially higher than 100, my life changed at that very moment. I don't mean this figuritively when I say that nothing I did would ever be the same again from that day on. How could I have let myself get this fat, I wondered. I performed my first real 'body check' that day when I returned home from school, and it was the first time I thought to myself "Man, I really got to do something about this. Enough is enough." That month I lost nearly 10 pounds.
Since that moment, I've never enjoyed a donut. I've never willingly took even a sip of a non-diet soft drink. I've never built an icecream sundae with my friends, I've never bit into a giant stack of pancakes on a Sunday morning, I've never ordered anything but a salad when going out to eat. I've never spread butter on my toast, and I've never sunk my teeth into a sandwich with white bread. I've never enjoyed an ice-cream from the ice-cream truck, I've never sat in front of the TV with a torn-open pack of Oreo's or chocolate chip cookies, and I've never been to a birthday party where I haven't passed up the crème filled vanilla cake with two pounds of buttercream frosting and a bucket of rainbow sprinkles spilled over the top. Since that moment, I haven't lived. My childhood flashed before my eyes at that moment. My heart sunk into my stomach and my mind began spinning in inexhaustible circles at that moment.
This afternoon, 4 years later, I nervously walked into my high school gym class. I made sure that I was the last one in line when they called us all up to record heights and weights so that nobody would be around to peak at or overhear the number. There were only four girls in line, me being one of them. The other three were Juniors, and I anxiously awaited my turn behind them and I listened in on their conversation about classwork and teachers. How could they be moments away from stepping on a scale, and be thinking about something completely unrelated? How could they not give a care in the world about the number that was about to define their existence?
Oh, that's right.
They don't have eating disorders. That number was going to mean next to nothing to them, except maybe a friendly reminder that they need to eat a few less potato chips and maybe get the low-fat ranch on their starter salad next time they eat out.
How can something that means the world to me be so miniscule to other girls my age? What did I do wrong? Why am I so different from them?
The girls in front of me were heading on their way back to the bleachers, and I was motioned by the nurse to come forward. My mind flashed back to 4 years ago as I removed my Vans and pushed them up against the wall.
"Last name?" She seemed nice.
"Spiegle." I managed to get the word out before my mouth got dry and zippered itself shut. Running her finger down the chart of names she said "Ah, here you are. Okay, Leanne. You can step on now."
And that is the end of the story. I didn't look. I made it clear to her that I didn't want to know what it was, because I don't let numbers measure my worth or my level of success. I'm perfect the way that God made me.
Give me a moment while I pray that I remember that tomorrow morning when I'm at my quarterly weigh-in and they don't let me leave without mentioning the evil number 48274938 times. ;) It'll be the first time in four months that I become aware of my weight, and yes, I'm absolutely terrified, but I'm ready. Healthy, normal people can know what they weigh without letting it ruin their life. Someday, I want to be healthy and normal. My steps may be small, but they're leading me forward.
