The Levis were tighter than usual. After snacking my way through the holidays, I doubted my jeans had shrunk in the wash. So, while the doctor was treating Hubby for a pulled muscle, I stepped onto the scale. The digital read-out shaped itself into a number. 146.

“Holy shit!”

The doctor laughed. “That’s what everybody says in January.”

As we walked to the parking lot, I turned to Ben. “We will not be eating again until March.”
“Yes, Dear.”
“I’m going to search your car for contraband snacks.”
“Yes, Dear.”
“We’re heading to the Y as soon as we get home.”
“Yes, Dear.”

Panic fizzled before we pulled into our garage. In the past, panic had led to the flip side of beauty-angst: screw it, I’m going to eat what I want, who cares, anyway. This time something weird happened. Calm.

It was clear that my established treadmill/yoga routine would continue. Clear: weight had not caused my suffering, because those pounds remained exactly the same before and after the scale’s report. Clear: the cause of suffering was a number. A thought. One of a legion of thoughts that will rise and fall for as long as I live. Just like my weight.