Let’s Shoot the Shit

I’ve got something to tell you about. And it’s important.

I blew up my bathroom scale today.

And it was incredibly satisfying.

Actually, there weren’t any explosives involved (we were out of dynamite). Instead, I shot at that life sucking bitch fifteen times with a semi-automatic .22 pistol, followed by nine mostly successful shots from the 20 gauge pump shotgun. I didn’t use our single shot .410 Snake Charmer: after a couple of test shots, I decided it wasn’t satisfying enough. I liked the fast action of 10 quick shots with the .22 and even MORE so the foreboding pump-action sound and SMELL from the shot gun. So that stinking scale got beyond dead: she got shamed, maimed, murdered and then brutally desecrated.

All of this gun information comes directly from my husband. I am not nearly as cool as I sound in the above paragraph or all that knowledgeable when it comes to guns. He was the event planner, tour guide, very patient gun safety instructor and partner in crime on this New Year’s Eve adventure…

…which was, by the way almost permanently interrupted by a very large, (hundred pounds or so) energetic dog/puppy of Great Pyrenees/Saint Bernard descent, who appeared to be lost in the wooded area where we had decided to complete “Operation Heather has had enough of the Scale”. He (the dog, not Grant) wouldn’t hold still long enough for me to read the phone number on his collar, so I took it off and we called the number…”Uhhmm…yes sir…we DID INDEED have Max in our possession at one point and he was doing great when we last saw him but then he sort of accidentally slipped out of his collar…and well…ran…very fast…away from us…hmmm…sorry…now he’s completely MIA and without ID.”

But…we followed through with our plans…despite the stray dog bad chi…and as you can see…shot the shit out of the scale.

Now…guns, the right to bear arms, all that red neck conservative junk (that I fully support, especially now that I know how to load and shoot three rounds from that very cool 20 gauge shot gun…hmmm…I MAY actually be as cool as I think I am) has NOTHING to do with this blog post so don’t any of you go getting your hackles up…in any direction.

This is more about disbanding something that has been holding me hostage for a very long time: the f’ing scale.

I can remember very clearly the day I became ashamed of how much I weighed. I was a tall, skinny, sweaty, care-free twelve-year-old coming in from a nice time hanging out in the chestnut tree when my dad made a comment that I KNOW was not intended to hurt me. But his simple words have continued to echo in my brain, ricocheting off of any logical, realistic body perception, for thirty four years: “You’re getting a little chubby.” I shrugged and laughed it off but ran immediately upstairs to the bathroom scale where my world changed. My ninety-five pounds suddenly felt exposed and unacceptable now that it was defined as chubby.

Hold on though…this blog post ALSO isn’t a pity party where I blame one, less than considerate, sentence from a well-meaning dad…

…though parents: please don’t say that, ever, to your kids, or to anyone for that matter, it’s just plain rude…

…on thirty four years of low self-esteem. My self-esteem is pretty solid…most days…

…but I decided that it could be perhaps nurtured some in 2014, and after getting on that awful contraption this morning (and seeing that I was STILL ten pounds heavier than I have been used to during the last five years) I decided that I was no longer going to let IT decide for me whether I was feeling good or bad about myself.

First of all, there are plenty of ways to determine when it might be time to drop a pound or two. Take for instance the other evening when I was cooking something on the stove (I know, weird) and reached up above the stove to retrieve something from the top cupboard and SMELLED sizzling flesh before I felt the terrible pain on the tender belly fat hanging over my jeans. It was shocking. My husband was witness to my laugh-tears of agony. Clearly I need to buy different jeans. Or never cook again. Or…wear cool body armor if I do cook. Hmmm…that’s a serious digression but I think I might have just come up with a way to make cooking adventuresome…complete with some kind of nifty metal hat and a sword…NO…a machete…for the salads I will make in 2014…

Second, who the heck CARES about 10 pounds!  I am forty-six years old and shit in my body is changing again, just like it did when I was twelve and working into curves; seventeen and working out of curves with obsessive running; nineteen and fighting a little “college sad” with cheap pasta; 27, 29, 32, 34, 36 and 38 (jeez) after every baby where I was kind of just…well I don’t really remember…but there are pictures…and the first five of forty…which were DAMN cool, filled with energy, more obsessive running and extreme, over the top goals. I am now in what I like to think of as the better half of forty and my happy word is not going to be skinny but instead B-A-L-A-N-C-E…but not in a measuring kind of weigh (note my punny)…I am never again going to use a scale to measure my body’s worth…instead I am going to measure myself each moment by the content of joy it contains. Naturally there will be the usual H Lists…the new year is the joyful mecca land for list makers like me…but this year they won’t be about changing…they will be about enjoying!

My friends: let’s be our best, right here and now, AS IS, which is perfect and awesome when you squint and grin. Let’s give up weighing, measuring, or comparing ourselves to anyone else, not even to our “selves from yesterday”. Disarm whatever is holding you hostage from being who YOU are, right NOW. Shoot that shit!

Much love to you all in a balanced 2014!

P.S. A follow up on the dog Max…we went to his home…collar in our hand…heads low with sad…and there he was on the front porch, leaping with joy, saying (in dog talk) “My people who are not my people! I am so glad to see you again!” He jumped up on me, almost knocking my petite self down while Grant managed to get his collar back on. There was no one home except Max, but he knew where he belonged and that was a joyful moment…that I am measuring!