The number on the scale doesn’t really matter; it’s how healthy and fit a person is that really matters.

Like hell it doesn’t matter…

I just got home and brought my new scale inside. I got that really snazzy one that tells you how much you weigh, what your body fat percentage is, and your hydration level.

People in glass houses should not throw balls and fat people should not taunt themselves with scales (at least not when they hadn’t planned on weighing themselves for another 13 days). I stared at the stupid thing for all of ten seconds before I tore open the packaging, shoved in the batteries, and ran to my bathroom to weight myself. I got on the scale knowing that the number would be one that I wouldn’t like much. This particular twit of a scale works it’s way up to the number. It’s like the scale on The Biggest Loser (douche bag taunter of a scale). Well, when I first looked down I was very pleasantly surprised, and then it immediately went up roughly 15 pounds.

Bastard.

The number was just .2 above what I had absolutely dreaded seeing. Eff this, I thought, jumped off, took off my pants, jumped back on, and smiled. Those fat pants could stand to lose a bit of weight on their own. They weigh about two pounds. Fatty fat pants.

I realize that the number on the scale wasn’t really relevant anyhow. It is 1:23am and I had a large dinner with soda and booze and I was fully dressed. Of all the times that I would weigh myself, this time of night is not the time. I am confident that when I get on the scale again on Saturday morning (after peeing) the number will be lower anyway and I won’t have to chop off any hair to make it more to my liking.

So, why in the world was that two pounds so important that it meant the difference between me crying myself to sleep and me coming online to blog all about it? It changed the all important first digit. I couldn’t bear seeing that first digit so high.

So, you all wonder, is she hovering around 200lbs, 300lbs, 400lbs? I’ll never tell.

Actually I will tell, just not until I have my first official weigh in on Saturday. But wait, says the imaginary peanut gallery in my head, you said that you were starting in 13 days and Saturday is only 6 days away. Yes, imaginary peanut gallery in my head, I changed my mind. I received some money that was owed me and decided that I am ready.

I want to start working. I want to get on that wagon (as long as there is no itchy hay). I have been dying lately to do all of the things that I fear because of my weight. I am not nearly as social as I want to be because I have this perpetual fear that people are constantly judging me for my weight. When I am rational I know that, yes, some still are, but most just don’t care. People like me.

I want to go clubbing and have one of those jobs that you have to be cute to have. That’s right; I want to exploit my cuteness for money… but only slightly. I am 22 and this will be the last time for 11 years that I have numerical alliteration for an age. Yes, I am that much of a dork and I do like alliteration that much.

Now I’ve really got to get on finding those recipes!