She closed her eyes and stepped on the scale, peering at the numbers one eye at a time. She hadn’t seen that number in a while. Quick math told her it was several digits above the last time she performed this particular ritual.
It hadn’t been a week since she stepped on the scale, but then again, surely it had been. The shampoo ran out that day. Her eyes darted to the garbage can. The empty bottle lay among the crumpled up tissues and used cotton swabs.
Defeated, she leaned against the wall as the water from the shower heated. Steam began to rise in the small bathroom. In the distance, she thought she could hear the strains of a familiar song: snack bags and candy wrappers crackled in a two-part harmony.
Her weakness fit like a pair of jeans that had been shrunk in the dryer. A few more days like the past few and they would fit her like her own skin, strangling her will and fortitude. She sadly realized that her failing will eventually require new pants, a new identity, a whole new life.
Clouds of steam interrupted her thoughts. The water was scalding now. Stepping into it and out of her reverie, the tune dissipated. As she performed the motions of the mindless task, the siren song of the candy wrappers that had led her to this moment hummed through her mind once again.
The day loomed.
This exact scenario played itself out in my own bathroom as I got on the scale after a summer of failing to exercise vigilantly and employing haphazard eating habits. I know, I have issues. With snacks and candy, mostly. And of late, apple crisp and brownies. Not to mention thinking of myself as the heroine in a terrible novel.
Ugh. I need to lock up all the food.