All my life (or at least for as long as I can remember) there was a war that occurred in my bathroom almost every morning. A war that was raging even before I was really old enough to understand that I was a front line soldier. I grew up in a house full of girls/women. I was as close as one can get to being the middle daughter of six girls, and I was the only one that was overweight. All of my sisters were thin, vivacious, and beautiful so when the focus of attention was on me it was always on my weight. This instilled in me, at a very young age that there was something wrong with how my body was shaped and that the little white rectangle with the digital read out knew it! My loving, affectionate, body conscious mother spent most of her time with my other sisters (they were gymnasts she was their coach) but when her focus would turn to me it would be to talk about a new awesome diet option or another sport I could try that would help get the pounds off. She was never vicious or mean about it, I am convinced she was sure I was just as concerned about my body image and wanted the help. To this day I have not had the heart to tell her that I was oblivious until she started having me weigh myself every morning (she believed it would be encouraging).

It was at this point that I started to realize that you can have enemies that are not made of flesh and blood. An enemy so sneaky that you are willing to pay money to keep in your home, an enemy you dutifully visit every morning just to get it's input on who you are or rather who you are not. The force to which I came to hate and loath my scale could rival the love and joy I feel everyday for my children. I even found myself putting tape over the little led read out so that even when I stepped on the decrepit, deceitful, little box I could continue blissfully ignorant to its morning insult. But alas, this never lasted long because I was so driven by my own hatred of this mechanical tool and so scared of its put downs that I had to know what it was saying about me.

This war, this hatred, this self mutilation of sorts only continued to get worse as the years went by. Sure I could sometimes ignore the bullying, or harsh red numbers, and other times I could even use them to get me fired up to do what was needed to show the scale a thing of two but in the end the ignorance or determination would fade and the harsh reality would return and grow. Never did the scale tell me in its cryptic numeric pattern that it liked me, appreciated me, or thought I was pretty. It groaned every morning it saw me coming and reminded me just how painful it was to have me standing atop it. Would the torture stop, could I ever come to love this stupid, mean, spiteful machine?

It seems I could, it seems that now the best part of my day is when I get to visit my former arch nemesis in the morning. I have even snuck in an extra visit at night here and there because that small white box now tells me these beautiful tales of wonder in its cryptic red number language. It has stopped groaning when I come in and is showing eagerness to see what story it will be sharing with me next. Some mornings that story is short, only a single sentence, while other's it is miles long. The scale has realized that its easier to make friends with sugar free, caffeine free, carbonation free Clear liquids than flashing high number insults. And it makes me think, have I made a new friend? Have I made a new very best friend in this little mechanical box that has tortured me for so many years? While I expect it be like any friendship, having ups and downs, I can only hope that it continues to be so rewarding to visit the little white box in my bathroom, this very new best friend!

Beautifully written, Alnnmay3.

You've made the scale a friend by being your own friend. Continue to do that and the scale will align with your smaller wardrobe and hightened energy for life that is sure to follow.

Good job