The Weigh-In

My heart starts pounding before my feet even hit the intimidating black platform.  I hesitantly place a toe on it — then it dawns on me.

“Wait!  Let me take off my shoes!” I tell the nurse standing beside the scale.  She rolls her eyes impatiently.

Now, I am not an idiot.  Not a COMPLETE idiot at least — although Patrick Dempsey would no doubt disagree, given the time he generously offered to let me sneak in front of him in the long line at Bristol Farms and all I could do was blush, giggle and utter something along the lines of “Ugh pwsyfgft youw fsst.”  (Translation:  “Oh no, thanks, you first.”)

But enough about my natural grace and composure.

As I was saying, I’m not a moron.  I know my Steve Madden Mary Jane pumps weigh a grand total of one pound.  But, my God, if I can shave something… anything… from my ever-growing poundage, you can be darn sure I’m going to do so.   The nurse’s dubiousness be damned.

Why the hell is that?  I am pregnant.  Which means I am gaining weight — and that is a good thing.   Not something of which to be ashamed unlike, say, my encounter with McDreamy.  So why was I standing in my doctor’s office yesterday, seriously considering throwing my hoop earrings and cardigan on a pile with my shoes, and doing a few jumping jacks, before hopping on that freakin’ scale?

Sure, I could point fingers at society’s obsession with weight and of course, Nicole Kidman, who looked like she was never carrying more than a Skittle when she was pregnant.  That’s a lot of pressure to place on us pregnant commoners.  Damn you and your Baby Skittle, Kidman!

But honestly?  I blame the anxiety on the Health-O-Meter.  Oh, how I detest doctor’s scales.  With my own scale, it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid:  I step on it and it immediately reveals the damage.   No head games.   Just straightforward disappointment.  A doctor’s scale, however, is akin to a torture device:  I step on it and the nurse keeps sliding… sliding… sliding… the weight while I get closer... closer… closer… to having a meltdown.

“PLEASE!  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP!  No, seriously — stop.  Stop… now?  Please…?  PLEASE!  How can that thing even go any higher?!  *SOB*”

Worst of all, the nurse is loving every minute of it.  Of this, I am certain.  I swear she slides it as slowly as possible to maximize my mortification. Nurse Ratched ain’t got nothin’ on Nurse Weigh-In.

Time for an attitude adjustment on my part, I know.  We pregnant ladies need to embrace our burgeoning figures.  We are with child!  We are beautiful!  Glowing!

But really, a cardigan probably weighs, what, five ounces?  At LEAST.