If you ask my husband what the most boring subject in the world is, he would sum it up in three words: my wife’s weight.
Not to me, of course. For so many years, my mood has been dictated by what the needle on the scale registers. And I have a lot of scales.
This scale is the first one I was ever weighed on. When our family pediatrician retired, he gifted me with the baby scale he used to weigh his newborn patients – including me, my brother and my sister.
Years later working at a non-profit, I was the recipient of an old-fashioned scale the organization was getting rid of. It now holds another one of my obsessions: my stack of “books to read someday.”
I also struggled with how often to actually step on the scale:
Hourly (wow, that’s really excessive)
Daily
Weekly
Monthly
Only at doctor appointments
In October, I signed up for Noom – a health app that provides articles, tools and tracking for progress in weight loss. The program dictates daily weigh-ins. Hence, I had no choice but to devise a routine: Nine AM every day, before my first cup of coffee, I strip off everything – my watch, my nightgown, my hair clips – I mean everything. Except my bikini briefs. And step on the digital truth-teller.
I quickly found that venturing on the digital scale varies little with each additional step-on and step-off. Not like the scale I owned growing up – where the needle bounced around wildly with every sway and gross movement.
How does weighing myself daily affect my mood?
Surprisingly, I have found it liberating. I may not like what it registers, but there are no BIG surprises and the next day is a new day – just twenty-four hours away.
Over the last few months, since I have been happy with my weight, my mood has correspondingly lightened. Clothes shopping is enjoyable again. Trying on clothes in my closet I haven’t dared to try on for years – well, they either fit or hang loosely.
I’m loving it.
But suddenly about two weeks ago, depression descended mightily – a depression I simply couldn’t rid myself from its clutches. Where was this heavy cloud of doom and gloom coming from?
And then I realized – the upcoming holiday of Passover was the source of my angst. Three of my five sons will be together for the first night of Passover with their wives and all my grandchildren. And my husband and I will be one thousand miles away.
Woe is me.
I tried practicing the art of gratitude.
I tried counting my many blessings.
I tried meditation. Deep breathing. Venting to a friend. (Well, a lot of friends, actually.)
Nothing helped reduce my profound sense of longing for wanting to be with them as we read the Haggadah, slurp-up the chicken soup, sip the wine and hide the Afikoman (half a piece of matzo broken in two and hidden).
And the CDC recommendations don’t assuage this untenable situation. As reported in the New York Times, experts are still unsure if vaccinated grandparents can carry Covid to the people they are visiting.
I sought to fine-tune my awareness of my sadness.
I tried to come to an understanding of my thoughts and thought processes.
I sought to look at the same situation in a different way, as I can’t change that they are there and we are here.
Finally, I figured it out and came up with a solution – obvious maybe to others right away, but not to me.
ZOOM! FaceTime. One of those should work. I’ll leave that decision to my sons. All I know is we will be part of their Seder.
Gotta run.
Have to hunt up our Haggadahs, the Seder plate, buy my brisket, bake my matzo meal muffins and decide on dessert. And I’ve got to set the table in the dining room with the good china and silver.
Next year in Connecticut.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor