It is the number's fault. I never should have looked down at the stupid electronic scale and looked at the number. I've gone eight months without knowing my weight and then, suddenly, out of the blue, I was drawn to the blinking red light like a deer to a salt lick. I had to know. Maybe it was the fact that the nurses in the hospital were less than thrilled because I didn't know my weight. They kept asking me things like: "You really don't know? You don't even have a clue how much you weigh?" "Nope," I replied, "everyone else seems so concerned about it that I figured enough people were worried about it." I swear to you that my labor and delivery nurse rolled her eyes and then tightened the staps on the fetal heart monitor until my uterus felt like it was going to explode. That was what she thought about personal "Don't ask - don't tell" policy.
My OB-GYN just recently looked at my weight and laughed. While holding my chart and laughing she said, "You must have had a good month. You gained ten pounds." In my stupidity I asked, "Is that a lot?" How did I know if that was a lot? She looked at me, not laughing anymore, and said, "Yeah. That's a lot."
Maybe that is why I wanted to know my weight. Whatever the reasons, I now blame the number for my decrease in self-esteem. I feel huge. I never in my life thought that I would be this weight. None of my maternity clothes fit me and every night I lay in bed praying that my back will stop hurting. My feet have been turning purple from excessive swelling and this morning at work someone looked at me and said, "You sure have a big ol' baby in there." Thanks. Maybe you would just like to comment on my stretch marks and three chins while you're at it. Maybe I could show you my ass that looks like it's been hit by buckshot from a shotgun. Or maybe, just maybe, you could let me be miserable in peace.
As I said, it's all the number's fault. Ignorance is bliss.