Weighing scale woes

My earliest memories of weighing scales are closely associated with injections: I encountered them ONLY at my paediatrician’s clinic and dreaded the two in equal measure. And, obviously, avoided both, as much as I could. What I couldn’t avoid, however, was the annual health check-up at school. We would be lined up and mounted on a weighing scale, one after the other, while a nurse in a yellowing uniform, yelled out our weights. The other girls had pass-mark or second-class numbers weighing them down. And me? Distinction by the fifth grade and close to a centum by my tenth!

It was around that time, that I started exercising: my hitherto inactive lifestyle and youth worked in my favour and I managed to shed 10-15 kilos pretty fast, maintaining the same for the next few years, without much trouble. I checked my weight more frequently than I used to, but it was only in my early 20s, when I enrolled for a weight-loss programme at a well-known gym, that I actually got obsessed by it.

It became a ritual of sorts. Step into the gym, slip out of your shoes and stand on the scale while a nutritionist, clipboard in hand, faithfully noted down your weight. If it was less, we rejoiced. If more, I got put on a fruit-and-vegetable diet and was asked to do extra cardio. I discovered ways to get around it. Don’t drink water, always empty your bowels and bladder, wear your lightest clothes, don’t wear jewellery... and if all else fails, skip dinner the previous day. Chinese food was a no-no — the salt retained water — as was popcorn and chips. And the day before your period was the worst: your weight went up by a couple of kilos, even if you were very very good that week.

The next decade, saw me become a slave of sorts. The weighing scale dictated my mood, my behaviour, my life. If my weight went up, I was cranky and snapped at everyone at work and home. If I lost weight, I was the happiest girl in the whole wide world. Till I turned 30 and made a pact with myself: get rid of all the things in your life that caused unhappiness — tasteless diet khana, clothes that no longer fit, men who take without giving, friends you have outgrown, you get the drift, don’t you? And yes, out went the weighing scale too.

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I discovered other means to measure progress: my energy levels, how well I slept, the way my clothes fell on me, the way I performed in a fitness class, photographs... It was liberating. For one, random binge episodes — the sort that occur when you celebrate weight loss or mourn weight gain — reduced drastically. Besides, there is plenty of research to suggest that weight is not, by any means, an absolute indicator of health. Overweight people who are physically fit are better off than slimmer people who don’t exercise, for instance. And BMI, while a useful tool, doesn’t account for body composition: former professional bodybuilder, Arnold Schwarzenegger, falls into the obese category according to it.

Also, weight fluctuates, a lot. Hormones, what you’ve eaten (or not) and drunk, how much you’ve perspired during your workout... all of this impacts your body weight. And sometimes weight can be misleading: you can stay the same weight and look more defined or more pudgy, depending on what you are eating and how you are working out.

I am not dissing the scale: I do think being in a healthy weight range — determined by a number of factors, including lean muscle mass to fat ratio, body frame, gender, age etc — is an important indicator of overall health. And I must admit, after that one-year break, I got back with the scale. But I’m not quite so emotionally attached to it. And I step on it only once a week now, not four times a day.