numbers

                 Arms behind my back I sucked in, trying to zip the last inch of the strapless cocktail dress. It was the dress I had been looking for; it was perfect. Winter white, its subtle lace details shimmered and the short hem made me look three inches taller. It was the last one and I had to make it fit. I turned to view the back in the mirror and admired the graceful way it fell above my knees. Elated I finally found the one I bought the dress and on my way home stopped at Hannaford to stock up on spinach, veggies, and coconut water.

                The Christmas party was a week away. Seven days to lose the five pounds that prevented the dress from zipping. Five pounds that would drop me from a healthy size four to a hungry size two. Five pounds that would grant me a generous “Samantha, you look nice.” instead of the usual, “Honey, you’re looking a little heavy in the stomach/butt/thigh/face….” from my mother.

                Numbers have directed me since middle school. In sixth grade, we started algebra and it took me months to figure out how to find x. I realized there was a thirty dollar difference between my Kmart jeans and everyone else’s from American Eagle. I measured my food and counted my calories to maintain a size zero figure. These numbers, simple and straightforward, complicated everything.  Dark and ugly, the numbers on the scale were the definition of everything I wanted to change.

                My alarm went off, its obnoxious ringing impossible to ignore. It was barely light out and the snow was coming down heavily. The weatherman had predicted four to six inches by noon. There was nothing more I wanted than to close my eyes and stay in bed until I had to go to work but I saw the white dress hanging in my closet.

                Half an hour later I was on the elliptical machine at the gym, watching my incline climb from four to five. I had been on it for six minutes and burned twenty seven calories. I had twenty four minutes to go before I could get off and six more days to fit into my dress. I wasn’t going to let one inch of stubborn zipper and my mother’s insult-laced compliments ruin my Christmas. When my time ran out I chose the extreme fat burning course and I settled in for another half an hour of hell.

                With every movement my legs burned and I wondered why I was even doing this. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall and I looked fine. I was thin. Nobody could call me fat, not even me. Yet I was driven by numbers. I let my pants size define me. I deprived myself holiday cookies and cupcakes to fit into a dress I would wear for four hours. The 116 flashing up at me on the scale made my stomach turn. It would be different if I was at the gym for the first time in months because I was motivated to be healthy and fit but….I was there out of pure vanity.

                I still had seventeen minutes to go on my second course when I slapped the stop button with my shaking hand. My legs felt like rubber when I stepped off the machine and I remembered why I had been meaning to cancel my membership.

                For the next five days I set my alarm at seven for an early morning workout but never got out of bed. I ate the muddy buddies my co-worker made and a piece of cheesecake. The night of the party, I wore my hair down to cover the imperfect inch in bouncy curls. I felt like a princess and when my mother looked me up and down and said “Honey….you’re looking a little heavy. How much do you weigh now?” I smiled sweetly and lied. “I don’t know, Mother. I threw out my scale.”