Every morning, I step on the weighing scale in my bathroom. Usually, I’m disappointed: the scale is supremely stubborn. It refuses to budge. On other days, I feel a sense of achievement: I’m 500 gms lighter and my self-confidence soars. I want to belt out some Mariah Cary, “And then a hero comes along, with the strength to carry on …” (An ode to my weighing scale).
Ever since high school, I’ve wanted to “be thin.” When I flip through my old journals, circa 1995, I see myself in the pages of 10th grade ramblings about boys, trips to the only mall that existed in Chennai back then …and, the ubiquitous, “I really need to lose some weight.”
When I look back at my pictures from high school, though, I see a bespectacled, cute teenager, sometimes sporting horrendous haircuts, but never really overweight.
Fast forward to today and I still struggle with body image. I go on and off diets with the frequency of flickering disco lights. My colleagues see me crunching through lettuce leaves like a disgruntled rabbit. On the other hand, I give Charlie (from ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ fame) a run for his money, dedicating substantial real estate in my kitchen cupboards to candy.
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