Can’t believe I’m blogging about this; I suspect I’ll sound like a nut or a fool.  But whatever.  If I cared–truly cared–about what people thought of me, I’d probably have things like…meaningful personal relationships.  

       Tanita reported my weight this morning.  I was skeptical, so I weighed myself at the crummy gym where I pump iron with a bunch of meatheads (I am not being snarky; the gym really is crummy and the guys in the weight room really are meatheads. Axe bodyspray spiky-haired Ed Hardy gold-chained meatheads, bless their hearts. Can’t complain too much, though; the price for my membership is definitely right and it beats the university gym).

          Anyway, the scales concurred. To provide a frame of reference, I am a tall girl.  I am as tall as many men.

FYI, I think the body fat % is high here–just trust me

      The last time I was this slim in my adult life, I was…very unhappy. 

     Is there a word in the English language which means both satisfaction and disgust?   Not schadenfreude, which is inaccurate but springs to mind.  If you know, please email me.

       My concern with this is problematical and unhealthy.  If I was truly free, I would throw Tanita in the trash.  But it provides an element of stability for me: consistency, structure, control. I do crave to be controlled by something that does not despise me (and I am aware of how paradoxical that is, given that I am also neurotically independent–but, following Freud, fears are wishes).  It must feel, I imagine, like being loved.  Something like being loved.  

      I wish there were scales which measured other things; things which cannot yet be accurately quantified.  The intensity and quality of love, and despair, and longing, and hope, and the pain. Lust and compulsion, grief and regret. Performance indicators of the human soul. I wish these variables could be defined, measured, examined against dependent variables, used to evaluate and predict. I wish I could step on one of these magical scales and it would quantify me perfectly, and then I could know.  I could type all the data into SPSS (or better yet, Stata, even though I avoid Stata because its programming frightens me more than nuclear warfare, almost) and craft a model of myself, my brain, my heart.  Then I would know why, and what perhaps ought to be implemented; done or not done.

      I am a concrete thinker; I dislike ambiguity.

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