Doctor

Stupid doctor. Don't you know I wasn't supposed to be told how much I weigh? Just because you didn't give an exact number doesn't mean I don't know what "You're not gaining," means. As if I don't remember my weight better than my own birthday. Eight pounds too much. Twenty pounds too few. Whichever way you look at it, I'll never be good enough, let alone perfect. Standing on the scale backwards is a strange experience. Just a nurse muttering "mm-hm," as she puts numbers into a computer. Numbers that have too much significance to mean nothing. They're too important to float out the window, out of my head into the land of things that are unimportant. As if weight is unimportant. As if it's only a measure of how much matter you're made out of. It's so much more than that. It's a measure of attractiveness. It's a measure of how accepted you are among others. How "right" you are. How close to perfection. There is no tangible perfection, but maybe it's out there, like a fleeting dream just before daybreak.