Life on the Weighing Scale
“Surely, you can’t tell me that is all fat?” she swallowed against the heavy lump in her throat.
“Skin, subcutaneous tissue and fat,” he deadpanned, lifting an even thicker expanse of area over her right triceps.
“So basically fat.” Her chest caved in, but the stony-faced gym instructor hmm’d in response.
“I think you have the long head of the triceps in there,” she murmured, trying to catch his eyes as she craned her neck to observe him.
He caught her gaze with a blank look from hooded eyes, combined with his monolid eyes, it gave him a villainous look.
He let go of the skin fold, palpated her triceps area again in an exaggerated manner and re-pinched, the skin fold thickness still an alarming three to four finger widths.
“The short head of the triceps?” she asked, biting her lip both from consternation at the skin fold width and the pain from his barb like pinch.
“No short head of the triceps in here.”
“Oh,” she looked back ahead, her downcast gaze drawn to the weighing scale tucked into the corner of the gym office.
The plastic skinfold caliper creaked open, and she could swear she felt it’s every move as it approached her skin. She shirked, but his pinch on her skin did not let go.
“You know, the triceps is called that because it has three heads,” she said.
His response was the piercing pain of the skin calipers clamping her skin fold. They dug in and held. She clamped shut herself, swallowing her whimper.
Her heart skipped a beat or two, the verdict eminent.
“Nine centimeters,” he announced.
“Ugh. 22% body fat?” she declared after a quick calculation in her head, adding the numbers from the previous areas they have measured.
Arms raised to the side, she shook them. The flabby triceps flapping like bat wings, and just as ugly as the aforementioned bird, they were veiny and covered in stretch marks.
They fell to her sides in a heavy flop.
“I really can’t lose any more weight,” she moaned, pacing towards the clear glass window that overlooked the gym floor.
The weird ten pm gym goers were sweating at one exercise station or the other, squaring up against their personal demons.
“You shouldn’t lose any more weight,” the gym instructor joined her at the window, eyeing her wiry frame openly.
His words pulled her from the calculations of calories and reps she had been doing in her head.
She knew what he saw when he looked at her. A gangly middle-aged woman with flabby skin that spoke of a time of poor choices. The pitying looks in his eyes said she was no better now at making them.
Once too fat, now too thin. He had once told her in an offhand manner that some people never got it right.
She walked away from the window, her feet travelling towards the corner of the room. The weighing scale was drawing her in, as all scales do, begging her to climb on again. Maybe she would be one kilogram lighter than when she had last checked fifteen minutes ago.
Was she one of those people? The ones who never got it right?
“You can maybe, increase your protein intake, it’s not all about cutting calories you know,” the instructor said, his voice more tempered.
“Maybe,” she murmured, stopping short of the scale.
“I do eat a lot of protein, it’s the carbs that get me. I like rice too much.” She pushed her fingers through her too thin hair, gripping the strands at the nape, the sore spot ached.
“Don’t we all.”
She spun about, resisting the scale on this occasion, and headed for the door.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you so fixed on getting to 15% body fat. You have said you are not preparing for any competitions. You look amazing already.”
“I do? Oh.” She smiled, her shoulders moving backwards imperceptibly. She popped her hip to one side, leaning against the doorknob, it dug in.
“Yeah, the guys were saying so yesterday,” he said, referring to the late-night oddballs that were always here when she came in.
So, he didn’t think so himself.
“Thanks,” she mumbled and left the room, heading for the elliptical to fight her own demons.
About Joy Ekere: Sometimes I labour to write, other times, I just take notes from the voices in my head. I love the other times more. One of those other times led to this, check it out.
