Mom bought me digital scales.

... "So you can't lie to yourself, " she said....

...I glared at her, my right foot jutting forward....

..."God, Mom, " I scoffed. "I mean, God"....

...What else could I say? She was totally right. Yesterday, I shunted my rusty old 𝙄𝙆𝙀𝘼 all over the bathroom floor looking for the most favourable reading. Turns out, you can shave a full five pounds off if you put the bottom half of the scales on the bath mat, hang your toes off the font, ...

...and squint....

Today, it's no such luck.The digital scales won't read anything at all unless it's on a level surface.

...Thanks a lot, Mom. ...

Behind the locked bathroom door, I pee , kick off my slippers, drop my robe, step out of my pyjama pants, and lift my cotton cami over my head . Taking a deep breath, I exhale hard, blowing all possible. Then I step on my new digital scales.

I heard a sound.

𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚙. Then a loud, robotic voice.

" One hundred and f----- "

Horrified, I leap off the scales. Mom bought me scales that talk!?

Is she out of her mind? Not only do I have to see the bloated number glow accusingly at me in hideous green light, I have to hear the bad news, too? What else will they say?

𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛. 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚜?

Mom shrieks through the closed bathroom door. " I am calling Dr. Weinstein."

"Mother!" I shriek back. "Can't I have any privacy? "

"Your brother weighs less than you, Hayley. Do you want to weigh more than a boy?"

"His brain is only an ounce. Mine is packed with weighty knowledge. "

Mom presses her mouth up to the door. " I'm only thinking of your health. "

I roll my eyes and turn on the shower.

"if you keep going like this, " she says into the crack of the door, "you're going to weigh as much as two people. "

" I've always wanted a sister, " I reply. Then I get in the shower and let the hot water drown out my mother's voice.

The awful scales accusation echoes through my brain.

Thirty pounds from where I should be. If only I were taller -- five foot eleven, instead if five foot five! I press my eyes shut, feel the disgusting curve of my

bowling-ball belly as I soap up. My arms are soft and fleshy. Even my toes are fat.

I hate myself.

Turning the cold water down, I feel my skin burn. I stand there for as long as I can take it.

"Today," I say out loud , " I will be 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. Salad for lunch. No dressing."

Quickly washing and rising my long brown hair, I step out of the shower and grab a towel before I can see my hideous pink reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror.

"Yes, " I repeat. "Today I'll be good. "

Mom is gone. Ragging on Dad somewhere, no doubt. Which is good because no way can I stomach one of her evangelical lectures about portion control. There's nothing worse than a former fatty who found God in fresh fruits and vegetables.

"If I can do it, you can too !" she chirps constantly.

"Can you find the square root of sixty- four?" I asked her.

"Hayley... " she said, with a disapproving look.

"See? " I replied. "We can't both do everything. There are differences between the two of us."

Mom doesn't get it. I 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 to be thin . Hell, I want to be America's Next Top Model, if only to out-bitch the other anorexics. But something goes awry every time I try. I don't know what it is. I think I'm improperly wired. My need to feed is stronger than my desire to -- literally--fit in.

Standing before my open closet door, I flip through my cloths. Then I moan. They can put a lunar rover on Mars!

Why can't they make jeans that don't make my *** look like Jupiter??