The nurse led me to the scale, “Real quick, we just need to get your weight.”

I groaned. I’d rather get a pap smear and my teeth pulled. At the same time.

“Only if you don’t look.” I less-than-half joked. She laughed and mentioned how cute she thought my cargo pants were and wondered where I bought them. And then, she proceeded to move the weights on the scale up. And up. As I held my breath, wondering what this stranger, the nurse in a new doctor’s office, was thinking about my weight as she wrote the less than attractive number down in my new patient file.

As I was leaving, that same nurse was there to schedule my next endocrinology appointment. We started chatting about women and how we are our own worst enemies.

So many of us walk with a façade of strength and confidence yet inside we have an ongoing dialog of sabotage.

We believe other people are looking at us in judgment, when in reality, they may be admiring our hair or even our cool cargo pants.

Even worse, we criticize ourselves. SO intensely. Constantly comparing ourselves to unobtainable and unrealistic models.

Why? Can’t we own our stretch marks, saggy boobs and chiskers? Who cares if Twiggy McTwigson has a perfectly taut and tanned body, even after popping out a billion babies? (yeah, we’re calling you out, Heidi Klum).

Why is it that, even in front of our mates, we become an insecure mess with the lights on? They’ve stood at the foot of hospital beds, watching our children emerge. They’ve held our heads over porcelain bowls. They’ve seen us in positions no other lover has. Yet, standing up naked and walking to the bathroom after sex is a fate worse than death.

Why is it that we can’t just accept that someone is admiring our hairstyle and not noticing the grey needs to be covered up? Or that a man is checking our ass out because they like when baby got back?

Why must we be our own worst possible enemy?

It’s an age old question, that never gets a great answer. We talk a lot of shit about owning ourselves, but we don’t put up. We shut up.

Well, what to do? Keep it Simple.

Step on that scale and not give a shit unless diabetes or heart disease is imminent. Walk naked with the lights on.

Shake your ass just a little bit more.

Damn! All this because the nurse needed my weight for the doctors records.

And I still had to remind her that my cute cargo pants added a couple pounds to the scale.

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