The Frocky Horror Picture Show

So now that the fat cat's out of the bag,

 I have some yakking to do.

I kind of want to yak about that picture, you know the one... the one of the repentant drama queen in the blue frock. The one that had me so horrified that I actually considered closing down the blog rather than put it on here.

Seriously.

So why was I so horrified? I mean, I'm not a vampire or anything. We do have mirrors in our house, and I've actually seen my reflection a time or two. How could I be so ignorant?

Because I don't like to step on one of these.

source

It's true. Decades ago, I heard someone, probably Oprah, yakking all about breaking free from the tyranny of the scale... how we shouldn't be slaves to some silly old number...   how it's all about how your clothes fit... how you feel about yourself...  The scale? Well, that's just an archaic invention of man to terrorize woman.

I'm pretty sure she followed it with a segment on buying clothes to flatter your frame.  

Therefore, that's exactly what I do.  I buy clothes to flatter my frame, and I judge how bad the weight gain is by how well those clothes fit.

But there's a catch.  Clothes can stretch.
And s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

The cheaper they are, the better they stretch, and when you are a perpetual dieter and a cheapskate to boot, you generally buy the cheaper ones. I buy Kim Rogers slacks from my local Belk store. For $29.99, Kim will flatter my frame. Even better, she will stretch to accommodate future growth.

Kim is very gracious that way.

And so they stretch quite well over my rumpus. When they stop stretching? Well, that's due to dryer shrinkage of course. The fact that I line dry my Kims is irrelevant. If they shrink, they shrink. Who am I to argue?  And anyway, any pants that can't endure a little heat now and then must not have been very good to begin with. They need to be replaced.

And that's when I have the crisis.

Aside from an unfortunate Kodak incident, most of my meltdown moments happen in the dressing room. New clothes, you see, are not gracious at all. They are mockers. You reach for the size that you're supposed to be wearing, and they magically shrivel, right before your very eyes.

I don't know what you do when this happens, but I generally console myself with a smoothie. Then, after a salad supper, I wake up the next morning, strip down to the birthday suit, close one eye, and step on the scale.

And then, I turn into Jane Fonda (minus all that communist stuff).

Wouldn't it be easier, and certainly healthier,  just to gut up to it and step on that scale on a regular basis? Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true. 

The scale doesn't lie. It doesn't give empty flattery or grant absolution when none is warranted. Its numbers are never out of style. 130 is 130 yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

(True, it's a lot more yesterday than today, but I'm believing for tomorrow.)

But here's the thing.

This post isn't actually about the weight problem at all.

I just lured you in for the sermon. I'm sneaky like that.

It's about a delusion of another sort, and one that is so much more important than the Michelin around our middles.  It's the delusion of the spirit. 

You see, God has a scale too. He has, as he says in Amos, a plumb line, and it's His Word.

The Word of God is the only true measure of our spiritual fitness, and we don't need some Oprahfied spirituality to tell us any differently.

Don't be a slave to the tyranny of the Word, they will say.

Oh, they won't phrase it exactly like that, but that's exactly what they mean.

That's what they mean when they give you any alternate measure. That's what they mean when they tell you to weigh yourself in the balance of feelings, that the Word of God is just an archaic invention of man.

And the people eat it right up. They have since the beginning.  There are folks out there who try on church after church and faith after faith just to find the one that best flatters their frame. 

They have no intention of changing said frame. It's their frame, after all.  It's who they are and who they want to be, right down to the very bone.

I'll give you this one for free:  Anyone who tells you to step away from God's Scale and flatter your frame doesn't really love you. They're the fat friend who wants you to be fat too. Misery, as they say,  loves company.

God isn't in the business of flattering our frames and stretching elastic truth over our ever-expanding flesh. He's in the business of transforming us into His image. He whittles away our flesh, inch by inch and pound by  pound until we are his very likeness. Isn't that infinitely more beautiful?

Yeah, I think so too.

So go ahead. Step on God's scale. Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true.

As for me, I'll be back to yak all about that other exercise equipment later in the week. Right now, I have some celery sticks to gnaw and sit ups to do.