My Bathroom Scale Ban
I used to hate the mall.
On the surface, it was just another way to separate myself from other teenage girls (I watch Die Hard! I wear shorts! I watch hockey! I can pretend to be funny! [please love me?]). My high school mall hatred was different, though. It was more passionate. Yes, I could find joy in Christmas lists and record store bargain bins. But “clothes shopping”? The mall rat scene? The bad music, the money, the lights, the mirrors, mirrors, mirrors.
Even the idea made me kind of queasy.
I hated the mall because it was the home of destructive analysis. In middle school, I learned it was a place for measuring yourself. The food court featured conversations about calories. Conversations which eventually turned to numbers and sizes, then to vomiting techniques. I sat and listened. I ate more Taco Bell, silently trying to compensate for…
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