Chaya awoke early Friday and mumbled Modeh Ani with a yawn.
Sitting up, she washed her hands and heaved herself out of
bed to begin her day.
The routine was the same each Friday. A quick shower and then
she would stand looking down at the square scale in the
corner. It took up no more than two tiles on the floor, but
all the space in her mind.
"Yesterday I only had one slice of bread at dinner and if you
don't count the cake I had to finish, left over from last
Shabbos, nothing sweet all week," she thought, as she took a
step forward. "Oh, and that bit of ice cream on Tuesday, but
does it really count if you're just finishing off what your
daughter left to prevent waste?"
She placed one foot on the scale; the dial quivered as she
applied pressure. With one hand on the sink, supporting as
much weight as possible, she dragged the other foot on to the
scale. She straightened up, all her weight now centered on
the scale. The wheel of numbers spun, making an odd whirring
sound as it clicked into place.
Chaya stood looking at the wall, too afraid to lower her gaze
to the scale. "Maybe I shouldn't have had that second serving
of kugel on Monday," she muttered to the mildewed shower.
She looked down. The numbers stared back at her — three
notches further to the right than last week.
"I guess I won't be eating anything on Shabbos," she told her
reflection in the vanity mirror.
Every day she tried so hard and every day it was the same.
Why could she not control herself? What would it take to
stick to that diet?
Chaya wandered out of the bathroom and back into her bedroom.
She dressed quickly — in her fat clothes, of course,
because nothing else would fit on a day like this — and
went to the kitchen to finish preparing for Shabbos. The
scale lingered in her mind's eye, the numbers waving before
her eyes laughing. She took a package of chicken out of the
fridge and began to prepare it. The price tag announced its
weight, almost the same as hers, if you just moved the
decimal point two places.
Her scissors snipped at the chicken, trimming away the fat.
Wouldn't it be so much better if her fat could be thinned in
much the same way? A quick nip and tuck and all her problems
would disappear.
But would they?
Would her children listen more? Would the house be cleaner?
Would she have more kavannah when davening if
the scale had shown a number three notches to the left
instead of the right?
Chaya placed the trimmed chicken in a round baking dish. She
carefully flavored it with spices and moved on to the
potatoes. She scraped away the dirty skin and the layer
below. It was the insides of the potato that her family liked
the best.
And why not? Was it not more important how you acted than how
you looked? A smile and a friendly word always went further
than a pretty dress.
Had she really been betrayed by her weight and her inability
to control her weight or was it her own self-image that was
really lacking?
Chaya arranged the potatoes and chicken in the dish, covered
it, and placed it in the oven. No one would be happy if she
served the dish without the stuff inside. It was a container
that must be treated with care to hold the important things,
but beyond that did it really matter?
Chaya went on to the challah dough. She added yeast to
the warm water, watching it bubble and expand. She measured
out sugar, eggs, salt, oil and water. None of the individual
parts made it so exciting, but the completed masterpiece was
something to behold, no matter how much it weighed.
And, this week she would use whole-wheat flour.
