Every morning, I step on the weighing scale in my bathroom. Usually, I’m disappointed: the scale is supremely stubborn. It refuses to budge. On other days, I feel a sense of achievement: I’m 500 gms lighter and my self-confidence soars. I want to belt out some Mariah Cary, “And then a hero comes along, with the strength to carry on …” (An ode to my weighing scale).

Ever since high school, I’ve wanted to “be thin.” When I flip through my old journals, circa 1995, I see myself in the pages of 10^th grade ramblings about boys, trips to the only mall that existed in Chennai back then …and, the ubiquitous, “I really need to lose some weight.”

When I look back at my pictures from high school, though, I see a bespectacled, cute teenager, sometimes sporting horrendous haircuts, but never really overweight.

Fast forward to today and I still struggle with body image. I go on and off diets with the frequency of flickering disco lights. My colleagues see me crunching through lettuce leaves like a disgruntled rabbit. On the other hand, I give Charlie (from ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ fame) a run for his money, dedicating substantial real estate in my kitchen cupboards to candy.

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