Don't go as far as believing that I weighted myself in front of him. I only announced the results after having seen them myself ‒ not that numbers would change his opinion of my body, which he sees naked and feels all the time, but scales are mean and scary. The numbers they display always seem to be a verdict ‒ guilty or not guilty?

He is, indeed, a little underweight. One hundred and twenty pounds for five feet eight (that's fifty-four kilos for one hundred and seventy-two centimeters for you sane and metric-understanding people) is not all that much, but he isn't looking ill or anything ‒ yet. Gaining a little weight (preferably healthily rather than by going on a French fries diet) would do him no harm. And if you really want to cave into the BMI thingie, yes, that's slightly below the lower limit of 18.5. But I'd rather go by how he looks, how much loser his jeans have gone, and how he feels, than any stupid index.

I am, and that might surprise the advocates of the Saint Scale (never go a week without stepping on it to make sure that you haven't let yourself going out of fucking control), weighting what has been my usual weight for the past three years and a half or so. Last time I used a scale (and that it wasn't at the doctor's office with all my winter clothes on as well as my boots) was around Christmas at my mom's, and I had put up a few pounds, probably due to my back pain (I blame the forced immobility as well as the consolatory chocolate ‒ and bread. I've always binged way more on bread than on chocolate.) I apparently lost them without thinking much about it by going back to my usual way of life. Two words for you: weight stabilization. The dream of my teenage years. Attained. It is therefore pretty safe to say that I am one hundred and fifty pounds (was a little less yesterday, actually) for five feet six (sixty-eight kilos for one hundred and sixty-eight centimeters).

And, yes, it does mean that I weight thirty more pounds than him. It's almost fifteen kilos.

And I. don't. give. a. shit.

Believe me, it wasn't always this way. When we started dating, I was hating his being lean; I hated the very idea of being heavier than my boyfriend. The only way for one to be heavier than her boyfriend was, in my stupidly deranged mind, to be fat.

And of course this is not true.

A rather common (and easy) way of being heavier than one's boyfriend, for instance, is to have curves, and breasts, and hips, and an ass, where the boyfriend has only lean muscle, bones, and pointy joints. And I find it pretty interesting that I was once weighting precisely one hundred and twenty pounds: I was fourteen, and not yet, how do you say, developed.

(Note to the BMI addicts: I might be high in the range, but I am still below the bloody threshold. So shut up, will you.)

There are good reasons not to be attracted to men who weight less than you. They include (besides being an heterosexual man or an homosexual woman, which solves the question rather drastically) feeling the need for some strong, muscular, protective knight who will keep evil at bay. They do not include being ashamed of weighting more than him.

Anyway.

For the first time in my life, I have been able to step on the scale in the near proximity of my boyfriend and not feel humiliated by my weight.

Does that mean I'm all grown-up and mentally stable now?

(One can always hope, right.)