When I was younger, I loved sleepovers, slumber parties - sleeping bags lined up next to each other, eating and talking and laughing until we drifted off to sleep.  When I was a young adult, I crashed, cat-napped, and passed out on cigarette burned couches, beer soaked floors, hotel room bathtubs - and once, the back of a boat parked in a friend's garage.  In my early twenties, I traveled abroad and stayed in youth hostels - a mat on the floor right next to a fellow traveller curled up on her mat two feet from mine.  When I was younger - communal living was fun and adventurous and a little bit dangerous.  

As a 48 year old woman, I am less interested in communal sleeping and yet - strangely enough, the opportunity has come up more than I am comfortable with.  I recently chaperoned a weekend event for my high schooler's Speech & Debate team.  My room and board was paid for with the caveat that I share a room with another same gendered parent.  One room, two beds, two strangers. My roommate was lovely.  Her pajamas were way prettier than mine.  A beautifully embroidered gown with teeny-tiny bells.  "Are you going to sleep in that?" I asked, as I shamefully pulled the covers up over my sweatshirt.   She jingled and snored all night long. I know, because I didn't sleep a wink.  

In May, the 100% remote company I work for will meet in Boston for a three day meeting.  Most of us have never met in person - although we talk every day.  We will be staying in one big house - together - more communal living.  Co-workers, sleeping together.  What is this - the 70's?  

Look, I'm all for being young and hip and edgy.  But I don't want to know my co-workers hygiene habits or if they are mouth-breathers or if they make bodily noises while sleeping.  Awkward!  If I refuse and book a hotel room up the road, I am the old lady who isn't one of the gang - and if I stay in the house, I won't sleep for 3 days.  Either way - I'm pissed that this is even a thing.  I mean - do I have to sleep wearing my bra - just in case I run into my boss on the way to the communal bathroom in the middle of the night?  Oh man, I'm going to have to hold it for 3 days. 

I do not step on a scale, except during my annual checkup - and even then, I close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears just in case the nurse mumbles to herself as she writes the number in my chart.  The number - that number has the power to dictate my mood, dominate my thoughts, control my actions - basically undo every positive affirmation I have ever whispered to myself while looking in the mirror.  The conversation around weight is old and boring and yet, still relevant.  

Regardless of my actual weight, I have a fat head.  When I'm thin, I see fat.  When I'm fat, I see more of the same.  From years of yo-yo dieting, I no longer have an accurate view of my own body.  But what is an accurate measure of my weight - is my underwear.   Now, for those people whose weight only fluctuates 5 pounds throughout the year - you will not understand my scientific weight monitoring system.  But for those of us whose weight fluctuates 10+ pounds each year - you may identify.  When my underwear gets tight, slips below my fat-flap, becoming an irrelevant undergarment - I know that I am at the high end of my acceptable weight range.  Some people use their jeans - but I find that my pants grow and shrink with my body.  My underwear is less forgiving.  

The funny thing is - nobody is ever publicly curious about my weight gain.  Hey Lori, what delicious food have you been eating this winter?  Whatever it is, I see you enjoyed it!  Instead we comment on and typically compliment weight loss - regardless of how it was achieved.  I am no longer interested in the nonsense surrounding losing weight.  Truly.   I realize my self worth has nothing to do with the number on that dumb scale (quick - say that three times and click your heels together to believe).  I eat healthy, except when I don't.  I exercise, except when I'm napping.  After all these years, I finally accept that I gain weight in the winter months and lose most of it in the summer months.  Just the other day, my underwear tugged a little more than usual.  Ding!  Spring must be right around the corner.