That's such a weird saying. "Ointment" is kind of a gross word.
In any case, there is a fly, an elephant in the room, some other egregiously out-of-place animal. I am afraid of a small white square in my bathroom - my scale.
Kara wrote about her scale-hatred the other day. I empathized. I haven't weighed myself in at least two months. I don't know what that little digital number would be if I hopped on today - and that terrifies me. It could be "big" - scare quotes because I know that what I think of as large is not necessarily shared by others. I don't know what my reaction would be. It could be smaller than it was before - if that's the case, I know I'd be relieved. That's scary on its own.
I know it would be okay not knowing. Some of the clothes I wore last summer don't fit or fit differently, but I expected that. It's not essential that I know my weight. But I think about it every time I'm in the bathroom. It's hardest first thing in the morning, the time I always used to weigh myself (no water weight). It's like when I'm confronted with an ice-cream cone or a doughnut - I want it, and I don't. It's yet another example of recovery's limbo-like state. It's so frustrating.