On the Scale

I'd love to say that my battle with what I call the "Scale Tailspin" is over, but I know that it's not.

Even now, I struggle not to let that number define how I feel about myself and how I measure success. This morning, for instance, I stepped on the scale to discover that I'd gained two and a half pounds in the last two weeks. Two. And. A. Half.

I had prepared for this moment. I made a promise to myself that I would view a gain, after all of this hard work and clean eating, as a success. I'm working my body hard and eating right, I told myself. If I gain, it's because I'm gaining muscle.

The number on the scale does not define you, I reminded. It does not tell you how fast or strong you are. It does not say how many vegetables you ate or how much water you drank. It does not measure your worth or your body fat or your success or your failure. It is an arbitrary number that you have no control over.

And yet...I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed because I know that I'm still very overweight. I'm about forty pounds higher than I want to be or about four jeans sizes larger than I want to be. I want to be lean and, though I know that the number on the scale will not tell me how lean I am, I know that, at some point, it has to go down if I'm going to reach my goal.

I'm struggling to feel optimistic. There is a small part of me that is glad that I'm this overweight because the before and after pictures will look fantastic. When I reach my goal, it will be truly impressive and it will be so visible.

But I want it now. And as much as I hate to admit it, that number on the scale was discouraging. Part of me wonders if I will ever get there. Part of me wonders if I'm not doing enough. Should I slash calories? Should I work out twice a day? Will this ever work? Should I just give up?

I know this is ridiculous. I can't go from my all or nothing lifestyle, from dieting for eight weeks and binging for six months to eating clean 80% or more of the time and exercising 5-7 days per week and not reach my goal. It's just not possible. I just need to believe, and I need to stick with it.

And I need to let go of the fucking scale already.

So...I'm going to do just that. For an entire month. First, I will have Mr. Kazoo help take my measurements. I will weigh myself one last time. I will then put my scale and my measuring tape on my tippy top-most shelf in my closet, and I will leave it there...for THIRTY. Whole. Days.

I've never in my life managed to go so long without weighing myself. I weigh myself approximately 3 times EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I have no idea how I will be able to not know what my weight is on a daily basis, but I'm going to try.

I've ditched a lot of unhealthy habits in my life. Seven years ago, I quit smoking. Two and a half weeks ago I quit (for what I hope is the final time) my diet soda addiction. And now...the scale.

I will try and focus on how I feel. On how my clothes fit. On how much faster I'm getting when riding or walking up Hogsbitch. On how many more pushups I can do without stopping. On how many servings of vegetables I eat in a given week. These are healthier measures of success than the number on that wretched scale. They won't leave me naked and biting my lip in the bathroom every morning, afternoon, and evening, wondering why I'm failing.

Thirty days. Tomorrow will be day 1. Let's do this.