Perhaps I was briefly confused when thinking about any “resolutions”
for the impending hanging of a new calendar and figurative turning of a new
page (re: the year of 2015), and instead of listing things I WOULD do, I
thought about something I was going to give up…then I realized that it wasn't
Lent…because that’s when you give things up…and then I realized I don’t
participate in Lent…so I shouldn't have been confused to start with…
But anywhoozle, a thought did betide (this is a new word I
learnt myself today...meaning “come to pass”…you are welcome….I just made you
smarter) in my old thinker. And it went
like this..
What if I give up weighing myself for the entire year?
And then the anxiety set in.
Like palpable anxiety.
Could I do it? SHOULD
I do it? Will the world stop turning? Or worse…Would Jeb Bush become the official
candidate for the Republican parties bid for Presidency?
But before I start to spiral down a dark hole of terror…let
me back up and tell you WHY I thought this might be an idea.
The scale gives us a number.
A series of 3-4 numbers(depending if your Devil weight appraiser show
decimals) that, for many of us, will determine our feeling of accomplishment or
failure. These numbers possess magical
powers that somehow, possibly through osmosis through the soles of our bare
feet), creeps into our psyche and will either make us feel like a fabulous
skinny bitch or a wretched fat whale. We
use these numbers to mark milestones or to swap with others in the battle of
the bulge. We use these numbers to
compare ourselves to others. And as we
well know, comparison can be the thief of joy.
And I don’t like joy thiefs.
And I believe many of you will relate to the this following scenario.
You wake up feeling sexy.
You look in the mirror. Damn you
are fine. Ass is popping. Tummy looks nice. If you squint, suck in, and pull your tummy
skin back you maybe see an ab…or the place where an ab lives. Mentally, you are running through the
checklist of sacrifices you have made over the last couple of days to achieve
such fineness. Didn’t drink at kickball. Check.
Ate a salad and contained the dressing to an actual serving size versus
making a salad soup. CHECK. Took a big poop. CHECK CHECK.
And while you are strutting nakie around the bathroom, to stroll over to
the scale to confirm how awesome you feel.
You step on.
You wait.
And then it happens.
The read out appears. And what
does it say?
You’ve gained a pound.
Or you’ve maintained and haven’t lost a damn thing.
WHAT?!?!?!
And now you have gone from feeling like Kate Upton to
William Taft (Or 27th President of the United States who once,
reportedly, got stuck in his own bathtub).
Because of that number on the scale, because remember…in the above scenario
that’s all that changed…you hate yourself.
That ab you thought you saw? You look
again and now you see a fatroll. The
butt that was popping…now it’s droopy and wide.
And the anxiety also stems from the fact that can I give up
this friend of mine I love to hate? For
the last six years, the scale has been an integral part in my weight loss
journey. It’s a steady beau if you
will. Or maybe more like a stalker who
you sometimes let buy you presents. But
regardless, it’s been such a huge part of my life. And even before the lapband…the scale has
been in my life for decades. It has been
judging me or rewarding me since I was little.
And that right there…the fact that giving up the scale is so
scary…is reason enough to give it up.
I’ve long been a preacher of “take your measurements” or “sometimes
the scale doesn't reflect your hard work” or “muscle weighs more than fat”…and I
do believe all of those things…but it’s easier for me to preach it when my
weight on the scale is cooperating.
And so I weighed myself today for the last time for at least
a year (big swallow, deep breath).
180. Fairwell number! I will take my measurements tomorrow, and if
I need check on my progress or regression, I will measure in inches. I will pay attention to how my clothes
fit. I will focus on how my body
feels. I will focus on what my body can
accomplish. I will stay on top of my
fitness goals. I will continue to try to
“do better” and live healthier. And when
I am feeling dead sexy and super fine, I will embrace that feeling, get
dressed, and walk out the door feeling fabulous.
Wish me luck. Heather
just stared at my, not saying a word, when I shared my goal with her. I could see the idea scared her as well. She is not giving up the scale…which is
certainly fine. But I will have to look
at that little sucker everyday in our bathroom.
You know what I will do?
Give it a wink wink, blow it a kiss, and walk out with my head held high…ass
a’poppin!
