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.
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.
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!