Last week’s weight: 188.2
This week’s weight: 190.2
GAIN of 2 pounds
Yes, you read that right. I gained two pounds. In one week. Even though I exercised 4 times, the most I’ve exercised all month long. You wanna know how I managed this
awesome pathetic feat? I ate. I had a Blizzard one night, I had brownies two nights in a row, and on Monday night I ate my weight in food at Logan’s.
I am completely embarrassed. And angry. And beyond frustrated. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself: see progress on the scale, then get elated and immediately loosen up on my eating.
But this morning I had a bit of an epiphany: this all goes back to how I respond to the number on the scale. When it’s a good week, I’m ecstatic about my success, but this usually results in my slacking off, either with exercise or with tracking my food. When it’s a bad week, I’m upset by my lack of progress, which usually results in the figurative (and sometimes literal) throwing up of my hands and adopting the “Well, I already blew it so I may as well eat what I want” mindset. Even I only do this for one day before getting my act together, I can do a LOT of damage in that one day. The way I see it: both the good and bad days on the scale have one thing in common: I react to that number by losing focus. Logically, I realize it makes NO SENSE for me to respond to a loss on the scale by eating more, but I’ve done it time and time again recently, so I have to face the facts. And logically, I realize it makes NO SENSE to react to a gain by eating more (since that’s how I got the gain in the first place), and yet I’ve done that time and time again, too.
I’m letting go of the scale. My husband hid it this morning, and I have no idea where it is. I’m not putting a time frame on this; I’m just going to live my life for a little while, focus on eating healthy and moving my body, and when I feel like the time is right, I’ll ask my husband to take the scale out of hiding.
I’m completely terrified by this, but I think that’s a sign that in fact this is a good idea. I have been letting the number on the scale define me, and I don’t want that. Not one bit. And I definitely don’t want my sweet, precious, beautiful baby girl to grow up with a mommy whose mood is determined by what some little inanimate object says. I want her to be confident in who she is and to feel beautiful and treasured and loved, and if I’m going to give that to her, I have to give it to myself as well. For right now, that means that the scale can’t be the way I measure my progress. (More to come in a later post about how I do plan to measure my progress.)
So adios, scale. I don’t know when we’ll meet again, but I guarantee that when we do, you will hold no power over me.