I have a problem.
There, I said it. It’s the first step to dealing with it, right?
I am addicted to my scale.
I know that I shouldn’t really weigh myself more than once a week. I know that weighing myself every day is not a good idea. I know that body weight can fluctuate as much as 10 pounds in a single day…I’ve seen it happen.
It’s not just every day, though. It’s every morning. Every night. Before meals. After meals. Before and after working out. Before and after showers. Every time it’s in my sight, I have to step on it. Just to “see.”
I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It couldn’t be a problem because wasn’t making different choices based on the number on the scale. I was just curious.
But it’s become a big deal. It’s become a problem. Do I want seconds? Let me check the scale, first. The number haunts me during my workout, pushing me, taunting me. It can build me up and tear me down several times in a matter of hours. It’s exhausting.
It hit me last week that something has to change. I talked to the Hubster about it and asked if I could hide the bathroom scale and he could use one at the Y for a while. (I could use one at the Y, too, but I don’t like to get on the scale in front of other people—it’s the same reason I won’t use the one at my office, with or without someone standing guard for me.) He agreed, but I still couldn’t bring myself to put it away.
After my Weight Watchers meeting last Sunday morning, I decided I was ready. I’ve been doing very well with my weight loss lately—I’ve lost 9 pounds in the past 3 weeks, bringing my total to 33.8 pounds and I am feeling great. I am SO over the plateau.
So I stashed away my scale and I haven’t weighed myself in a week.
It’s a tough habit to kick. I can’t say how many times I’ve walked into the bathroom, looking for a scale that’s not there anymore. I’ve even eyed the scale at the office and the one on the fitness floor at the Y. It’s killing me. This week, I did a little rearranging in my bathroom, and the scale “just happened” to find its way out of hiding. I did not step on, although I tried really hard to convince myself that no one would ever know since I was home alone. I’ve stood in front of the scale several times, actually, trying to cut deals with myself. Last night, I was in the locker room by myself, eyeing the scale there. I didn’t do it, though.
I decided to wait until my meeting and learn my fate. I figure, if I gain, then I need to step it up and get a better handle on my eating, etcetera. If I lose, then I need to chill out and quit freaking out about weighing myself every two seconds.
Of course, my plan has flaws. Since I haven’t been weighing, I’ve been killing myself with exercise, spending a grand total of eleven hours working out, including Turbo Kicking four times, a three mile Memory Walk for the Alzheimer’s association, and two and a half solid hours of exercise at the Group X Fitness Jam last night. For the most part, I made pretty smart food choices. I did have more than my fair share of tacos….and a woman at my office broke out the candy corn last week. I’ve learned that it’s easier for me to just say NO and not allow myself any than to try to have a little bit. If I have none, I’m okay. But if I have some…I want more. Because I don’t want a little bit. I want the whole damn bag.
When I got up this morning, I eyed the scale, dying to know the number that awaited me. I knew, though, that there was nothing I could do to change it, so I may as well suck it up, head to my meeting, and find out the official number there. I lost…6/10ths of a pound. I won’t lie. I was disappointed. I’m really close to 35 pounds and I was hoping I would see it this week. It took me forever—yes, literally forever—to reach 30 pounds, I know I shouldn’t be chomping at the bit to see 35, but I am. I’m also ready to see 40, 50, 60+ pounds lost.
There have been plenty of non-scale victories. Smaller clothes, compliments, more energy, higher self esteem…the list goes on. It’s harder to appreciate those things, though, when the number is still so high. If I was struggling to lose my last five, ten, or even twenty pounds, I would feel better about the sluggish pace at which I’ve been losing. But, people, I still have at least another 65 pounds to lose. I’m not even halfway there. It’s frustrating.
During the Memory Walk yesterday, I was discussing weight loss with one of my teammates and I told her I wanted to lose about 100 pounds.
She laughed, “You don’t need to lose a hundred pounds!”
I smiled and told her, “Not anymore.”
I know that I’m on my way. I know that I can do it. (Do I sound convincing enough?) I’m suddenly feeling awful about myself. I was making dinner tonight and the Fat Lady inside of me was screaming at me to use more cheese. (I didn’t, although I did indulge in 6 ounces of delicious ice cream later.)
So, what have I decided about my little scale experiment? Like everything else, the scale is okay for me in moderation. I will allow myself to weigh in just once a day, not every time I think about it. I put a new shelf in my bathroom this week, so I think I will put a notebook there so I can keep track of how I’m doing.
34.4 pounds gone. While I’m secretly hoping for a 5.6 pound weight loss next Sunday so I can jump right to 40 pounds lost, I would be happy losing another .6 to get me to 35. At least it’s something.