On April 4th, I made the colossal mistake of getting on a scale.
I thought I was doing a wise thing, since I had been logging my food again. I learned before that a smaller body needs less energy to fuel it. So if I was losing weight – as I believe I was – I should probably check in and enter the new lower weight, so I could recalculate my daily calorie goal.
The only thing was, when I entered my starting weight back in February, I used a number from last October. It was the last time I’d been on a scale, when I was at the doctor’s office for my annual physical. Well, between October and February, there were the holidays. Guess what? I must have put on some weight, because even though I felt as though I’d lost weight between February and April, the number on the scale was had gone up quite a bit.
I wish I could say it didn’t matter. In my mind, I know that there is a much bigger picture, and that the number on that scale is only one small part of that picture. But emotionally, I feel something so completely different.
Seeing that number on the scale sent me into a tailspin. It sure as heck did not encourage me. I stopped logging. I started eating whatever. I stopped caring.
And now, two weeks later, I still can’t seem to get back on track. Heck, I don’t even know exactly what track I want to get on! I try to start logging again, but it isn’t working.
And so I have decided never to get on a scale again. I mean it. Never. Ever. The next time I go to the doctor and they ask me to get on the scale, I intend to politely decline. And if they insist, I will turn around and get on backward, so that I don’t see the number. It seems like the most compassionate thing I could do for myself.
Every time I get on a scale, it messes with me. So why would I want to keep putting myself through that? No, thank you.