Ten days of vacation, lots of good home cooking, lots of meals out, lots and lots of snacks, not so many dog walks, and what do you get? At least a couple of pounds gained. Maybe more than a couple. I’m not saying.
What I will say is that I decided my bathroom scale needs to leave my house for the next several weeks at least, so I banished it to the garage today. Out of sight, out of mind. I think we will both benefit from spending some time apart.
Like every woman
who struggles with her weight, my mood and self-image tend to rise and fall along with the number on my scale. Every single life makeover or action plan I have ever conceived starts with “lose 20 lbs.” (or more; usually more). I talk a good line, but I can’t seem to help buying into the idea that I would have a better life and, in fact, would actually be a better person if only I weighed less than I currently do. I am bombarded with that message every single day, so how can it not affect me?
So even though I feel compelled to step up on it every single morning, I still hate my scale and want to shoot it for not showing me what I want to see and for not telling me what I want to hear: that I am a good person, a good daughter and sister and neighbor and friend, and that no matter what number it registers, I still deserve love and success and happiness in life just the same as everyone else.
Instead of daily weighing, I’m going to try to make good choices for the next few weeks, such as exercising more and eating out less. I have some new (healthy) recipes to try and a couple of dinner dates planned. I have a couple of other things in the works, too, that should help me feel a lot better even if I never gain or lose another ounce. My body deserves better than it’s been getting lately and I’m going to do my best to deliver.
Maybe I won’t bring the scale back in the house at all. Wouldn’t that be liberating?