I’m 155 days into this whole workout thing. I haven’t stepped on a scale since day 91.
I haven’t stepped on a scale because I can’t handle what will happen if that number isn’t smaller. Isn’t small enough.
I’m proud of myself. For working hard. For doing this when I could easily not. For my thighs looking a little smaller, my shirts being loose enough to go down a size.
But then. Then I see a picture of myself and good Lord is my face really that round? And then I go on vacation and I don’t care how much weight you’ve lost you get into a bathing suit and still feel stellar. I dare you. Then I eat a handful of chips and then some cheese and then hey, why not some Oreos too? And suddenly my pants are too tight.
And all of that work I’ve done, all of that time I’ve spent trying to learn to love my own body even if it doesn’t look the way I wish it did. All of that goes out the window.
Then I get pissed. Because I’ve spent 155 days working my ass off. 155 days standing in front of a mirror and forcing myself not to look away, to really look and finding that I may not love what I see, but I don’t hate it either. And all of that gets wiped away because of a bad camera angle or an extra helping of dinner.
It should be stronger than that, my own acceptance of my body. It should be strong and unbreakable and resistant of bad camera angles.
But it’s not. It’s tenuous and delicate and so very, very susceptible to bad camera angles.
So, I don’t step on the scale. Knowing that if I did it may be the very thing that breaks my momentum.