This afternoon, I’ve decided: I’m boycotting scales.
The last time I got on a scale and felt anything other than horror was in my last year of undergrad, in the months after my boyfriend had broken up with me, when anything I ate tasted like nothing and I had to chew it forever. When I felt nauseated most of the time, and so never felt hunger. It was a terrible overwrought ridiculous depressing stage of my life and it’s terribly twisted that sometimes I look back on that time with nostalgia. Because I didn’t have to go to the gym, or worry about cutting back on drinking because of the calories. I didn’t have to think about it at all but my body looked so good and my scale made me happy (the scale was the only thing that made me happy then, really).
Anyway, that was two-and-a-half years ago. And of course, I got over my heartache, and I gained back the weight I lost—and then some. I guess I’ve developed some unhealthy habits—namely, I love food. I love food more than anything, and always have. Food and drink—I find them to be the greatest pleasures of life and sometimes I find myself consuming more of them than I should. And, in my free time, I don’t play soccer or garden or have some other sort of active hobby. I read and I write—intellectually satisfying activities, yes, but my body is completely stagnant while my brain is engaged. And so, the pounds came on. And in January of this year, I decided enough was enough. Instead of going to the gym only occasionally, in sporadic spurts when I would feel especially guilty, I was going to make the gym part of my lifestyle.
And I have. I really really have. I’ve been at the gym 3-6 times per week, for at least 45 minutes at a time, since January. In that time, there have maybe been three or four weeks where I’ve been bad—my grandmother, who had cancer for awhile, got really sick in March and then died, so when we made our couple of weeklong trips up there, that was a lot of eating and laying around. I go up to visit my boyfriend every couple of weeks and let loose then. And I’m terrible about monitoring my food intake—I can do good for most of the day, but at least one meal a day ends up being bad. I don’t know. I’m not perfect you guys. I know I’m not perfect.
BUT I’ve drastically changed my lifestyle. And, oddly enough, I’ve gone to the gym enough times that I really look forward to it—as an outlet, and as a signal to myself that I’m not being a lazy bum. It makes me feel good about myself. Until I get on that stupid scale.
I. Have. Not. Lost. One. Pound.
I know that means I need to eat more veggies and fruits, and less cheese and chocolate and wine. I know it should serve as a motivator for me, to help me be healthier—and introducing one healthy change into my life successfully should get me excited, because I know that enacting even more healthy changes is a possibility. But really, all that stupid scale does is make me feel frustrated with myself and my body. And I feel bad enough often enough already without some dumb number quantifying my dissatisfaction.
Screw you, scale. I live a relatively healthy life. And things are only going to get better.
To put this into context, my BMI is right on the borderline between healthy and overweight. I’m not solidly overweight or obese—and as long as I continue exercising regularly (which I’m pretty sure I will, because it really has changed my life in wonderful ways—made my days feel more rewarding, made me happier overall) I shouldn’t be in danger of reaching either of those levels. The level of frustration that I feel with my body isn’t really proportional to the actual physical problems that exist with it. I know this.
But—I am only 24 years old. 24 is not an acceptable age to kiss your slender years goodbye. Sometimes I really hate myself for not exercising regularly all along—it’s really not as hard as it seems like it’d be when you aren’t doing it. Once you get into the habit, it just becomes a part of your life. I should’ve buckled down two years ago (the exercising alone would’ve made me happier and more stable without even taking the way my body looks into account), but I didn’t, and I’m mad at myself for waiting until now, when everything feels like a crisis and I can’t seem to work hard enough or cut back enough on my intake to lose the ten pounds I’d like to get rid of so I can start feeling good about myself again.
BUT, maybe if I stopped with the scale, stopped fixating on those ten pounds—well, I’d definitely feel better in the short term, and hopefully in the long term something good would happen to my body. In the past couple weeks, I’ve picked up my exercise routine—early on, it was a lot more 3-day weeks, and now I’m doing at least 4 or 5. I want to let myself feel good about the things I am doing. And yes, I want to get rid of this belly pooch, which I never thought I’d have (man oh man I want to kick myself for the ways I’d stress about my body in years past, when it was fine, when it was wonderful)—but really I just want to be satisfied with myself, to be happy.
So, I need to get away from that number. In a week, I’m moving—the scale at the place I’m at now belongs to my old roommate, and I’m not going to buy a scale for the new place. And I’m enacting a junk food ban for myself—no store-bought cookies, no chips, only low-fat cheeses. No Cheez-Its (that’s going to be the worst). And I’ll be a lot closer to the grocery store, and I’ll get in the habit of going once a week, so there will always be fresh fruit and veggies for me to have. I have a plan, and the scale hasn’t helped me with it—all the scale does is stress me out and make me wish I had some nachos.
This has been a long and self-indulgent post. But damn, I needed to do something to make me feel a little bit empowered, and a little less shitty. Everything is going to be okay. There’s so much more to life than my body anyway, and it’s still a relatively good body even if I don’t lose a pound. I need to calm down and stay away from the scale and everything is going to be okay. I’m going to take a deep breath and everything is going to be okay.
