Ranting Lily: !@#$% Number

So, I’ve been working out at the gym since late January. I haven’t turned into a workout freak, but I average 2-3 trips to my local YMCA a week. There I work 45-60 minutes each trip either on the treadmill or the circuit training machines. To augment my workout, I’ve started to watch more carefully what I eat and drink. Soda and coffee consumption down. Water and juice consumption up. Portion control is a big part of my so called diet.

The weight isn’t melting off like you see on T.V., but I fully expected that. What I was aiming for was to be healthier. And as I get healthier, I know that some of the weight will come off. And I’m cool with that.

Okay – I thought I was cool with that.

Yesterday, I made a trip to see my doctor. Over the last few months, I’ve had some tests done to figure out a minor medical issue that I have (For any of my family and friends reading: 1) Its not life threatening and 2) I AM NOT PREGNANT). Yesterday was another visit to review one of the tests. As always, my doctor wants my stats.

I’ve been in a few times, so me and the nurse had the routine down pat. Blood pressure, temperature, and blood sugar pin-prick test. Everything, as usual, was normal. The nurse ripped off the blood pressure cuff and pointed to the corner. “Okay, Missy…hop on the scale.” This was a new twist. We hadn’t done this before.

But it was no big deal in my head. According to my previous medical charts, my weight hadn’t fluctuated more than six pounds in the last five years. AND, I’ve been exercising! So I got on and watched the scale, almost excited to see where my exercise has taken me.

So, the scale hit my start weight from January.

And then it went five pounds up. And another five. And then another five.

I raised my eyebrow at the final result. It took every ounce of self-control standing there in that exam room, not to kick down the door and run out crying. How THE HELL did that scale figure I was TWENTY pounds heavier from my start weight at the beginning of the year?! And if I was THAT heavy…why are all my clothes fitting better? And I’m fitting into clothes I haven’t worn in years?

To sum up my state of mind – despite physical evidence that I’ve been doing okay…that !@#$% NUMBER SAYS I’M STILL A FAT COW.

*Several deep cleansing breaths later*

I like to think I’m not a vain person. I’ve never had a problem dressing myself or feeling confident with the way I look. My fashion upbringing was based on confidence. If you have that, you can sell the outfit you’re wearing. Confidence is the perfect accessory. I’ve worn it all these years, and I believe I’ve worn it well.

But a three digit number on a stupid scale managed to make my confidence crack faster than my parents giving me a lecture in front of my friends. All of a sudden, I was rethinking my exercise routine, my diet, and my attitude. The rest of the day, I was disheartened. I was pissed off clear into this morning. I was pissed at the scale, at the nurse, at the office, at the freakin’ time of day.

Most of all, I was pissed at myself.

I did what I said I would never do. I let a number control what I thought about how I lived my life. My one stunning accessory was undermined by a trifling number! It was truly maddening. No wonder women hate scales. They’re devices of torture and they should be abolished.

It took the better part of today, support from Lenny and my work teammates to convince me that the scale had not been calibrated correctly since the dark ages. My exercise and eating are better. I’m much healthier for it in the long run. I feel a little better about it now…but it should have never happened.

So help me – I’m never going to let that !@#$% number drag me down again.