This afternoon found me logging miles on the elliptical and testing out my newfound resolve to refrain from using the scale for at least the next 3 months (and possibly forever.
Seriously what possible reason do I have for knowing my exact weight? My driver’s license and my passport both have at least 5 years before expiration, so…) so consider that my Wellness Project update for the weekend. (20 days down, 10 to go.)
For the digital record, every workout I’ve had sans weigh-in has been infinitely more satisfying than any workout that ever preceded or followed a rendezvous with the worth-giver. I mean the validation dispenser. Or maybe we can just call it the shitty day-o-meter. Because folks, I could have logged 4 solid miles on the treadmill, lifted weights and be dripping sweat and feeling like a warrior princess and then … beep, beep, beeeeeep: the numbers prove me wrong. The numbers say that my work has been in vain, and not only that, has potentially set me back in my pursuit of bodily perfection, for I am 1.3 lbs up from yesterday.
So stupid. Why it took my 31 years to realize this, I can hardly say, but consider it realized. Working out is only fun (and sustainable) when I’m doing it for the right reasons, anyway.
I have some other thoughts percolating, thoughts about gratitude and worthiness and comparison and what an interesting weekend it has been, but a hungry angry baby who most definitely doesn’t appreciate the dairy I ingested yesterday is calling – nay, shrieking – my name.