I Hid The Scale

The dreaded scale, the constant Bearer of Bad News.

Staring at me every morning, taunting me, daring me to step up as I take my morning shower.

Knowing that the numbers it flashes at me are capable of creating a depression that merely spirals into the vicious cycle of vows, more weigh-ins, and more frustration.

I mean, why should I give in?  My clothes fit, I'm in the best shape of my life, and I'm training for a marathon.  Why should a marathon runner-in-training care about 5 pounds?

Because I am a typical woman who worries about things like 5 pounds.  And that, friends, is not worth it.  Period.

So, I did the only thing that would work.

I hid the scale.

It's still around, still calls to me.  But it has a new home under the guest bed.  Easy enough to access, but I have to want to.  No impulsive hop-ons just to see my progress.

Twice a day weigh-ins were bordering on obsessive.  Now I'm down to once a week or so.  But on my terms.  I have to want to know, and I have to want to know badly enough to go find it.

This is part of my master plan to be happy with me and my life.  Now, the way it is.  It works well.

Are you a slave to the scale, or to an unrealistic image of yourself that keeps you from being happy where you are and with who you are?  How do you break the cycle?