... Or should I say, “Formerly Fitty.”
This morning, I braved the scale at the Y. It was time. And, in the back of my mind, I think I knew what would happen. For the past couple of weeks, I have enjoyed myself. Too much. Losing 50 pounds felt really great. I was proud of my accomplishment, I felt good in my new clothes, and I went out A LOT to celebrate.
It’s funny, because, going into this weight-loss journey, I knew that was my MO. I knew that losing the weight was always the easiest part for me. Granted, I lost it through unhealthy means, but it always came off. And then, when I achieved a healthy weight and started feeling good about my appearance, I seemed to forget all the work it took to achieve that figure, and I started to “celebrate.”
In my world, “celebration” means consumption. I wish I wasn’t that way. I wish a “good time” didn’t mean sugar and margaritas and French fries and pizza. I wish it meant a walk on a gorgeous morning, or maybe window shopping at the mall, or a movie (without snacks).
But despite knowing full well that I was doing it again, I turned a blind eye, and I hit the bars and restaurants. Hard. The past week, I was seeing my behavior for what it really was.
Subtle cues started implanting lingering doubts in my brain. That little puffy area on my tummy came back. When I looked down in a tight shirt, there it was. The puff.
I also had avoided the scale for two weeks, which I realized when I didn’t have a new number to plug into MyFitnessPal.com so I could see my little ladybug on my ticker counter move a bit farther toward my goal-weight number.
That’s what really woke me up. When I start avoiding the scale, it’s because, subconsciously, I know it will be bad news, and rather than face that, I avoid it and say, “Before you get on the scale again, eat really, really good this week so it won’t be so bad when you do weigh-in.”
Denial. Bargaining. I knew it was time to face the music. I went to Step class this morning and had an awesome workout. (Despite the food and alcohol becoming a problem the last two weeks, my exercise is still very much in line.)
Then, I headed down to the locker room. Before I stepped on the scale, I sat down, took off my shoes, and I gave myself a little pep talk in my mind. “No matter what the scale says, you’ve got this. You’ll deal with it. Facing the truth is the first step.”
And then I stepped on.
Five pounds. I gained five pounds back.
My hope was that I had merely maintained, that I hadn’t lost anymore, but that I hadn’t done any real damage. The truth was harder to take.
But I truly do believe that this is the best thing that could have happened this morning. Had I stepped on that scale and maintained my 50-pound loss -- despite a two-week drinking and sugar binge -- it would have validated my behavior, and I likely would have kept going down the wrong path.
Gaining five back, well, let’s just say it woke me up, slapped me in the face, whatever cliche you want to use.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t get down on myself too much.
I went home. I showered. And I walked to work.