For the last little while, I’ve been aware that my scale wasn’t exactly accurate (ie it would give me wildly different results depending on if I held my breathe or thought junk food thoughts) but it was nice to see the numbers as low as they were. But it wasn’t enough.
I wanted a scale that told me my weight in increments of 0.1 lbs instead of only 0.5. I wanted a scale that did more – told me my body fat % and hydration levels. I’d outgrown my scale and it was time to move on.
I bought a new scale on the weekend. It’s fancy glass and digital display and it tells me my weight, my body fat and %, my hydration levels and more. It is super cool.
It is also 3lbs heavier than my old scale.
Logically, I know I didn’t gain 3lbs overnight. Logically, I know that my pants are in fact fitting looser and my belly is flatter. I know all this logically but my mind is focussed on the NUMBER. The great big hulking NUMBER lurking in the corner of my bedroom, next to the mirror.
I tell myself that I’m getting stronger and fitter and I’m as skinny as I was when the number was lower but lying to me. I tell myself that the NUMBER doesn’t matter. But it does. In my mind, it does.
It does because my mother asks me about my weight EVERY TIME we talk
It does because I was so proud of myself for getting into a lower decade and now I’m not there.
It just does.
It’s all psychological but it’s a strong hold. And I feel sad that it’s there. I always wanted to not be my mother on this – not be held to ransom by a number. And here I am, turning into my mother.