Actually, there are two; one for him, one for her. The bathroom scale. It tells you what the mirror won’t. It tells you before your clothes will. It tells you the inconvenient truth. But I’m not listening.
Most of the time, I step on the scale in the morning like I’m paying a regular penance. If the weight is reasonably stable or, heavens to Betsy– down, it starts my morning off with a bang. If it’s up– an all too often occurrence, well, it can (heh heh) weigh me down.
I won’t weigh myself on mornings when I have a tennis match. Who needs to think, just as your partner is serving, that your butt probably looks big in that 13 1/2 inch skirt?
I worry that if I don’t weigh myself regularly, the weight will creep up unexpectedly as I innocently scarf down pizza. But when I’m actively trying to lose weight, and not just maintain, it’s hard to weigh myself because the scale just doesn’t move.
That’s where I was a few weeks ago when I began P90x. I was hoping for some significant results in weight loss and well, frankly, I’m still waiting. But I haven’t stepped on the scale in a few weeks, mostly because I’m tired of being disappointed in the lack of movement.
But every morning, as I enter the bathroom, that scale–those scales–they taunt me. ”You’re afraid,” they hiss. Yes, I think. You’re right. I’m not just afraid that I haven’t lost weight. I’m afraid that I’ve gained.
I try to think that the differences I see in strength and stamina are enough. But I know it’s not true.
Maybe Thursday I’ll take the plunge, get rid of the uncertainty, and go toe to toe with the scale. But then again, maybe I’ll schedule a tennis match so I don’t have to.
