I recently read this post on A Foodie Stays Fit about Teri’s lack of a scale. And I’ve often been conflicted myself about purchasing one.
I totally relate to her struggle with the number on the scale affecting her mood and the way she feels about herself for the entire day. I am definitely the same way.
However, I feel like my attitude about the number that shows up on the scale is less about a true goal related to my weight and what I think I should weigh. And it’s probably more about a number I think I would like better. Since I’ve started training for this half-marathon, I genuinely like my body. I appreciate its newfound strength and energy. I love the way my legs and core have gotten stronger.
I even am endeared to my body’s struggles. I know that after about 2 and a half miles – no matter how far I have to run for the day – I’m going to want to quit. My legs will burn. My lungs will ache. And the sweat will be pouring from my face. [It’s totally gross, but that’s what I look like when I run. Thus my complete anti-social attitude at the gym!]. And I appreciate the fact that I have work to do to reach my physical goals. I also really appreciate how far I’ve come! I couldn’t run a mile in high school. Here I am at 30 running because I [sorta] enjoy it!
My strange attitude about being a certain weight is a strange one. Even more strange to me is the fact that I haven’t had a scale in my house for almost 4 years. Not for any conscious reason other than that I haven’t purchased one, but when I’ve been tempted to buy a scale, I’ve always mentally talked myself out of it. Because when it comes down to it, I don’t need one.
In so many ways, numbers rule my life. I am obsessive about keeping up-to-the-minute [seriously!] in the know about the balance of my checking account. I budget my months religiously. I absolutely LOVE those numbers – they keep me accountable.
I am a list-maker and a list-follower. Everyday has a to-do list. Every to-do list is prioritized by a number. Hopefully, every number is completed and crossed off each day. That doesn’t usually happen, but it keeps me on track.
When I’m running and I am running on fumes or hit a huge hill, or get frustrated, unmotivated… or whatever, I count. I count sidewalk squares and won’t stop until I hit whatever arbitrary number I so choose. I count cars in the parking lot when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. I count seconds until I can justify taking a walk break.
Numbers pretty much rule my life. But I really don’t have much of a need for a scale. I know, it shocks the hell out of me too.
Maybe it’s simply because I’ve reached another number of note: 30 years old. I don’t care nearly as much as the poundage on the scale, but instead just want to feel strong, capable and accomplished.
And just in case a number were to pop up on a scale when I step on, I choose not to engage in that sort of behavior. I want to love myself and my body and the achievements I’ve already made and the achievements that are surely yet to come. After all, numbers don’t matter, but feelings certainly do.