As I ran through the steady rain from my house to the gym this morning thoughts entered my mind in matched cadence.
Did-I-make-it?-One-
hundred-pounds.-That's-
a-lot-of-weight.-I-
wonder-what-a-hundred-
pounds-of-pizza-looks-
like.-Or-a-hundred-pounds-
of-hundred-dollar-bills.-
Was-that-last-squish-dog-
poop? And on and on.
I know! I drive myself nuts with that kind of thing. Anyway, it was raining and it was cold and dark and I was running along the quarter-mile or so it is between my house and the gym and I got to thinking (yes, still in cadence) about stepping on the scale and thus eliminating all the anticipation I had built up over whether I had lost or gained weight over the last day- not because of any significance I had placed on the 100 lb. mark but because I feel that anticipation EVERY day. I've come to realize that the opportunity to fiddle with that scale motivates me.
It wasn't always the case (big surprise there, huh?). I used to avoid the cursed thing and curse at it when I stepped on it. It was a fickle bitch; sometimes rewarding me by showing a little less on the dial; sometimes chiding me- or just flat pissing me off with some extra digits. It would upset me, make me mad, blow me kisses. It could control my mood for the entire day.
Not anymore.
Why? What changed?
I decided after the first month or so that the scale just measures what's placed on it. There is no guile or feeling expressed in what it reports whatsoever. It just reports. I'm the one that steps on the pad. I'm the one that makes its' pointer move. Me. I control it. I'm in charge.
That's the kind of crap that goes through my noggin when there isn't much to look at and the iPod shuffles from The Hives to elevator music. Anyway, I ran on through the rain and darkness (just like most of the sentences in my blog) until I got to the gym- and the rest of this morning's mini-drama.
OK. So I was at the gym, resolute in the knowledge that I controlled the scale- it didn't control me. Still I felt a twinge of anticipation (I think I always will) as I stepped up onto the pad, slid the counterweights into position and began to slide the little marker-weight where I thought it should be...
DENIED!
If I were a number-rounding, horseshoes and hand-grenades kind of guy I would have called it an even 100. Since I'm more the OCD, anal-retentive, do-things-in-threes, wash-your-hands-exactly-twenty-seven-times-per-day-or-something-bad-will-happen kind of guy, I'll call it 99 and look forward to Monday with continued determination.
...and a little twinge of anticipation.
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Great post and what an accomplishment. I prefer round numbers too, but almost 100 lbs lost is totally awesome! THREE CHEERS!