I am an addict.
Acceptance they say is the first step to recovery from addiction. I fully admit that I am an obsessive addict.
I am addicted to the scale. Yes, that simple bathroom scale that tells us our weight.
I weigh every single day of my life whether I am on a diet or not. If there is a scale in a hotel room when I’m on holiday, I will jump on it every single day without fail. Funny but it doesn’t stop me stuffing my face on holiday.
I weigh every single morning before eating, drinking or showering, wearing the same thing and at as near the same time as possible. If my nightdress changes, I work out the difference in the articles of clothing and then stick to the new nightwear. The weighing of course only happens after morning wee and poo (TMI) to reflect my true weight.
Sometimes, I even weigh at night but that’s just for record and as a little preview to the next day’s weight as I can often predict the difference between my evening and the next morning’s weight. Sometimes like this morning, I get it spectacularly wrong
although of course my weight might have been affected by being woken in the middle of the night and an early start but let’s not go there. Let’s just accept that I was wrong.
When I am on a diet and I weigh, I analyse the hell out of the daily weight. I’d analyse the previous day’s water and food intake, exercise or anything that might have affected my weight. Sometimes, the weight would mean that I would change my food, reduce salt intake, stop eating a certain food because my body doesn’t like it after a certain hour. Adjust a certain type of exercise if it doesn’t promote weight loss.
The analysis could of course be totally non-sensical because analysing my post Cambridge food diary yesterday before deciding what I would have for my dinner, to ensure I ate something that would promote weight loss proved somewhat futile. From my food diary, having omelettes and prawns for dinner both promoted and inhibited weight loss. Go figure.
I fully appreciate the pointlessness of weighing daily because I know all those things about the human body, especially the female of the specie, having a mind of it’s own and being entirely mysterious to even the most studied biologists; the mystery of why certain things happen to our bodies. I know that weight fluctuates every second for countless reasons and the daily weight doesn’t conclusively tell me anything. I know I could be losing fat and retaining water, hence no loss or a little gain. Blah blah blah.
And of course there are the flip sides to weighing daily. The weeks where I have worked hard only for the scales to refuse to budge. The oh fuck it, I won’t lose anything this week, so eat that thing I shouldn’t eat after all it will not affect my official Saturday weight record. I fully accept that the scale can be the destroyer of diets.
The despondency and emotional torture that I am doing all I should be doing and not getting the “reward” I think I deserve. Perhaps the reward should be that I remain a 100 %er.
And please, don’t tell me that I might be losing inches because I’m afraid inches do not quite cut it like seeing my weight going down on the scales. Inches are just not as sexy as numbers on a scale going down.
I have been weighing every single day since I started the Cambridge diet. I haven’t lost any weight since Friday’s official weigh in. This hasn’t affected my motivation to stay on the diet but even though I am winning the mental battle, there is that devious little Imp…
Today, I sent a text to my consultant saying: “No loss since Friday! Should I start panicking, hit the gym or calm down and take a chill pill?”
She gave me the kick up the backside that I needed. I paraphrase but it was something like if you want this diet to work, get off the fucking scale.
Her challenge to me is that I mustn’t weigh until our meeting on Friday morning. I love a challenge; I just can’t bet that I won’t sneak in a teeny weeny little preview on the scale. Perhaps I won’t. Maybe, just maybe, I might succeed in the challenge. Or maybe I won’t.
Note to self: Step away from the [x] scale woman.
[x] is of course optional.
[x] = fucking.