Where I remind myself, time & time again, that weight is just a number
I stepped on the scale today. And I didn’t like the number that looked back at me.
The number is a bigger number than it’s been in a very long time. The number is a bigger number than it was the day that Leila was born.
I need to stop focusing on this number.
Here’s the thing, I’m in better shape now. I’m no longer ashamed of my arms. I’m wearing clothes that wouldn’t have fit me in college. If I’ve had a couple of drinks and then look cross-eyed in a mirror, I can almost sense what a six pack might look like on me.
While I haven’t been running as much as I’d like, my recovery from any run is a fraction of what it was a few years ago.
I can do pushups with two toddlers clinging onto my back.
My dimples, which disappeared in middle school, are back.
I do the 30-minute circuit at Planet Fitness, and the only exercises that I haven’t, at least, doubled the weight I’m pulling are on machines where I’m pulling the entire stack.
I’m far fitter than I give myself credit for.
Now, I won’t deny that if I could just lay off the cheese, and the wine, and french fries, I’d be happier with the overall product . . . but I need to tell myself that my health does not equate to my weight.
Somewhere, in the back of my head, I know this, but I need to remind myself of the same every now & then.