My fitness goal has always been to get to the weight I lied to the the DMV about. Cute cops always check your eye color and lb’s. If you know me, you know how often I get pulled over and frankly I’m waiting for the day some badge-crab tells me I need to update my drivers license because 110 was clearly my birth weight. 

I updated all of you on my lack of numerical success after I finished my Whole30, and I’m back to the blog to admit that scale victories are a bigger waste of time than trying to get my ex to love me again. 

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Sometimes I forget that the most important relationship, the one between me and that number on the scale, is more private than anything I’ve ever held on to. One time, at a bar, a guy told me he could ‘guess my weight’. I was so in awe of his blatant lack of social normalcy that I almost let him throw me a digit. And then I stopped him. Cause either, I was going to be super offended or he was gonna seem incredibly ostentatious. Neither of which I had any desire to babysit amidst whiskey shot number four.

img_7145I still think back to that moment. It had such a make it or break it force behind one tiny guess. A complete stranger had that much power over me in those seconds of defining my head to toe appearance with a number. The wrong one, and I probably would have stopped eating forever. img_7146
But, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about how much I weigh? Unless you’re hell bent on postaging my body for sending somewhere, I think it’s safe to say that this number goes with me to the grave. Unless grave’s are base-cost determined by weight, in which case it goes with me to right before the grave.

One of the greatest things I’ve learned the past two months is that the less expectations you have of yourself, the more surprised you get to be when things change before your eyes. All of the fitness blogs these days are about ‘goals’ and honestly, my goal is to just not be who I was before. Of course, that’s even an expectation sometimes out of reach.

I had a literal melt-down last week and cried directly into a donut. Like, straight up stared at it, knew it was gonna win, cried about the potential of defeat, and then ate the soggy bastard like the glazed sin we all know it is. I blamed my period, my period blamed me. It was a vicious cycle. I had beat myself up for nearly three hours, fell off even further because I was depressed about the original mess up, and then I went dress shopping this weekend and slid into a size 6. A SIZE MOTHER FUCKING SIX.

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That my friends is what I like to call over-reacting. I’ve been so amazingly good to my body for the past 8 weeks and in my unstable and often debilitating mind I assumed that one (or two) mistakes reversed everything I had been so hard at work on because the number wasn’t moving, the cravings weren’t subsiding, the guys at the bar weren’t begging me to guess my weight…

Non scale victories are the battles we want to be winning. Our clothes fitting better, more energy, improved endurance, feeling healthy. Society feeds us these warped perceptions of what is right, and frankly I can’t afford to keep obsessing over a number that nobody else will ever know. I’ve been busy waiting for a weight loss and while the scale wasn’t changing, my body was.

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6/17/18

 

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