A few months ago, I went to the doctor for an annual check-up. When the nurse led me over to the scale, I was elated to see that the “official doctor’s scale” read 10 pounds less than my home scaled had flashed just hours earlier.
It was a moment for celebration—“Suck it scale,” I thought to myself. “I knew you were lying to me.” I knew I was actually significantly lighter. I got home and weighed myself again. The dumb scale remained stuck on the higher number. Before throwing it out, however, I figured I should test a couple more scales.
So, I weighed-in at the gym and at my diet center … and unfortunately, all scales agreed with my home scale. The official doctor’s office was the incorrect one, and my false spirits were crushed. But why are my emotions so inextricably linked to the numbers on my scale?
It really doesn’t matter what the past week has held: My heart is eternally optimistic when I first step up onto the scale. I always wake up on weigh-in day hopeful and excited. There are thousands of opinions about how and when you should weigh yourself, but my favorite time is in the morning, before eating breakfast. It’s what I gauge all success on, that morning weigh-in; if I weigh myself at night, it’s for curiosity only and I never let it upset me. I weigh myself roughly five to six days a week, but my weight on Monday mornings is all I record.
Last week was kind of a toss up for me. I wasn’t expecting a huge loss, but maybe another pound down. I rolled out of bed last Monday morning, picked up around the house and anxiously stepped on the scale before I tucked it away—and it was 3 pounds up! Three extra pounds. I stepped off, took my pajamas off, and tried again. No dice—still 3 additional pounds there, flashing in my face.
Now, one of two things happen when I see something I don’t like on the scale. I either a) get my butt to the gym immediately b) march right downstairs and proceed to carelessly eat and drink whatever I feel like because what’s the point anyway. I’m a little bit dramatic.