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There's this number on my scale that you can't put anything past. Not six days at the gym. Not boiled eggs and cottage cheese for lunch. Not living diet coke free. Not a few extra nights of yoga. Not even with physical therapy thrown in, like a cherry on top.
It's a stubborn number. It's a number I reached in my mid-20s after moving to LA and living a martini and dinner party lifestyle of extravagance. It was the most I'd ever weighed. Then, it was my max. And now it's become my minimum.
Before I weaned the Lil' Man, the pounds were flying off. The minute I stopped nursing the scale and I ceased being friends. It is literally stuck. Or rather, those last 10-15 pounds are stuck around my middle. Last week, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a new bikini I bought last month and what I saw was a horror show. I wanted to contact each person who'd seen me in public in this suit and personally apologize. Now I'm back to wearing my maternity bathing suit, which I'm more comfortable in, except for the fact that I can no longer fill out the bust.
I can't resign myself to the fact that I'll be this weight, and this dreaded size, forever. But I have to do something to regain my sanity. I came this far with Weight Watchers, but I just can't count another point. I tried the Master Cleanse and failed after a day and a half.
So, what's my new plan? It's called F the Scale. I'm going to put it in my closet, which will get buried by mess and clutter in no time. Take that scale! You may be stubborn, but you have met your match honey! Because I am the Queen of Stubbornness. And I'm gonna show you who's boss.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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2 comments:
The number I'm stuck at would have made me curl into a ball of self loathing and cry before I got pregnant. Now....I dunno it still doesn't feel GOOD.
I like your plan. I might have to copy it.
Oh, and I'm sure that you looked much better in that bikini that you think. I'm all for using babies as camoflauge if wearing a swimsuit. Everyone is staring at the baby, not at me, the baby can cover the stomach area, and, if someone does notice me, they'll hopefully think that I look good - or at least not bad - for having had a baby recently. Eight months is starting not to feel recent, though....
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There's this number on my scale that you can't put anything past. Not six days at the gym. Not boiled eggs and cottage cheese for lunch. Not living diet coke free. Not a few extra nights of yoga. Not even with physical therapy thrown in, like a cherry on top.
It's a stubborn number. It's a number I reached in my mid-20s after moving to LA and living a martini and dinner party lifestyle of extravagance. It was the most I'd ever weighed. Then, it was my max. And now it's become my minimum.
Before I weaned the Lil' Man, the pounds were flying off. The minute I stopped nursing the scale and I ceased being friends. It is literally stuck. Or rather, those last 10-15 pounds are stuck around my middle. Last week, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a new bikini I bought last month and what I saw was a horror show. I wanted to contact each person who'd seen me in public in this suit and personally apologize. Now I'm back to wearing my maternity bathing suit, which I'm more comfortable in, except for the fact that I can no longer fill out the bust.
I can't resign myself to the fact that I'll be this weight, and this dreaded size, forever. But I have to do something to regain my sanity. I came this far with Weight Watchers, but I just can't count another point. I tried the Master Cleanse and failed after a day and a half.
So, what's my new plan? It's called F the Scale. I'm going to put it in my closet, which will get buried by mess and clutter in no time. Take that scale! You may be stubborn, but you have met your match honey! Because I am the Queen of Stubbornness. And I'm gonna show you who's boss.
The Stubbornness of a Number
It's a stubborn number. It's a number I reached in my mid-20s after moving to LA and living a martini and dinner party lifestyle of extravagance. It was the most I'd ever weighed. Then, it was my max. And now it's become my minimum.
Before I weaned the Lil' Man, the pounds were flying off. The minute I stopped nursing the scale and I ceased being friends. It is literally stuck. Or rather, those last 10-15 pounds are stuck around my middle. Last week, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a new bikini I bought last month and what I saw was a horror show. I wanted to contact each person who'd seen me in public in this suit and personally apologize. Now I'm back to wearing my maternity bathing suit, which I'm more comfortable in, except for the fact that I can no longer fill out the bust.
I can't resign myself to the fact that I'll be this weight, and this dreaded size, forever. But I have to do something to regain my sanity. I came this far with Weight Watchers, but I just can't count another point. I tried the Master Cleanse and failed after a day and a half.
So, what's my new plan? It's called F the Scale. I'm going to put it in my closet, which will get buried by mess and clutter in no time. Take that scale! You may be stubborn, but you have met your match honey! Because I am the Queen of Stubbornness. And I'm gonna show you who's boss.