Someone might want to come and save my family…
I can openly admit I've been fairly miserable to live with the last few days. Poor Chris was up until the wee hours of 3am (and it's only 7:15am now as I write this) listening to me ramble and try and sort my thoughts and identify my feelings.
I'm kinda big on identifying my feelings.
And sharing them with the world.
You lucky readers.
It isn't some global crisis that's kept me on edge the last few days, or even some big family problem that's left me tossing and turning and overthinking the situation right and left. It's not newsworthy, or really even noteworthy.
Really, it's silly.
I'm filled with trepidation. I get that vaguely-nervous feeling, like a half-dozen butterfly cocoons giving a little shake in my belly. I'm not really aware of it, but I start worrying my lower lip and I get tense and agitated when I think about it.
You see…I have to go shopping.
I …need a scale.
Our scale died sometime last year, so I'd been using the one at my parents house. At the time I was seeing them every week, so it was an easy thing to duck back in the bathroom to borrow my moms. Bonus: they have 2 really long hallways, so my happy butt-wiggles in celebration of seeing those numbers move was really fun.
When I hit my last plateau back at the beginning of May, I was annoyed and frustrated, as plateaus are wont to make me.
Yes, I just said wont.
After 3 weeks of hovering around the same weight. I defiantly decreed (to myself, with my best scale-scorning expression) that I was officially refusing to step foot on a scale again until Father's Day.
I felt kinda stupid when I realized Father's day was 7 weeks away.
Well, crap..I'd been too used to weighing in every week. SEVEN WEEKS seemed like a really long time.
Fast-forward seven weeks, and tomorrow is Father's Day and the official weigh-in. Since I'm not down at my parent's house weekly anymore, my gift to myself is a new scale.
Leave it to me to figure out how to use Chris' day to get a gift for myself.
Over time my weight loss rate has steadily slowed. While I understand why, I still am not entirely pleased with the situation. Logic whispers (rather snidely, I must say) in my ear that it stands to reason that my loss of the last several weeks is not going to be something big and dramatic.
I really don't like Logic.
While I'm hovering in this period of body dysmorphic disorder, I can't see the positive changes as much as I see the negative stuff. I feel like I'm waiting for the numbers to wow me, to dazzle me, to point out the already-obvious marked changes I've made already and make them MEAN something.
I'm afraid that Logic and his snide truths have a very valid point, and for some reason, I'm letting it disappoint me before it's even happened.
Yes, I have issues.
Sometime during my early-morning emotional ramblings, I came to the realization that I'm waiting for the scale and the magic numbers to validate me, to signal my success or failure. I want reassurance that I've done well, despite my wild and crazy no-carb-counting vacation and the relaxed carb limits I've allowed myself. I'm relying on the scale to empower me, to encourage me, to be my magic mirror and tell me I'm the fairest of them all.
I'm (ha ha) counting on it reminding me that I'm still fighting the good fight, and that cannot give up.
Seriously, this better be one hell of an amazing scale.