Someone's pleased with himself this morning.
"What's your number today?"
As he tells me (his business, so I'm not sharing) I can see him doing an internal victory lap. Lately his number's been riding a bit higher than he likes, so he's thrilled that his efforts have been paying off.
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| Our first Easter vs our most recent Christmas. |
I've been running 3+ miles a couple times a week, pretty honest with my food tracking (the hardest part is doing so when you know you've had a bad day - connect with me on MFP!) and doing yoga on a consistent basis so I'm feeling pretty confident.
The smooth metal surface of the scale reflects the lights above it as I step on. The numbers start processing so I try to hold extra still to make sure they're accurate. When they've stopped I glance down.
That doesn't look right.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and step off to let it zero out. I check the scale to make sure it's not laying on a grout seam or something then I step back on.
Same results.
172.2.
I realize at this point in time I have one of two ways I can go: I can get upset and let this dictate my entire day or I can realize it's just a number in a moment of time and count on how I feel instead.
Not to mention I drank a ton of water last night and haven't had the first BM yet, so this could be the result of any number of things.
C's cries indicating he's ready to get the day started cause me to make a snap decision. I peek at the number again. Sigh, shrug, hop off the scale and decide to move on with the day.
Am I thrilled with the number? No. Not at all. Most times I feel as though I'm a skinny person living in a fat person's body, but I can't really be mad at my body (insert cliche list of all the amazing things my body is capable of here).
It serves its purpose and it's a constant work in progress.
So long as I'm not just sitting on my butt cramming my mouth full of chips all day long that is.
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