Hiding around the corner of the doorway, I gulp three big breaths before I lunge at the bathroom door knob. That scale won’t know what hit it! Actually, it will. The scale always does. It’s going to tell me exactly how much I hit it with too, regardless of my approach. Every time I think I’ve finally become an expert in guerrilla warfare sneak attack tactics on my bathroom scale, it schools me again. That smug bastard.
But it’s not my fault, honest! It taunts me with it’s knowing silence, goads me with it’s haughty stares. I try to avoid looking at the scale. It’s tucked away, standing on its edge in a nook beside the toilet. I only get a small side view, but it’s enough for the scale to hover maliciously over my existence.
Everyday, the desire to know what the damage has been for my disastrous eating habits builds exponentially until I can’t take it anymore. I succumb to my curiosity and my feelings get hurt. Defeated, yet again. How did this condition get so bad?
A couple of years ago I thought I had gotten a handle on this weighty situation. Cataloging that transformation was the main purpose of this blog. I was determined to become healthier. Eating better, exercising and all the related good things were going to be absorbed into my life and everything was going to be wonderful. That sentiment went down the drain faster than contraband during a drug raid.
So here I am, several years and hundreds of restarts later. Relapses have happened so often, they have been worked into the plan. Which plan? Whatever the diet plan du jour is. It may sound like I’m ready to give up the struggle, buy some colorful moo moos and settle in with Costco-sized meals to help me fill them in. Hold onto that thought and file it in the back. I like the idea but I don’t think I’m done trying. The fat lady singing won’t be me. At least not anytime soon.