So those of you who know me well know that I don’t believe in scales.
I gauge my “fitness/wellness” level by how my clothes fit me. My fave pencil skirt a bit snug around the waist? Time to haul out ye ol’ treadmill. Those boyfriend jeans fitting more like skinnies? It’s portion control time and no more midnight snackies as I try to finish yet another YA novel.
But last weekend really did a number on me. Literally and figuratively. You see, the hubs had asked for the newest Fitbit gadget for Father’s Day and since he hardly ever asks for anything at all, I was only too happy to oblige. In return, he gave me his old Fitbit One and eagerly downloaded the app on my phone and signed me up for my own account.
Unfortunately, in order to do the sign-up, he needed my height and weight. I dragged out his scale – the one in his bathroom that I’ve studiously pretended didn’t exist – and hopped on. To my utter horror, I found myself twenty pounds heavier than what I thought I weighed.
I didn’t care that it was the “girl time”. I ignored Aly’s assertion that the scale was wrong because when she got on it, it read ten pounds heavier than what the doctor’s office had told her she was. TWENTY POUNDS, people. There’s no denying that. I was shattered.
This was worse than the time I came home from Yale last summer and couldn’t pull my skinnies over my hips. This was a legit, quantifiable number, right in front of me in digital accusation. No amount of perfunctory treadmill walking or half-hearted attempts at “eating healthy” was gonna cut it. And since I can’t do that college thing and put myself on the water/cigarettes diet anymore, I had to face the facts: I was actually gonna have to work for it this time.
So I’m gonna wrestle this beast and win, people. And to do so, I’m gonna use the very thing that slapped me in the face in the first place. This Fitbit One is gonna bust my balls and help me lose the TWENTY POUNDS. This, I swear! I’m already planning ways to get my 10,000 steps in. Because apparently my usual 30 minutes of fast walking on the treadmill only affords me a measly 1950 steps.
I’ll keep you posted as I create my very own personal fitness plan and I promise not to whinge or self-flagellate often. In the meantime, I’m gonna use every style skill I’ve accrued in the course of my fashion journey and I’m gonna fake it till I make it. Guess this means good-bye skinnies and hello skater skirts, eh?