It had been a good two months since I’d stepped foot on it.  The little contraption collecting stray hairs and dust on my bathroom floor had been mocking me during each visit.  “Step on me, Mindy…” “Stepp on me, Mindy…” “Steppp on me, Mindy.”

The dreaded scale.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t purposely been avoiding the thing.  The other day I accidentally landed three toes on it and ran out of the bathroom like I had pissed off a hive full of hornets and stayed out until I knew the display had timed out.  I just wasn’t ready to see the numbers in all their digital glory.

It’s been the holidays, after all.  Food, and more food.  Turkey and ham and macaroni and cheese and potatoes and stuffing and green been casserole and cookies and candy and more candy and rolls and more rolls (unfortunately, not of the edible variety).  You get the gist.  Even the most strict of health conscious folks admit to gaining a few pounds during the holidays and I am certainly not in that camp so I had a sinking feeling my scale would show proof of that.

So this week I decided it was time to face the truth.  We’re nearing the end of the year and goal setting seems paramount to celebrating the beginning of a new 365 day cycle.  In order to set my goal I needed to know what I was dealing with so it was on the scale I went.

Hmph.

It was exactly the same.  I hadn’t gained or lost a single ounce.  Surely that was impossible so back on the scale I went.

The same.

My gut reaction was to celebrate!  I immediately thought, this must be my happy weight, the weight at which my body remains comfortable without any effort on my part to change it.  I mean, I ate all that crap and hadn’t gained a thing!  I was mid-slap on my back, all proud of myself for not gaining, when I suddenly realized… I ate all that crap and hadn’t gained a thing.  Wait a minute.  That means I had happily overindulged (or so I thought) for two whole months and my weight didn’t budge.  An ounce.  The only thing I gained was occasional acid reflux and swollen ankles.

My happy weight is not so happy, y’all.  In fact, it’s making me miserable.

You might be thinking, gurhl, how are you just figuring this out now?  Have you never looked in a mirror?! De-nial, folks, ain’t just a river in Egypt.  Believe it or not, even after years of dieting, this was the very first time I’d had this specific of a realization.  It had never occurred to me that my happy weight, my comfortable weight, wasn’t merely a failure in motivation and follow through but, in fact, was one big diabolical self-sabotage.  Eating my way through weeks of holiday-induced overindulgence then only to realize that said overindulgence is obviously not individual to holidays has been a bit of a sobering process.  Simply put, what I thought was overindulging has quite assuredly at some point in time become my norm.

To recap:  My happy weight=constantly overindulging.  Constantly overindulging=never reaching my goals.  Never reaching my goals=miserable.

Let’s be real.  I’m not happy that I have lost willpower and motivation.  I’m not happy that I know I am capable of so much more.  And I’m not happy that I’m a bit of a poor example of healthful living to my kiddos.  My happy weight is really just an excuse to settle in and stay comfortable, a paradoxical use of that word to be certain.

Well, now.

From here on out and forevermore I will have a different opinion towards my happy weight.  One that will hopefully inspire motivation and change.  One that will better define me.  And one that will spur me towards a truer definition of the term.

Step away from the Twinkie!

Mindy