I admit. I have a love-hate relationship with the scale that sits in my bathroom. Most days we get along OK, but lately? Not so much.
Let me back up a bit.
It was four years ago. I stepped on the scale in the morning, still half asleep. But those three numbers that flashed before me woke me up quickly. There in a scary, blood-red color was my weight. Not too surprising since I was on a scale. What was different was that those three numbers were the highest I'd ever weighed in my life.
Scary. Depressing. Motivating.
I made a decision that morning to change the numbers that were flashing before my eyes. I started watching what I ate, using Weight Watchers to count my points. I gave up regular soda, switching to Diet Coke. I tossed the snacks and cookies from my kitchen cupboards.
And I started hitting the YMCA on a very regular basis. I admit, when I first started going, running a half mile was tough. But I set the treadmill on a low speed and started putting one foot in front of the other. Gradually I worked up to running a full mile. Then a mile and a half. Then two. Eventually I was up to running three miles following it up with some time on the bike and then hitting the weights.
And all the sweat paid off. A little more than a year later I stepped back on the scale and I liked the number that was flashing before me. A number that was 50 pounds less. I felt good about myself.
I maintained that weight for almost three years.
But things took a turn for the worse when I got sick last winter. For starters, there was the Monster in my head. But the cure for the Monster? A nasty medicine. One of those that proudly list weight gain as a side effect. And even though I spent my spring and summer running, biking and swimming as I trained for a triathlon, I wasn't able to fight the weight gain. The number on the scale? It went up.
By 30 pounds.
And those scary, depressing feelings that flooded me that morning four years ago have returned. There's nothing left to show of all of the hard work I put in trying to lose the weight the first time.
I took my last dose of the nasty medicine on Friday - 10 months and two weeks after taking the first dose. I gave myself the weekend off, but starting tomorrow? I'm in Operation Lose Weight mode again.
I'll be watching what I eat, counting my points and hitting the gym again. To kick start my efforts, I've joined in with some other bloggers in a weight lose challenge, hopefully it'll give me the added motivation to get my butt back in gear and start shedding the pounds - because starting is sometimes the hardest part.
I'm not aiming to look like a supermodel. I just want to get back to the point where the number on the scale gets back to what it was in December, a weight I was comfortable at. I'm hoping I can get back to that number by late spring, maybe April. I figure 30 pounds in 5 and a half months sounds doable, doesn't it?
I know it will be hard. And honestly, sometimes I worry that I won't be able to do it. But I'm going to try. Because I don't like the way I look at the moment. And I don't like it that I have a closet full of cute clothes that I'm unable to wear right now. And I don't like it that it's so much harder to run right now, carrying around an extra 30 pounds.
So tomorrow I start. A healthy lunch and a packed gym bag will be ready for me when I walk out the door at 5:50 tomorrow morning. Since I'm only working until 3 p.m., I have no excuses. I will go to the YMCA if it kills me. A little treadmill time followed by some time on the bike. And I might even venture over into the weight area.
Wish me luck.