I am not a fan of scales.
In fact, I try to avoid stepping onto one whenever possible.
I can't get away with this at the doctor's office, so I turn my head as far as I possibly can to the right, to avoid seeing the number.
Inevitably, I leave the office with a prescription for muscle relaxers to treat an oddly recurring neck pain that occurs only when I turn my head to the right.
I loathe the thought of weighing myself so much that my own scale is hidden on the floor of my bathroom closet, behind the toilet paper.
In fact, some days it's the only thing that motivates me - to go out and buy more toilet paper.
But alas, it's a new year and I'm supposed to join the ranks of countless others, in an effort to create a new me.
Admittedly, the concept of a new me is intriguing.
If I could make her anything I wanted her to be, the new me would be that woman who makes her own soap, teaches yoga, looks great in any pair of jeans, and sports wash-n-wear hair.
She's a far stretch from the old me; the one who makes her own cupcakes, is chemically and emotionally dependent on hairspray, and has only mastered the downward facing portion of
downward facing dog.
And where jeans are concerned, the old me still buys jeans solely based on the size of the back pockets.
Nonetheless, I have (almost) agreed to join a weekly weight loss group now forming at my place of employment.
It promises to change my life, and I'm not permitted to call it a diet; it's a lifestyle change.
If I'm the one advocating the lifestyle change, then don't I get credit for changing my own life?
And is the secret to my success really dependent on me seeking out a random woman who has a history of her own food issues, so I can pay her fifteen bucks a week to get me onto the scale, and
put the number in writing?
I'm not completely clear on the motivation behind all this deprivation either.
I'd like to think I'm a pretty straightforward eater; good food and tasty snacks motivate me.
Rewarding me with activity points for doing exercise is unnecessarily tedious. I loathe most exercises, save for walking and dancing, and would likely be too exhausted to eat after earning all of those points. An easier and more effective way would simply entail hiring a bakery truck driver to remain five yards ahead of me at all times - with the back door open; aromatherapy can be quite effective. When I've walked enough to cancel out the calories for one Napoleon, the truck stops, and everybody is happy.
I should also mention that I'm not new to any of this. I've dieted on and off for the better part of three decades and I'm as great a success as I am a failure.
Statistics and history support the fact that any weight I lose will likely be gained back within the next three years. Perhaps the money would be more effectively spent on hiring a psychic; one who can tell me how fat I'll get the next time around so I can start shopping sales and stock up on sweat pants.
If I sound cynical, it is because I am embarking on a task that makes me unhappy.
I can't pretend to prefer carrot sticks over carrot cake, or pretend that I can't tell the difference between light ice cream and its
full-fat counterpart (anyone who tells you they taste the same is pure evil).
I accept that having a small portion is better for me, but some days I just want the bigger portion. Without the guilt.
And so, I make no promises.
My goal is to avoid setting a goal, and to see what each day brings.
On the sage advice of a fellow-knitter and lifelong dieter, I will not look too far ahead. I will meet each mealtime as it comes and not allow myself to look back with regret when I slip up.
I will aim to eat less and move more.
If and when victory is mine, I will wear my skinny jeans with pride.
It's nice to know however, that on my fatter days, I can reach for my trusty can of hairspray; for nothing more effectively balances too-wide hips than a really big hairdo.
This is my truth;