Weigh in day. I suck a bunch of air in, in an effort to relax my racing heart. Then, I blow that air and more out of my body, praying that any extra ounce will leave my body with it. I step on the scale, clenching my jaw, shutting my eyes, saying a final prayer that I will see benefits of the hard work I put in all week show up on the scale. Or, depending on the week, begging for a miracle, and that punishment will somehow pass over me. I peek at the number display, only to see the scale is still calculating. I shut my eyes tight again, another quick prayer, one more hope, and I look down again...never knowing truly if the scale will reward me, punish me, or make me want to quit.
This week, much to my relief, I see my body let go of weight brought on from a series of mistakes the week before. Down 4.2, a total of 48.2 all together. I have not lost that much in a long time. Relief fills me, knowing that the little choices I'm making matter. The success of the scale is motivation. The hope of seeing a smaller number can motivate me more than it should.
I step off the scale, thankful for a fresh number in my mind. More hope filling me. I feel the bounce in my step knowing that my body is lighter. And I praise God for loving me despite all my short comings in this area, because there are days when stepping off the scaled is not so bouncy.
Those days I step off, tears in my eyes, my heart downcast. Whether it's from shame of my bad choices or disbelief that my hard work didn't pay off, sometimes the scale can be a reminder of all my short comings, not just my weight. It reminds me of my lack of discipline, my desire for immediate results, how I feel like every one else in the world is prettier, smarter, more worthy of love than me.
One metal box. A few little digits. A lot of power. Too much power.