The Difference a Day Makes

Yesterday, I wrote about my issues with finding a dress for Grandma’s funeral and the ways in which it left me feeling less than stellar. Numbers are mind fucks, to be sure.

Calories. Clothing. The scale.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in almost a month recently. I was worried. Like seriously concerned that the number I saw was going to be so far off from where I’ve been hovering for so long. Upping my calories, even when combined with more exercise, surely has added weight. This was my thought as I tapped the tiny piece of glass to bring it to life. I stepped on and closed my eyes. Didn’t want to open them.

When I did, I couldn’t fucking believe it.

For the entire month of April, I ate more every day than I have in months. Guess what? I weigh exactly the same.

At first, I thought the scale was wrong. So I stepped off and stepped back on. Same number. 125.8 – the same as what I’ve been weighing. The difference now is that I have more muscle mass than I did in January, and I’m certainly more cut than I ever have been.

So fuck numbers. Fuck those stupid dresses yesterday at the store. And fuck the scale. None of it really means anything – they are just digits to which I have placed unnecessary value.

To that, I’m pleased to report that Coach agrees that I’m well enough to up my calories this upcoming week. 1400 here we come!