Yesterday was one of those “go go go” kind of days– 4:45am wake up, 5:45am work shift, quick lunch on the go, workout at Mark Fisher Fitness, train ride to Westchester, and spent the evening with the boy and my best friends.
Happiness is delicious Italian food on Lake Mahopac with the people I love.
Today however has been shamelessly unproductive. Woke up at 9:30am (ugh, so needed!), went to Body Pump at the gym… and that’s all I’ve accomplished so far. Hey, it’s my day off!
Ah, suburbia! I’m looking forward to another dinner with close friends before I head back into the city tonight.
Kayla vs. The Number on the Scale
I don’t weigh myself very often simply because I don’t have a scale in my apartment (nor do I want one) and I don’t belong to a gym in the city. The only time I end up weighing myself is when I’m back at my parents house. It’s a terrible habit of mine — I automatically step on the scale before hopping in the shower “out of curiosity”.
But what am I curious about? If I lost any weight? I’m not actively trying to lose weight- I workout because it makes me feel good, and just as importantly because I like being strong and toned — I wouldn’t want to lose numbers on the scale if it meant losing my kickass trapeze back muscles.
For whatever reason that curiosity still leads me to the scale whenever I am home at my parents house filled with curiosity-am I heavier than I was the last time I weighed myself?
Two weeks ago I stepped on the scale in my parent’s bathroom for the first time in over a month. I had been hesitant to weigh myself post Disney World indulgence for fear that my diet of french fries and vegan desserts had wreaked havoc on my waistline. The number horrified me, I’d never seen it that high before in my life. There’s a 3 pound range I’m used to seeing, but this number was a few away from what I’m used to.
Immediately I texted my boyfriend freaking out about these pounds. Because that’s what girls do. I felt disgusted with myself — my brain kept saying I’m a fitness professional, how could I let my body go like that!?
The truth is, I don’t think I had actually gained any noticeable weight– my clothing fit the same as always, I looked fine. Yet I let this number haunt me for the past 2 weeks. Kayla, do you really want to eat that slice of vegan cheesecake. Kayla, shouldn’t you work out again today? Kayla, is that rest day necessary?
I wrote my college essay about how I was not just a number when I bombed my SATs. It was true then (and hey I got into NYU even with my mediocre scores!) and it’s true now. The number on the scale doesn’t change how much my boyfriend loves me. It won’t lose me friends. It won’t be the reason I do or don’t get hired for jobs. And it won’t make me any less of a fitness professional. It’s just a freaken number, and an inaccurate one at that.
Before taking a shower today I hopped on the scale again prepared to see that same terrifying number glaring back at me. I was back in my usual range. Yes, I felt a tiny bit of relief, but then I also realized I don’t feel or look any different than I did when I saw that big number. I am still short, petite, toned, reddish headed, freckled Kayla.
Will I continue to weigh myself when I come home? Probably. But next time I’m horrified by the number staring back at me and calculating how many extra spin classes I should start taking I will remember Kayla, it’s just a number. Do your clothes fit? Yes. Then stop caring about those stupid numbers on the scale.
Leave a Reply