I Hate My Bathroom Scale

Yesterday, once I had the opportunity to wear the thrill of holiday-ness for a few hours, I did something really stupid. (Imagine that)

I stepped on the scale and found myself up by a pound.

Man, I just never learn.

I really don't have a clear handle on why the scale has become such an obsession. For years, I didn't own one and I behaved like an emotionally well-adjusted person and gauged the success of my lifestyle by how my pants fit. Those were the good old days back in San Diego where the weather was perfect, the air tasted of salt and I could shed a hangover AND five pounds with a Bloody Mary and a greasy breakfast. I had abs back then.

I fondly refer to that time as B.C.(before children) because once the babies came, the loins were never the same again. And then I turned 40, had myself a mini midlife crisis and quit smoking. Kicking the habit was the best thing I've ever done for myself but years of all that oral/hand stuff (I know that sounds dirty) had to be replaced and unconsciously, I chose food. What I failed to realize until it was too late was that along with the bifocals, the ongoing battle with gravity and an irrational Aunt Flo, midlife took my metabolism and sent it to Mexico where I'm sure it is now enjoying an umbrella drink.

So, for the past three years, I have been waging a war on flab.

And mostly failing, which has gotten on my very last nerve.

Recently, I learned that the secret to permanent weight loss has very little to do with the exercise and everything to do with nutrition. Yesterday, I learned that the body can be tricked for about three days before it will begin to react to a deficit in calories. Then, thinking there might be a prolonged famine, it slows the metabolic furnace down to a flicker.

And the scale creeps up.

So, chronic dieters like me slash calories even further, which only makes the problem worse. Eventually, all that exertion in the gym and deprivation in the kitchen takes its toll and inevitably, the dieter will find herself staring out at the world from the bottom of a Girl Scout cookie box.

The solution? Eat more, more often and some days, eat less.

Counter-intuitive but true.

I hope.