Saturday morning, 8-ish, I'm laying in bed, knowing it's time to get up, head towards the bathroom, and my new digital scale—you remember, the one that put a whole new batch of weight on me in an instant last week? Yeah, that one.
I shuffle down the hall, remembering to clip on my pedometer as soon as my day begins (every little step counts) and as I step into the bathroom, I think, I'm not stripping down to nothing. They're just pajamas. How much could they really weigh?, when it hits me:
It doesn't matter what the scale says this morning.
I feel good. I look good. I AM good. I'm eating well and moving my body. I'm giving back to this physical structure that houses me. I'm holding up my fair end of this symbiotic bargain.
How you like them apples?
Any time I've tackled the whole health and fitness mountain, I've only ever really looked to those numbers below my feet to tell me if I'm a Good Cathy, or a Better Luck Next Week Cathy.
And this weekend, before I ever saw the glowing blue numbers magically appear, I felt peaceful and proud.
I'm just taking care of me.
The fact that the number tossed me up a 1.4 pound loss? Icing.
