Probably I should just poke my eyes out, the better to blind oneself. Because getting on the scale, even if it's only for a mid-week check, was clearly the wrong thing to do this morning.
After a weekend out of town, I hopped on Monday morning to find I was down to my pre-New Year's weight. I breathed a small sigh of relief and redoubled my efforts – no way was I going to miss that daily five-mile walk, no way was I going to help myself to seconds, no way was I … well, you get the picture.
But for some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to check my progress this morning. Needless to say it was up. Again.
Perhaps it's three restaurant meals from Friday through Sunday catching up with me. Whatever it is, it begs the question: What's it going to take for me to, once and for all, finally accomplish this lifelong quest to weigh what a normal person my age and height weighs?
I'd hoped the additional outdoor spring activities added to the five-mile walks plus working part-time two afternoons a week (on my feet the whole time) would answer the question in a positive way.
I would be wrong about that.
Perhaps the question should be this: What's it going to take for me to quit obsessing about my weight.
Oprah? Are you there?