I feel like the scale and I are arch nemeses. I have literally started to think of it as this creature that is against me, that sets out every day to foil my success and happiness. Every morning when I pull it out, I have this moment where I’m like, “Alright scale, you sonofabitch, are you going to cause trouble today??” And indeed it does, because I have been ridiculously good on my diet and every day the same damn number stares me back in the face. 127.0. It’s so final, there’s no jaunty swaying back and forth like an analog scale. “HEY KATE!! Maybe you’re 128…or maybe you’re 126, but who cares?” My new digital scale is incredibly stern-faced and unforgiving. “NO. You’re 127.0. Get used to it.”

I’ve been 127.0 for two days. Before that, I spent three days at 127.2. Now, when you’re stuffing your face with bland chicken and vegetables, passing up every sweet treat that comes your way, just saying no to bread and salty snacks, that’s a painful feeling. The problem with getting on the scale and weighing 127.0 AGAIN is that it’s an excruciating and interminable 24 hours until I get back on the scale and try to beat my score. So I just have to bide my time throughout the day, waiting impatiently for my chance at a rematch between me and the scale, during which time it’s sitting there in the bathroom probably laughing a very sinister laugh at me.

You may have won this round, Mr. Scale, but I’ll be back tomorrow.