“Secret formula,” I’d say. “Eat less. Exercise more.”
It felt good, even if I did have to go out and buy new clothes, and since then I’ve tried not to think much about my weight. And I still “eat less. Exercise more.”
What I don’t do is weigh myself. Where’s the good in that? I can tell by how those new clothes fit if I’m drifting down or up and I generally hold steady at 135.
If it comes up, most people think I weigh less, all that exercise and all. And I don’t generally talk about it, but neither do I keep my weight a secret.
Weight isn’t secret for men. Wish it wasn’t for women. It shouldn’t matter. What matters, of course, is “the content of our character…” And the more we keep weight a secret, the bigger deal it is, though of course I know that as someone of average weight it’s easy for me to say. (Though I was a ballet dancer and for a ballet dancer I was heavy, but that’s a subject for another post.)
This morning, before dashing out with the dogs, I decided to jump on the scale.
Annoyed—I like seeing that 135—I decided to take off some of my clothes and try again.
REALLY? How is that possible? Even without the math degrees that run rampant in my family, I know that if you have a number and subtract from it, the number should be smaller.
So I decided to take off the rest of my clothes and try again.
So much for mathematics.
But of course the lesson, isn’t about mathematics. Or even the accuracy of the scale.
Many things in life matter a whole lot….
The digits on my scale?
Not so much.