Weighing in daily is something that splits the dieting community (hmmm...are we a community? If so, should we have some sort of parish hall where we can all meet for tea and calorie free cake?) At Weight Watchers, because the emphasis is so much on the weekly meeting, they very much frown upon people jumping on the scales willy nilly, and given that they have proper, regularly calibrated Grown Up Scales I can sort of see their point.
But I find my daily communion with the bathroom scales to be an important part of my routine. For one thing, it keeps me mindful. Even if I'm not doing anything about it (and, let's face it, there have been plenty of weeks and months chronicled on this blog where I have not) I do think that letting go of that mindfulness is a potentially dangerous path to go down. For another, it takes away from the idea that the weekly weigh in is the ultimate expression of your week's achievement. My weight can bounce all over the place - lows do not necessarily follow "good" days anymore than highs follow "bad" ones - but if I were only seeing one number a week that would be my only snapshot of progress. I am trying (and, generally, succeeding) to stop focusing on any single result and concentrate instead of the overall trend. If it is downwards, then I am winning.
Of course, as with so many things, it is easy to write in a positive and earnest manner when that trend is downwards. I'm pretty sure, going on past form, that I'm looking at a gain for the "official" (by which I mean recorded) weigh in tomorrow and I have had a bit of a sulk about it this morning. Yes, I had a nice weekend away but I was by no means mainlining cake all day every day and I've been on track since...oh, Tuesday. The weekend gain should have vanished by now - plus a little bit more for good measure.
It's moments like that when I find myself particularly irritating. Five months in and three stone down, it is only to be expected that I have to fight a little harder for the good results and three days out of seven is not what I would call fighting hard. And, OK, I didn't indulge in over the top eating but there were cocktails and wine and we all know that drinking alcohol is basically like smearing lard direct on your thighs. I can't afford to let myself be derailed by blips. What I have to do is decide whether I'm willing to take them on the chin and accept that dieting has to be a part of life rather than the other way round, or whether I'm just going to go and live on a deserted island for another six months where I have no sort of social life to distract me.
Hey, perhaps the whole community could decamp?? Set up a sort of dieting retreat?? Let me know if you fancy it - I'll start researching remote outposts and one hundred things to do with thistles.