I don’t weigh myself often, because considering how often I hit the weights and try and develop muscle, I should always expect to be a little on the heavier side if I’m doing things right. In other words, I think the number is irrelevant as long as the body develops in an ideal manner, but I’d also be lying if I didn’t say I was somewhat partially conscious about it.
But every now and then I get a little curious, usually after some sort of period of time in which I’ve abused myself with eating like crap, or like when I do a whole lot of social drinking. The curiosity is often in the tone of “how much did I regress?”
So when I saw that the scale was actually unoccupied the other day, I decided to cave into the curiosity and brave the harsh reality of what I must weigh now. It’s been about six months or so since the last time I actually weighed myself, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had managed to creep underneath the 190 pound mark, to 188 pounds. I know I had succeeded in some size gains, given how some of my shirts were starting to get tight in the chest and arms, but the fact that the number had actually crept downward meant that somewhere in the prior span of time, I must have managed to shed some fat. Shedding fat is always a good thing, in my opinion. Putting on muscle and shedding fat is like a double bonus.
Anyway, weighing myself on this particular day, I always start the same way – move the prime weight to 200, and hope it tanks instead of maintaining afloat. Thankfully, it tanked; so I knew that my weight was still underneath 200 pounds, which seemed like a good thing in spite of how badly I think I treat myself when I relax my consumption habits.
Anyway, I slide the secondary weight back to 188, and the scale plops back down. I appear to have lost some more weight, somehow. I slid the weight repeatedly to the left, watching the scale begin to lift off of the bottom, and by the time I centered it out, it was on 180 pounds. I was like holy shit.
So I think I must have a tapeworm or something, because although I have seemingly lost some weight, I really don’t feel that much different. One pair of jeans feels looser around my waist, but it’s also my go-to favorite pair of jeans to wear, so I assume it’s just natural wear and give. But most of my work slacks don’t feel any different, so I would never have assumed I was really losing any weight. And I’m pretty sure I’m not losing any muscle mass, because I’m still working out every single work day, and if anything at all, I’ve increased certain lifts out of progressive improvement.
A tapeworm seems like the only logical explanation for this surprisingly aesthetically pleasing number for my own narcissism. Because I still have a spare tire, and I always feel the need to tilt my head up slightly and smugly, as I have fear of photographing with multiple chins.
But 180 pounds? I’d be lying if I weren’t happy about seeing that. I don’t think I’ve been down in that neighborhood in like six years.
