I have decided NOT to scale anymore.

Fuck you, scales. You’re a Liar McLiarpants and I don’t like liars.

Seriously? I know muscle weighs more than fat. I know I’m muscular and tend to develop quickly when working out…which is why I’m using low weights/high reps. Not that I’m afraid of bulking up…I’m not. I WANT to build muscle. I need to increase my metabolism and I know I am because I’m waking up starving to death in the mornings.

But my scales are an asshole. Complete and total asshole.

So I’ve decided to stop weighing. Because it does nothing but depress me. Especially since I’ve spent the last 3 weeks doing nothing but journaling my food/calories and working out like a boss and eating and drinking right…and then I weigh and it tells me I’ve gained 4 more pounds.

Go home scales, you’re drunk.

Do you know how hard not weighing is going to be for me?

I know that weighing goes back to my dreaded high school years when I kept being “put” on a diet. You know, because being 5’6 with hips and weighing 140 lbs was considered fat in the 80s. They weren’t big fans of the Big Butt, So What school of thought back then.

Anyway, I was expected to weigh in at least once a week. Unfortunately, I start getting weirdly competitive with myself and start weighing daily…I tell myself it’s to keep track of my progress, so I can catch myself gaining again. The problem with that is, I start to obsess. And then I get pissed off when I KNOW I’m doing everything right and the scale refuses to acknowledge my hard work.

I’m going to hide them. Actually, I’m going to give them to El Jefe and tell him to hide them. Somewhere I’ll never look. Probably a good spot would be where we store the dusting supplies, since I never dust.

Fuck you, Scales. I’m so over you. We’re breaking up. I hear Taylor Swift may be looking for a new relationship. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll write a song about you.

And to end on a happy note, here’s the gratuitous cat picture of the day. Big Baby: He’s such a big baby.