I’m awfully hard on myself. I know that. Intellectually, I realize that for the past week, I have walked EVERYWHERE all day long, on concrete and on beaches. I have played tennis and thrown hardballs with my boys, who happen to be really outstanding athletes. I have practiced yoga every day this entire summer, except for Saturdays and the occasional moonday (and this past Monday, when I practiced, but only non-vinyasa). I don’t let myself eat all that much – no matter how much I’ve been smelling the (sorry to say this, if it offends) delicious aroma of hamburger charring on the grill, I’ve been denying myself the summer pleasure. I begged off of ice cream the entire time I was in Fire Island, mainly because I wasn’t in the mood. But still, something here smacks of self-deprivation.
With that as a backdrop, I woke up today and tried on my brand new pair of Levi’s 503’s, Juniors Size 1 (before you get all “what a bitch” on me, just listen…okay?). I don’t think they get much smaller (okay, they do come in Juniors Size 0, but let’s not get so nitpicky…clearly I am small, but I am no Nicole Richie). Of course, most human beings don’t come any smaller in height than me, so it stands to reason that I would fit easily into “skinny” jeans. And they do fit beautifully. I am in love. LOVE! I used to only wear Levi’s 501’s…you know, the old button fly boy-cut Levi’s. But now Levi’s come made for chicks, and it is good.
What was my point? Oh yeah. Being hard on myself. So, the Levi’s 503’s, size 1 Juniors, which I ordered over the internet (kind of ballsy of me, I’d say), fit me perfectly, giving me the courage to step on the scale for the first time in months.
And what did I get for my gutsy move? Depressed. I am somewhere between 109 and 111 pounds, depending on how I stand on the small white harbinger of doom. I know that is small. Intellectually, I know it is. I do. But I really thought that after an entire summer of really healthy eating and really hard-core practicing, plus lots of dog walking, I was going to be down at 105 by now…certainly no less than 1o7. Not to mention that my clothes all fit me looser now than they did in the winter.
How can it be that the fitter I get, and even the SMALLER my body gets, the higher the number on the scale?
I know, I know, muscle supposedly weighs more than fat. But does it? Does it REALLY? I should never have stepped on the scale. I should never have even thought about talking about it here. But I’m nothing if not compulsive. And neurotic. Even if in my mind, I know that the scale means little to someone who is as muscularly built as I am, my propensity to dis myself sees an opportunity here…an opportunity to undermine my confidence, to make me feel fat for my height, even when all evidence points to the contrary (except for one malevolent bit of metal, springs and numbers).
I haven’t practiced today. Yet. It is up in the air whether or not I will. I really don’t feel like it. I am feeling quite burnt out physically, not from practice, but from everything else. And I just don’t feel like concentrating for an hour and a half.
Even as I write that, it sounds absurd. I don’t need to practice for an hour and a half. I could do 10 A’s and B’s, padmasana and savasana. Maybe I will practice after all. Maybe I’ll go to Bikram and stare my ego down in the mirror until one of us cries “UNCLE!” Whatever I do, I really ought to do something because tomorrow, I am going to be driving for like a million hours (or it is just going to seem that way) as we wend our way up through New England to Stowe, Vermont, where we’re bunking for the night before our trip to Mont-Tremblant.
Hence, my conclusion that I am way too hard on myself. Couldn’t I just cozy up on my sofa and read a book? Must I move my body every chance I get?
Sigh. Apparently, yes.