215, or One Small Step Back

On the plus side, rolling that damn rock up the hill over and over gave him awesome calves.

I knew it was coming. For six months now, I knew it was coming, and I managed to convince myself that I would handle that inevitable moment. I prepared myself, memorized all the arguments, and each week, braced myself when I stepped on the scale.

But there really isn’t much to prepare you for when you first see your weight tick back upwards again.

In the last week, I’ve gained one pound, putting me back at 215. Intellectually, I know several things that should minimize the sting of this moment.

• Three weeks ago, I began a weight lifting program. That can and will play havoc with your system, and can result in temporary weight gain. This is a net positive, however. Muscle burns FAR more calories at rest than fat, so building enough muscle that my arms don’t look like slices of old turkey draped over a towel rod will help me keep that weight off.
• Stress can play a factor. In the last month, I’ve seen my father through a health scare, been fired and rehired in less time than it takes to defrost a turkey, been shoehorned into a job that I barely understand in a company in the midst of the wonderful process of a Chapter 11 bankruptcy (the corporate version of a colonoscopy delivered by Viking with shaky hands), and more. Frankly, if that level of stress didn’t effect my weight, I would probably be dead.
• In six months, I’ve lost nearly seventy pounds (and have indeed floated past that number before drifting back). That’s enough to make me develop a bit of swagger, and is an achievement worth bragging about. And by bragging, I mean tattooing it on my chest and running naked across LP Field during game day howling, “Just be glad I didn’t do this six months ago!”

Intellectually, I know all of this. But those of us who have navigated the treacherous waters of weight loss before know that there be monsters in those briny depths, sugar and fat-stuffed monsters just waiting to reach up and snatch us away until we jiggle as we did and are right back where we started. I’ve done this before. I’ve watched the pounds drop off, only to discover that they hadn’t gone far, and were waiting for the first opportunity to clamber back onto my ass, grinning up at me and proclaiming how much they missed me.

There’s a Greek myth about a man named Sisyphus who decided that irritating the gods would be anything other than a stupid idea. The gods, whose only two hobbies were having sex with mortals and tormenting mortals (Pokemon had yet to be invented), decided to condemn Sisyphus to an eternity of rolling a boulder up a hill, only to have it tumble back to the beginning mere inches from the top. This offered Sisyphus a terrific core workout, as well as ample time to reconsider his life’s choices.

There are times that weight loss can feel exactly like poor Sisyphus. We get so close to our goals. We can see them right in front of us. But one bad day turns into two, and two bad days turn into a week, and soon we’re noshing on a cupcake, watching the boulder tumble down the hill and just feeling exhausted that we have to do the whole stupid thing over again. It’s easy to see that first slip and assume that the jig is up, that the gimmick that you’ve used to lose what weight you have has officially run its course, and it’s time to surrender and eat that cheeseburger.

I’m not going to do that. I know there are legitimate, predictable reasons as to why my weight may be fluctuating. But it still doesn’t end the frustration at seeing that needle, which has been dropping for months, tick back upwards. It’s genuinely frightening.