Sunday I tentatively stepped on my scale. 125.5# it read. Up about 5# from what I’ve stated is my desired average weight. And it’s the holidays.
I know I haven’t been eating the best, so I started to hit the panic button. Was I getting so off discipline that I would soon be back in “weight loss” mode?
Before I continued down a path of panic and destructive self-retribution, I reminded myself that my clothes were all still fitting fine.
I took the next step in assessing whether there was a problem: got out the body measurements I’d taken 6 weeks ago, grabbed a tape measure and did some math.
My upper arms have grown 1/2″ in size, my lower arms 1/8″. My chest is slightly larger, (but my bra cups are getting too large). My waist and hips have decreased, my thighs and calves have increased.
I’M BUILDING MUSCLE! Nothing to panic about here. Well, except that I’m shrinking out of my jeans again. But that just means that soon I’ll have to enrich Old Navy’s coffers for some size 2 jeans.
The old me would not have considered the possibility that increasing weight on the scale could be a good thing. It could only mean that I’m eating like a pig, all the wrong things, and once again failing myself. Becoming someone I can nag and abuse about my weaknesses. How many of us would have jumped at that conclusion and not checked further before beating ourselves up?
I’ve worked intensely the past 6 weeks, hitting the gym hard an average 4 times a week. I earned that weight gain, dammit! Now I’m going to celebrate with a delicious chocolate/caramel swirl protein drink. Because I earned it.