ZenLefty and the Scale of Doom

ZenLefty and the Scale of Doom

A Parble

About the Scale of Doom

By ZenLefty

...

This is a long-ish story, but there's really not a short version, so bear with me. If you've ever looked at a number on a scale under your feet with excitement, disappointment, happiness or sadness, then you might relate to this tale.

Once upon a time... oh, about 3-4 years ago, I bought a scale. It was a magical scale, that measured not only your weight in earthly pounds, but also foretold your body fat percentage, your recommended caloric intake, your average calories burned per hour, all powered by a simple 9 volt ray-o-vac. It was wondrous! The box was lined with photographs of attractive, low fat people with nice tans, unnaturally white teeth and not much clothing. They all sang in unison, "use this scale and you can be like me!"

I hadn't weighed in for a long time. But I noticed my clothes had become a little tighter over the years, and my belts were moving to outer belt loops hitherto unused, and I thought it was time to get some statistics. The digital readout of my new magical scale promised more statistics than I could shake a laser pointer at.

I got on. The scale thinked for a few moments before it blurted out its analysis of me. 238.8 pounds, 20.5% body fat.

Hoo. Well, hey. I figured I looked pretty good for close to 240. I've always been big and muscular. But I didn't like that 20% number very much and I decided to embark on a journey of eating a bit better, doing some more cardio at the gym and getting my clothes to fit without popping buttons. So off I went.

To make a very long story very short, I worked hard at the gym. I went more consistently, lifted heavier, started doing more cardio. Mostly elliptical at first, then walking on the treadmill, then running. They felt like painful baby steps; I always wished I could do more and felt shame that I couldn't. But I never stopped trying. Every time I failed, I got back up and kept going. And I cleaned up my diet. I stopped going to Starbucks every day. I stopped visiting the burrito guy at the street corner every day. I stopped getting chips with my lunch. I managed my food portions better. I curbed my nighttime snacking.

All of this took a phenomenal effort. I cannot overstate how much discipline it took to stop my bad habits, and start good ones.

And my magical scale, the Scale of Doom, showed me the results of my hard work. 229. 227. 225! 222.4!!! 219. Fuck almighty, I haven't weighed 219 since college!

In the fall of 2009 I got laid off from my office job. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I started my own business, just to make ends meet. I intended it to be a woodworking business but ultimately I was just a mercenary, doing whatever task a client wanted me to do. Landscaping, hauling, cleaning, whatever. I rarely had time for the gym. My bad food habits started to creep back. When you run your own business, you work twice as hard and twice as long for half the money (and you're twice as happy, go figure). But I was always on the move.

218. 217.5. 215. 214.4!!! 210!! 209!!!! 205!!!!!!111oneone I hadn't weighed 205 since high school. My clothes fit well, I looked good, and I was happy. So happy. I was fit. I was healthy! I was in Good Shape.

But the Scale of Doom would get me in the end.

Fast forward a bit. I had applied for some supplemental life insurance, and they said I had to pass a health physical before they would give me their promised rate. That's cool. I had no problem with that. According to the Scale of Doom, I was the Pinnacle of Health. Could they send a nurse to my house to measure me, poke me with needles and weigh me? Sure. You want proof I'm in good shape, I'll give it to you. My magical scale says I'm around 201 ish. That's pretty good for me.

So the nurse comes in and measures me and pokes me with needles and puts an inflatable thingy around my arm and finally directs me to stand on his scale to see what I weigh. I hop on, expecting to see something near 200, maybe a hair over because I had a big breakfast ....

225.

Two Hundred Twenty Five Pounds.

Obviously his scale was lying. Wasn't it?

He made the obligatory remark that all nurses make: "You should consider losing some weight." I flipped him off, called him vulgar names and expelled him from my house. He and his crooked scale could go fuck themselves. I went to my Scale of Doom, and just like the mirror in the harry potter books, it told me I weighed 202.2 pounds. 14% body fat.

Was that right?

No. It wasn't. A couple weeks later, I weighed in at the scale at the gym. 225 1/2. After that, I went to the doctor's office. 228.

MY MAGICAL SCALE HAD BEEN LYING TO ME!

I was sad. I was stricken with grief. All that hard work, giving up starbucks and cleaning up my diet, all for fucking nothing. That stupid digital scale was obviously flawed, and could not calculate weight accurately. For all the other scales in town told me the hard truth. I'd lost some weight, but not as much as I thought.

You know, you can tell people a thousand times but they'll never believe it: It's the journey, not the destination. The number on the scale doesn't mean shit. It really doesn't. Fact is, I had made radical changes to my health and well being through all that discipline. I cleaned up my diet and exercised consistently. I felt better. My clothes fit better.

It's been a few years since that incident, and since then, I've worked a lot harder on my fitness goals. I'm eating a lot better. I'm exercising harder. Right now, I weigh a solid 209 pounds on the scale at the gym, though I only weigh myself every other month or so. My body fat is low, probably under 10%. I can see some definition in my midsection; not quite a six pack abs but it looks ok to me. Clothes fit great. The Scale of Doom tells me I weigh 186.6 and have 7.4% body fat, but I know it's a liar.

But it doesn't matter what I weigh. I can run faster and for longer, I can lift more weight, I don't get so out of breath going up stairs. I can do more. I can push myself harder. That's all that matters.

But I'll never forget how that number on the scale affected me. How I thought I was doing so great but it was all an illusion. It's really made me realize that the number on the scale is just a number. By itself, it's a poor indicator of your overall health. In the end, it doesn't matter how heavy you are but how happy you are. How you look is not as important as what you can do. It's the journey, not the destination.

For all of you trying to lose weight, I'm guessing that you're trying to burn off excess body fat. A noble goal, sure, and I wish you success. But don't live and die by the scale, I implore you. It lies. Even scales that tell the truth can lie. Don't worry about that number. There are more important things in life.