When I started my fitness journey, I rarely got on the scale. I just worked at it. I saw progress in my clothing. My jeans got bigger. I got to the point where my dress pants (a size 8) were just too big. So, I go shopping at my favorite store, and I grab the 6, because they are likely the right size. But, just for shits and giggles, grabbed the 4 also.
They fit.
REALLY?
I take them off to check the tag. Maybe they were mismarked.
Size 4. Taille 4.
Confirmed in TWO languages! I squeeee’d! I text all my girlfriends, my mother, my sister. I did a little dance. I wanted to wear the pants out of the dressing room, and run up to everyone, saying, “Know what these are? A FOUR!” and then wiggle my behind and flail my arms.
I perceived this as a moment of triumph.
Fast forward 8 or so months. I had, very slowly, put back on somewhere between 10 and 15 lbs. I did battle with these pounds. I grew frustrated that I’d grown out of my fancy 4s. I got on the scale, and found I’d crossed the “never again” number. And I passed it by 3.5 lbs. It enraged me. Threw me into a tailspin. I had an even harder time getting control of my habits after that.
Then I came to an astounding revelation: Prior to the size 4 party in the dressing room, all I knew was that I loved the way I looked. I loved the way I felt. I loved my progress. I was proud. I was strong. I was amazing. I had no idea what size I was, and I didn’t care, because look at me!!!
Once “size 4” was added into the equation, that became the standard. The rule. I wasn’t going to deviate. Now I wanted my jeans and my skirts to have a 4 on them, too. FOURS FOR EVERYONE! The further away I got from that 4, the more I beat myself up. My mindset went from pride to poison. I’m failing. I’m gaining. Stop it. The pants. They’ll fit in two weeks. It's only 5 lbs right now. Work hard. Eat perfect. Run harder. Lift heavier. It's 8 lbs now...Whatever. Forget it. It's never gonna happen again.
Everything I ate that was “bad” made me feel guilty. I spiraled. Size 4. So far away. I’ll never get there again. Whatever, fuck it, I’ll just get fat again. But I refused to buy bigger pants because that was the ultimate failure, the sign that I’d lost. Another friend told me she had everything from 8s to 0s in her jean collection. That idea literally made me panic. NO. I AM A FOUR.
I let someone else’s standards dictate how I perceived myself. I took a 10-lb weight gain and turned it into a crisis because I became obsessed with a number on a pair of pants, which, ridiculously enough, is not even a universal number. Every single women’s clothing store sizes their clothing differently. I’m still a 4 in another store (and probably a 10 in another store), which should have set my mind at ease. But it wasn’t those pants. THOSE pants are a 4.
These are not my standards. They shouldn’t be what set the bar. The goal shouldn’t be to get back to that number, but to that mindset prior to 4’s entrance. I felt spectacular. I looked the best I’d ever looked. That needs to be the goal. The standard. None of the numbers should matter. It has to be ok to have a range of sizes in the closet. As long as it fits well and looks good, who cares? I’d lost 30 and kept it off for a long time. I can lose 10 again. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just work on getting to a point where I want to run up to everyone in the store, while I’m buying pants, wiggle my behind, and say “I have no idea how much I weigh, and I look AWESOME in whatever size these are!”
How do you feel about your goals? Do you fall into these traps? Let's talk about it!
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