This is me this morning after my half hour on the stationary bike. I’m exhausted. I’m so out of shape it’s surprising I can get up the stairs to bed.

Mmmmm, bed. The question at this point isn’t WILL I take a nap, it’s WHERE WILL I? The kids are in daycare today, which means I should get some things done – although as any mother will tell you, sleeping is doing. It might be the ultimate example of productivity as a parent.

The diet continues to go well. Having wheat back in makes things a million times easier, although I’m astounded at how much I want to eat it. I’m already wondering how I went 9 days without it – was I given some sort of super power I just don’t remember?

I threw my scale into the back of my closet last night. I’d gone out for breakfast with Greg, and we were talking about how exercise is the one thing that has made me feel great in the past, but that I have a lot of trouble sticking to. I began realizing over the course of the conversation that the way it’s set up in my brain is that exercise will lead me to weight loss.

Exercise —> weight loss.

Easy enough, right? Most people seem to think this way. Okay, most overweight women seem to think this way.

Except that I don’t think that’s motivation enough for me. Certainly I want to lose weight, if for nothing else than to get my cycles back on track. But a number just isn’t a motivator.

Instead, I’m reading a book called Spark: The Revolutionary New Science of Exercise and the Brain, which happens to have an entire chapter on how anxiety can be treated and even reversed with exercise. I was reading this list night in my bath (yeah, on my Kindle, in the bath – did I mention he also has a chapter on how exercise can make you smarter? I’ll get on that chapter next), and it was the most hopeful I’ve felt in awhile. Exercise, combined with staying off dairy, combined with relaxation and combined with (as long as I need them) my twice daily meds……could I have hope here of approaching a normal life?

So while we were sitting at breakfast, mulling all this over, I said suddenly, and pardon my language but I promise there were no kids present: “Fuck the scale! Fuck the numbers!”

“That’s right!”, Greg said. “It’s never done you any good. Throw the damn thing away, or stick it somewhere you won’t find it.”

And I did. I stuck it in my closet, wedged it between a dresser and the wall. It felt like giving up a crutch. How will I know if I’m doing well? How will I know if I’m getting thinner?

Isn’t it funny how different those two questions are?

I’ll know I’m “doing well” if:

• I’m having less anxiety, better anxiety recovery, and fewer attacks.
• I do more in my life independently – driving, going out, going farther, being away from home.
• I have more energy to chase after the kids, to go for walks, to live.
• I sleep better and don’t feel so worn out all the time.
• I get stronger, which is easy to notice – I buff out nicely.

I’ll know if I’m “getting thinner” if:

• I need to buy new clothes.

There. That doesn’t seem too hard, does it? And I can attest to the fact that today it felt good to get up and not weigh myself. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel differently. I guess we’ll see.