Bon Bons to Yoga Pants

Chapter 31-Plate o' Bacon

I stood immobile on the treadmill Thursday morning after my failed weigh in.

The numbers flashed a bright, enticing green. I waited to see if they'd communicate the secret to weight loss. Run at 5.0 for 100 hours, and you'll be skinny and only weigh 120 pounds.

Oh, the dream.

The endless stream of pointless green words continued to scroll across the screen in a dull advertisement. Nope. No such secrets spilled. No matter what lies I told myself about working out, I couldn't find any motivation. What was the point of working so hard if the scale didn't change?

"Plateaus," I said bitterly. "As if dieting wasn't difficult enough."

"Hey." Megan approached from the side, her brown braid swinging from the back of her head. "I wondered if I'd see you this morning. Uh oh. What's wrong?" She wore a pair of fingerless gloves and her usual black yoga pants. I turned away to hide my scowl. At this rate, I'd never fit into yoga pants. Never be able to work out with Bradley without looking like a fool.

"Nothing," I mumbled. "Just don't want to be here."

She agreed with a quiet little snort, looking over her shoulder to where her friend awaited at the racks. "Me either. I'm facing some gnarly overhead squats today. I love to hate them."

I glanced over at her in a last push of desperation. There was no one else to talk to about my problem that I felt could maybe understand; although, I doubted a girl like Megan had ever been my size. She wasn't supermodel skinny, but I'd still kill to have a toned body like her.

"Megan, have you ever tried to lose weight?"

"Of course. I was the heaviest kid in elementary school when I grew up. Junior high too. I started figuring it out in high school when I picked up running with my best friend." Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I just . . . it sucks, right? Is it supposed to be hard and discouraging and endless and frustrating and up and down?"

Her expression softened.

"Yeah, it does suck. It sucks a lot. But nothing great in life is ever easy, right?"

"It's pretty easy to eat a plate of bacon and I feel like that's pretty great."

To my surprise, she laughed.

"But seriously! What's the point?" I asked, throwing my hands in the air. "Why am I working so hard if the scale isn't going to show it? I literally worked my butt off at Zumba, and in the mornings last week, but I didn't lose a single pound. I counted calories to the bite. I drank so much water I was floating. What more can I do?"

She leaned against the empty treadmill bars behind me, a little smirk of amusement on her face.

"First of all: Why are you working for the scale?" she asked.

"What?"

I stared at her in confusion. She shrugged. "What does the scale have to do with anything?"

"Uh . . . everything."

"The scale doesn't mean anything."

"I . . . I don't understand."

"Lex, the scale is just a number. It doesn't reflect health. You've been working on weight machines right?"

"Yeah."

"Muscles weighs more than fat. So you're getting stronger, but smaller."

My eyes popped open. "Seriously?"

"Serious. What if you're bloated? The scale will go up. What if you're muscular? The scale will say you're too heavy, but you might be in great shape. Screw the scale. Throw it away. It's worthless."