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Out, damn'd scale! Out, I say!

Fellow dieters, I urge you to forgo this instrument of evil. Instead, measure yourself by the clothes you can wear.

By JOHN C. COTEY
Published October 11, 2005

Weighing In, John C. Cotey's column about his effort to lose weight, appears Tuesdays in Floridian. His starting weight on July 1 was 250 pounds. To read previous columns and his Web log, The Skinny, please go to www.sptimes.com/skinny

WEIGHING IN: 227

On Sept. 1, in my progress report with the editors of this project, I was complimented on my weight loss and asked to set a new goal.

"We'll do another interview with you on Nov. 1 to see if we should keep going with the column," they said. "Tell us: What are you going to weigh then?"

At the time, I weighed 230.5 pounds. I figured in eight weeks, I could lose 2 pounds a week, so I uttered some words I'd love to have back now.

"You know what? I'm going to say 215."

Well, people, I'm not going to make it.

After that column, I lost 3.5 pounds in five weeks. This week, I have gained 2 pounds. All of which means this could very well be one of my final columns on this subject. (See note from editors at the end of this column.)

I've generally been pretty optimistic about my chances to reach 215 by Nov. 1. Some have told me it was too lofty a goal. But I thought it was just right.

At the time, I had been struggling, but I knew I would come out of it. Rather, I thought I would.

Even after a rough week, I weighed 225 starting Monday. I recommitted myself to eating right, avoided the bad stuff and ate more veggies. I stopped eating after 7 p.m., even if that meant downing a 6-inch sub in my car on the way home.

I made it to the YMCA three times, working out an hour each time. I ran. I lifted weights, even signing up for a program that tracks your workouts and keeps your exercise stats.

And for what?

On Friday, I weighed 227, a gain of 2 pounds.

It was devastating news. In fact, every day this week was devastating, my obsession with the scale killing me softly as it brought more bad news daily: 225.5, 226, 227.5, 226.5, 227.

No matter what I tried, I couldn't stop the number from going up.

Yes, I know muscle weighs more than fat. Assuming that's part of the issue here, it's of little solace.

A little less than two months ago, I wrote about my obsession with weighing in.

Today, I must correct myself.

I'm done with the scale. It's evil, evil, I tell you!

After two months of substantial weight loss, getting on the scale was a fun exercise.

Now it has turned this project into a diet for me, bringing me down when the fact that I fit into a pair of jeans I haven't worn in two years should be bringing me up.

I have untouched dress shirts with tags still on them that I can now wear; my T-shirts are roomy and comfortable; and I have dropped at least two sizes in pants. I can see my cheekbones!

But damn that scale and those infernal numbers.

Friday, I left for a week of vacation in Orlando, if you call hauling two children to various theme parks "vacation." It will be a challenge to stay on track, but I have packed a workout DVD and hand weights, and our room has a kitchenette.

I am most excited, however, by what I'm not bringing with me.

The scale.

Maybe 215 is out of reach. But 220 isn't.

Editors' note: John, we're going to miss you. Kidding. We never meant you had to get to 215 to keep the column. We just want you to keep up the fight and write about it well. See you at 220.

[Last modified October 10, 2005, 18:21:49]