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The Bottom Line

 I knew that I shouldn't have weighed myself today, the second day of my period, but it's the appointed time. Normally, the two things don't coincide and I get to weigh myself in relative peace, without all the horrible hormones swirling around the outcome. I wish I had listened to myself earlier today and left it alone but I had to do it if I was going to keep to the schedule.

I didn't want to wait until it was all over and mess up my record keeping; for the first months I weighed in on the 9th, but since then it's consistently been the 10th. I've even requisitioned a doctor's scale on the days I was at appointments with my mother on the 10th. And I only visit a scale once a month because the last thing I need is to be obsessive about what I find there.

So today, after waking up utterly dragged out but dragging myself to my workout, I got on the scale. I tried mine, and I usually ask my neighbors if I can use theirs, as well. Between the two, I get a decent idea of where I'm at. Last month, I discovered I'd lost 10 pounds, which was more than my usual 7. I was thrilled. This month, I've discovered that I've lost between 4 and 5 pounds, which is less than my usual 7 - and I'm not so thrilled, but I can't afford to be too critical.

The sheer fact of the matter is that I can point to my period, or to the days I've eaten a little more than my normal allottment (though not much more), or the days I worked out for 45 minutes instead of an hour, and it's all going to come to the same conclusion. I'm enjoying what I'm doing and feeling better and stronger because of it, so no matter what the scale says, I'm not stopping. Or slowing down. Or beating myself up.

No matter what my hormones tell me.