I Hate 268.

Because every time I get on the scale that's what comes up. 268. 268. 268. If I didn't know my husband is truly afraid of me, I would think he had done something to the scale. It's been a week and half and it's still 268. My scale does that thing that the Biggest Loser scale does, where it hits on a bunch of different numbers before it gets to your weight. And that makes it worse! I see 262, 259, and then BAM! 2freaking68. I know that it will keep going down the more work I do, but it is so frustrating. You can only remind yourself of all of the non-visible accomplishments you have made before you need some concrete evidence. I mean I haven't had a candy bar or soda in FOUR WEEKS!! Doesn't that deserve at least a few pounds? I think my body is rebelling. It's saying, oh you want to deprive me of the sustenance I have come to expect? Then I will store every morsel you eat! Damn you body. Thankfully, some sanity will be restored, the scale is now safely tucked away in the trunk of the car, not to be stepped on until Friday. Hopefully, by then the scale will have come to it's senses and realized that I will drop kick it through the window if I don't get my way.