The scale presented the straw to my camel's back. The screen flashed a number so high that I kissed my wife goodbye. I was going for a run.
It takes a lot to get me out for a run early in the morning. For some reason, I awoke 15 minutes before my alarm, which I usually let snooze for half an hour before getting up most workday mornings. With nothing else to do, I stumbled downstairs and stared off into space for a few minutes before deciding to do some push-ups.
After two sets of 10, I wandered back upstairs, where the scale greeted me from inside the room that will soon contain a screaming baby. It had been several weeks since I last weighed myself. And after a holiday weekend, I wondered.
The screen flashed a high, round number, and I was like, "Nooo, that can't be right." I reset the scale and stepped on again. "Shit."
This morning's reading matched my all time high. And just like the last time my weight had reached this unfortunate milestone, I went for my first run in forever. Instead of lacing up an old pair of Etonic cross-trainers that were a size too small, I went barefoot because I didn't need to add any more weight.
After five minutes, my lungs were burning. My legs were sluggish, but they didn't feel sore until afterward. How far I've let myself go.
Setting my watch to 30 minutes, I managed almost 3 miles, which isn't so bad considering it had been since June 18 that I last ran any distance whatsoever. My feet felt pretty good.
When I returned, I did two more sets of 10 push-ups because, man, that number sucks. It just reminds me of how much of a slug I've become. Maybe this is the motivation I needed to get back on track. I hope so.