OCD slacker

Lawrence Toppman

I decided not to weigh myself this week. Not because I've been hiding from the treadmill -- I'm hitting it four weekdays out of five for 30 to 45 minutes -- and DEFINITELY not because I ate two desserts Saturday night. (I ordered something called a "pikilia," a sampler of three desserts, at Ilios Noche. I expected tiny portions and didn't get them. I saved one for later, but the other two wouldn't travel; they came with ice cream, so I had to eat 'em there. Then I looked over to the next table and saw right-sized colleague Ron Green Jr., our golf writer. My conscience had a twinge.)

No, I've let the scale gather dust today as a sign of mental health.

I have weighed myself every week since January 1 because of this blog, and I vowed at the start that it would reflect the behavior of a lazy guy who was trying to use moderation and common sense in adjusting his lifestyle. And what reasonably healthy person of almost-normal size weighs himself every week?

Someone with obsessive-compulsive disorder, I guess. I have a mild case of that, but I'm trying not to indulge that mental quirk as I enter my late 50s. Or someone who lives in fear. I'm serious about losing weight gradually, but I'm not going to castigate myself because I went up a pound on any given Monday morning.

On the other hand, I'm eating unadorned Grape-Nuts and an apple for lunch. I don't have to weigh myself to know that extravagance requires atonement.