I don’t weigh myself often, because considering how often I hit the weights and try and develop muscle, I should always expect to be a little on the heavier side if I’m doing things right. In other words, I think the number is irrelevant as long as the body develops in an ideal manner, but I’d also be lying if I didn’t say I was somewhat partially conscious about it.
But every now and then I get a little curious, usually after some sort of period of time in which I’ve abused myself with eating like crap, or like when I do a whole lot of social drinking. The curiosity is often in the tone of “how much did I regress?”
So when I saw that the scale was actually unoccupied the other day, I decided to cave into the curiosity and brave the harsh reality of what I must weigh now. It’s been about six months or so since the last time I actually weighed myself, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had managed to creep underneath the 190 pound mark, to 188 pounds. I know I had succeeded in some size gains, given how some of my shirts were starting to get tight in the chest and arms, but the fact that the number had actually crept downward meant that somewhere in the prior span of time, I must have managed to shed some fat. Shedding fat is always a good thing, in my opinion. Putting on muscle and shedding fat is like a double bonus.