My scale carries far too much weight; and I’m not referring to the fact that I could stand to lose a few pounds.

I’m talking about the fact that whenever I step on it – usually the morning, which I’ve read is a person’s lightest time of day – with just a few blinks of its icy blue display, it sets the tone for the rest of my day.

Am I good or bad? Let’s allow this square of inanimate glass decide.

Because that makes sense.

Through years of programming – body mass index reports, Weight Watchers meetings, doctors visits – much of my idea of “progress” has come to depend on what those three numbers say. And that’s ridiculous, especially if you consider that despite the fact that the scale has yet to budge, I’ve progressed my way to all sorts of things:

I can leopard crawl.

I can change out the empty water jug at work without having to ask a male co-worker for help.

I can feel my muscles getting more toned, all over my body. (Better yet, so can Sous Chef – wink wink)

I can see a big difference in photos of myself, even from just a few months ago – when I still weighed the same as I do today.

I can deadlift 100 pounds.

I can drag 100 pounds worth of chains behind me – and smile about it.

I can. I can. I can.

I can do more.

I can also put the scale away. I can ignore MyFitnessPal when it tells me at the end of the day that if every day were like today, I would drop 7 pounds in 5 weeks. I can look away when I go to the doctor and they weigh me on that scale that I swear adds on five pounds just to be mean.

I can forget how much I weigh. When a doctor or friend or innocent child asks me how much I weigh, I can smile and say, “I really have no idea.”

I can make a decision to define my success not by a single criterion, but by the bigger picture – by how I feel and move and live and enjoy things.

I can add weight to the things that matter.

That’s a scale I’m happy to step on.