I felt like I was back in high school again.

Me versus the scale, just like when I wrestled. Back then though I knew my target. I had it etched in my brain day after day. Everything I did was to ensure that I would be at the right weight on the day I was supposed to wrestle. "125!" the official would call out in the locker room full of young men in their socks and underwear. Like inmates we would respond to our numbers only, knowing that it was time for us to make that march to the scale for the official weigh-in.

You'd take a deep breath, exhale and step on the scale. "Break!" you'd be thinking in your head, wanting the scale to fall from the position the official was holding it at. If it fell you made weight. If it didn't you put your 4 pairs of sweatshirts and sweatpants back on and you ran until you were ready to try again. It's an artificial sport, but everyone knows it. We all play this game.

My game was going to the sauna the night before in my sweats and doing jumping-jacks, push-ups and sit-ups in the sauna. Wringing the water out of my system. Sucking weight we called it. I'd step on the scale at the fitness center, knowing it was 1 3/4 pounds off and I'd be close. When I was finally content I'd head home and try to go to sleep without thinking of drinking water. That's all you want at that point. Just water. You'd wake up in the morning, content in the knowledge that you usually burn off a pound in your sleep somehow and step on your scale at home, knowing on any given day it could be as much as three pounds over or under. If it read 122 I was golden. If I woke up and had to sit on the toilet then that was even better. More weight loss. Every ounce counted.

You'd get to the high school early on those Saturdays when there was a tournament and you'd walk past everyone, not saying a word or even looking at them, and you'd go to the locker room and you'd strip down to your underwear and step on the scale and think to yourself "Dear God please let it break!" If it did you just had to hold out until official weigh-in. If it didn't you put your sweats on and those of your friends as well and you ran.

During the official weigh-in if it was really close you'd take off your socks and underwear. Taking off your socks and underwear was a last ditch effort, but occasionally it worked. You'd take a deep breath, exhale and step back on the scale, pleading with God to please let it break. If it didn't break you knew the drill. You'd walk past the other wrestlers who had made weight and were eating and drinking in your 4 pairs of sweats and you'd run. Maybe you'd jump on the bike. Maybe you'd go to the showers and turn them all on hot to make you sweat more. You'd spit, you'd pray that all of a sudden you'd need to go to the bathroom, even though you knew you were too dehydrated for that. You'd do that for 20 minutes and then you'd step back on the scale.

The fucking scale.

That's where I stood one week ago today, weighing in before I started my diet, the scale reading 161. 161 - how did we get here? Too much work. Too much school. Too much Wendy's. Too little exercise. Too many excuses. I guess it all added up one way or another.

And that's where I stood this morning, memories rushing back into my head. Ex-wrestlers will always have a special bond with the scale. A lot of the time it was tougher to beat the scale than the guy you were wrestling. If you didn't make weight, trust me, you didn't want to not make weight. Coaches are merciless on wrestlers who don't make weight.

So there, in front of the scale, I once again found myself stripping down to my underwear and taking a deep breath and exhaling and stepping on. I looked straight ahead at first, not wanting to look down. I'd been dieting relentlessly all week. Drinking my meals and measuring my food. Saying no to cokes and fast-food and Girl Scout cookies and brownies and Notini's and anything resembling junk food. Taking Ani for walks. Push-ups, sit-ups, the whole bit.

I was afraid to look down.

I didn't want to know what it said. I wanted to close my eyes and hear the official say "You're good" and write my weight on my hand and I wanted to just step off and not worry about the fact that I've gained 36 pounds since my wrestling days and not grown an inch taller. But I had to look. It was just me and the scale.

157 it said. I smirked and moved the little marker down to that and got off the scale and put my clothes back on, content in knowing that although it was just four pounds and I still had a long way to go, today I had beaten the scale in one way or another.