I have one simple rule regarding my daily diet routine. When I step on the scale each morning I do it one time and one time only and take the numbers it gives back to me. Step on. Read. Step off. If the scale says I’ve gained five pounds since I weighed myself yesterday? Then I gained five pounds since I weighed myself yesterday. No double-checking.

I broke that simple rule this morning. Not because the news was so bad. But because the news was good. WAY too good.

Yesterday I weighed in at 203 pounds — a new low and completely legit.

Today, I figured I’d rebound up about a pound or so into the 204 zone, but when I stepped on the scale it very quickly showed me something that filled me both with glee and doubt:

200.6

One part of my mind did joyful backflips as I went wide-eyed at such a surprise descent to so ginormous a milestone: Two-hundred-point-six!

But the rational part of my consciousness shook its side of my head vehemently and told me that can’t be right. That I must’ve stepped on precisely during a microcosmic and momentary flux in the earth’s gravitational pull.

I hesitated for a moment, both sides battling. And stepped on again. This time, the scale said:

204.4

Which is what I expected in the first place. I wasn’t at all disappointed with the new number. I was bummed that I broke my rule. It’s happened in the past, going both ways.  Over the course of the 30 pounds I’ve lost since March, I’ve had sudden inexplicable swings of upwards or downwards of three or four pounds, and I haven’t blinked. As I continue on my way down to my goal of 190 by the end of the year they’re destined to happen again.

But there’s something about the sacred 200 mark that I just wasn’t ready to embrace and accept. It was like a gift that came too early or wasn’t yet deserved. I want it to be legit rather than a fluke. Sure, I’ll get there in a couple/three weeks, but without the help of any gravitational anomalies.