This post originally appeared on Bustle.
By Amy McCarthy
I’ve been dieting on and off since I was a kid. I’ve tried prescription diet pills from shady doctors and every kind of fad diet imaginable, and about a year ago, I just quit. I stopped (for the most part) counting calories or dieting or anything that remotely resembled restricting the food that I ate. It was bliss. It was the first major step I’d taken in accepting my body.
Since then, I’ve really never been happier. Occasionally, though, I would catch myself stealing glances at one of the omnipresent diet ads in ladymags, or lingering down the diet pills aisle at the supermarket, trying to talk myself out of buying the latest batch of snake oil. More frequently, I was still using the most common household torture device for the modern woman: the scale.