Twelve pounds seems simple with a content belly. A sacrifice for a national title.
Colorful fruits and veggies, shredded chicken, and gallons of water. “You can have a big dinner tonight,” my scale reassures.
Weigh-ins: two weeks away. I can do this. 

Seven pounds with a grumbling tummy feels like driving with no gas.
I consider the weight class above.
I imagine the scraps of veggies as cheesy pasta and the water taste like chocolate milk. “Go for a run,” my scale encourages. Weigh-ins: one week away and I might not be able to do this.

Three pounds is the same as thirty with an empty stomach and a dry mouth.
Weak and irritable, it’s not worth it.
“Only one granola bar for lunch!” my scale screams.
Weigh-ins: tomorrow and I have to give up.