The Scales

"Nothing good ever comes of stepping onto the scales."  ~ Josh Zimmerman

My baby sister's changing her diet and having fantastic results.  I'm so excited for her that it's made me pay more attention to what I, myself, am eating.  When I weighed myself this morning, I got a big, happy surprise, like confetti shaped hearts and happy faces floating down from heaven, just for me!  I weighed substantially less than I had the last time I stepped on the scales….which was yesterday.

Unwilling to surrender the fabulous feeling of the electric thrill that was coursing through the entirety of my being by pausing to apply common sense (what a wet blanket THAT is!),  I did something ridiculously stupid.  Rarely do I feel exuberance associated with the number on the scales.  That is my defense for what I did next:  I weighed myself again.  

The roller coaster plummeted, taking that beautiful, small number on the display with it and replacing it with something far more substantial - an ounce or two less than yesterday's readout to be sure -- but massive compared to the results of my initial weigh-in. 

I didn't want to let go of the fantasy quite yet, so I moved the scales to a different spot in the bathroom and hopped on again.  A new number flashed in red.  I shifted my weight forward and re-weighed.  I shifted my weight backward and reweighed. I balanced my weight in the middle and reweighed.  None of the shifting seemed to make any difference so I moved the scales a quarter turn, then another, and another…

All told, I weighed myself twelve times.  I got six different weights, with a span between the lightest and the heaviest of 2.8 pounds.  

Around this time, a (semi) respected member of my inner circle said to "stop obsessing about my weight."  I took umbrage.  I wasn't obsessing about my weight.  I was obsessing about the accuracy of my scales.  

I'm glad to have publicly set the record straight.

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