In my indefatigable quest to keep this blog as vapid as possible, I give you:
The Bathroom Scale
This scale has been with me through thick and…not so thick for nearly four years and as many moves. Its flashy glass base, handsome stainless steel casing and digital display make it an attractive addition to any bathroom but beyond the aesthetic value, it’s a total piece of crap.
Many believe that stepping onto a bathroom scale is something that you should only subject yourself to after a long fast or at the end of a pig-out winter season to put the fear of God into you. I prefer to put the fear of God into myself at least once a week. This is fine when the weather’s warm but when it starts to get chilly, once you trade in salads for meatloaf and shepherd’s pie, that worthless scale goes into hibernation mode.
North Carolina has two seasons: Hellishly Brain Boiling (most of Spring, Summer and a bit of Fall) and Survivable (a smidgen of Fall and all of Winter). Personally, I believe chilly to encompass the temperatures of 45 through 68. The scale believes that chilly is anything below 82. My epic showers tend to buy a bit more time in the fall, but right around the beginning of October, the steam doesn’t cut it anymore and you have to get creative to warm up the scale. Normally, I don’t care enough to get creative, but the super fun ankle fracture coincided perfectly with a lengthy bout of riotous living. Unable to exercise, it didn’t take long before zippers began to revolt & out of that collective mutiny grew a morbid curiosity to know the awful truth.
Emerging from the misty fog after a particularly long hot shower recently, I wiggled a toe on the scale and was rewarded with not one single sign of life. Dignity be damned, I set to it armed the hair dryer set on “high” until my fingers began to bake. This resulted in a weight reading of “low” (flattering, but wildly inaccurate and profoundly unhelpful). I finally turned the blow-dryer to the floor and after every portion of the environment had been raised to a temperature of 90 or above, the scale told me that I was five pounds lighter than normal.
Which…could have been right if I’d recently had a bit of arm amputated. But I haven’t so I went out and bought a new scale. This new scale is the old-fashioned tin kind with a whirly circle thing that spins until it reaches your weight. In theory. There’s a dial on the bottom to fiddle with so that the home base reads “zero”. High tech, it is not. And I’m pretty sure that it isn’t accurate, either, because it read five pounds lighter than the other one and a closet full of zippers and straining buttons beg to differ.
“It’s probably just water weight.” Assured a friend recently after admiring my new jeans (and the only pair that currently fit) while we hit the carbs at a local burger joint.
I admire optimism, but draw the line at delusion. Stupid delicious burgers. Stupid, unattractive mu-mu’s.