When the Scale Speaks

*Author's Note:  Yes, I am aware that I am not a number on the scale, that nothing tastes as good as thin feels (bullshit), that beauty is skin deep and it's what's inside that counts, blah blah blah.  I don't personally believe any of that but I know that I'm supposed to.  I also have a girlfriend posse ready, willing and able to leap up and defend me from myself, informing me how beautiful and un-fat I am.  And I love them real, real hard for doing it. Meanwhile...


Have you ever had one of those days when you step on the scale and you actually weigh less than you thought you did?  Yeah, me neither.  Usually I will wake up feeling fabulous, have an in-depth conversation with myself along the lines of "Dayum, baby... you fiiiiiine!"  and then I will skip into the bathroom and climb onto the scale to reinforce my feelings of fine-ness, only to discover that I weigh 5 lbs more than I thought I did.  I instantly go from "Dayum baby you fine" to "Dayum baby, you FAT!"   My clothes suddenly feel tighter, my neck feels like it's choking me from all the fat, I'm being smothered by my own bosom, and I have to fight the urge to climb back into my pajamas and spend the day calculating how much weight I can lose by X day if I eat ONLY lettuce and lemon wedges.  (It's a cultural thing.  If you grew up in California between the 1960s and 1980s and you never had a contest with your girlfriends to see how long you could go without eating or puked in tandem after pigging out on nachos at 3 a.m. then, well, you probably weren't hanging out with me.)


Yes, I know this isn't politically correct.  My inner-dialogue is shallow and bitchy and my subconscious is a total Mean Girl, trust me on this.  


Anyway.  I haven't stepped on the scale in a while because if truth must be told, I haven't had too many days of waking up and having a "Dayum baby you fine" conversation with myself recently.  (My inner dialogue of late has been more along the lines of "Dayum baby, you tired..." variety.)   So this morning, with visions of blueberry pancakes dancing in my head, I decided I'd better hand myself a reality check by stepping on the scale to dissuade me from a breakfast loaded in carbs, butter, and sugar-free syrup (shut up). I peed, stripped myself nekkid, peed again (just to make sure) and stepped on the scale.
   
I've lost 7 lbs.


How in the HELL did that happen??  I stepped on again and again and again, waiting for the numbers to change, for my true weight to appear...


Me, to scale:  This can't be right...


*off*  pause  *on*


Scale:  Yep... this is what you weigh!


Me, to scale:  That can't possibly be right.


*off*  pause  *on*


Scale:  Seriously, dude... I'm not stupid.  I'm a machine.  You step on me, I accurately inform you of the result, you get off.  It's not difficult. Sheesh.


Me, to scale:  You're kidding, right?  


*off*  pause *on*


Etc. 


(I'm leaving out the part where I picked up the scale, moved it into another room, climbed on it again, paused, climbed off, paused, peed, and climbed on it again... It's a sickness, people.  Don't judge me.)


I called Dan and told him that my "dieting" (*snort*) has paid off... I've lost 7 lbs!  Dan, being the pinnacle of support and positive thinking that I know and love responded with, "Really?  How have you been dieting?"  (Have I ever mentioned that he's an ass?  No?  Well, this just in:  He's an ass.  Men, if your woman tells you she's lost weight, don't bring up the brick of Velveeta she scarfed down the night before.  Just say, "That's awesome!" and leave it at that.  Mmmmkay?)


I instantly felt thin enough to not only indulge in blueberry pancakes (how do YOU spell "self-sabotage"?) but to also squeeze into a pair of shorts that I deemed obscenely tight just two days ago.  I am now lounging around in my newly thin(ner) body stuffed like a sausage into a pair of shorts and t-shirt, informing myself every few minutes, "Dayum, baby... you fiiiiiine!" 


Oh, happy day!