Scales of Fate

Did you know that weight loss experts suggest weighing yourself once a week? What? Are they DRUNK? I weigh myself in the morning AFTER peeing but BEFORE food, nekkid, natch. Then after I work out, for the maximum water loss. Then at bedtime for the slap in the face I need to remember to stay on track. And any other time during the day that I might need to, you know, check and see how things are going.

Sometimes my scale is a beautiful angel bearing tidings of great joy, with integers that hold the arcana of the universe and the wondrous fate of all things slender and virtuous. Then there are the other times when Very Bad Numbers spew from its tiny display like pea soup.

Back when I began using an excellent medication (for what I call my stigmata, an auto-immune skin disorder of the hands and feet) and got back to road-work and weight loss, I realized that my Target-bought scale was far too inaccurate. If I stood on it a second time immediately after weighing myself, IT GAVE A DIFFERENT NUMBER. This was not the tool to precisely document the advent of my impending perfection. Plus it wasn’t very fancy.

I spent weeks researching the scale so ideal that I believe in my secret heart that Plato himself used it. My Tanita isn’t really a SCALE, it’s a BIOMETRIC INSTRUMENT, that, according-to-the-Internet-which-never-lies “measures body fat, muscle mass, bone mass, and much more.” It’s possible that the “much more” includes “managing my investment portfolio.”

Then my lovely, lovely Raptiva was pulled from the market for, I don’t know, killing some people or something. WHATEVER. And now my hands and feet are ruined, in shreds, and I am fat again.

Last night I injected myself with my NEW and hopefully EQUALLY EXCELLENT medication, and it had better work, because my scale and I have great plans for world domination that begin in January.