Bathroom Scales Are Made by the Devil

For those people, not myself, who have a weight problem, I am here to offer encouragement and hope. No, I don't have a new diet program consisting of eating only wilted lettuce and gently cracked virgin grains from organic Indian rice farmers or somesuch nonsense. I do not possess the wisdom of years of medical research and the resultant exercise regime that will guarantee the pounds of unwanted, disgusting flab to melt off with the simple twist of the midsection whilst yodeling and jogging in place. NO SIR.

I have something better: Your scale lies.

Now, this may not be groundbreaking news or something you haven't thought of a million times yourself. After all, how many of you haven't stood perfectly motionless on the scale, trying to peek around your bellies to get a look at the number, and thought, "Damn thing is lying to me." In fact, you probably named your scale the name of someone you hated in highschool and went further: "Bertha never liked me; now she's trying to get back by making me seem fat... I'll sit on her at the reunion and then she'll pay!"

Okay maybe not, but obviously you don't trust your bathroom scale and the two of you have a dysfunctional relationship that borders on the pathological. You still NEED your scale don't you? Of the many things you do in a day, isn't standing there on that scale wishing and hoping one of the few that you do with some consistency? Don't you hate it, but go there anyways? And on the off day when the scale shows you a weight loss (say, after a stomach virus that made you vomit for three days) don't you instantly forgive it and promise it flowers and gifts and gentle massages...

Sorry, again, I was thinking of something else. But the point is you, and maybe even me, have a love/hate relationship with the bathroom scale. And what I offer today is the truth that will set you free. FREE.

Your scale is lying to you.

Now I could tell you all the evidence I have collected to verify my claim. I could mention that, heck, just sheer probability and number theory would guarantee that a significant percentage of the machines were calibrated wrong leaving the factory. Or that over time the mechanisms that gauge your weight have worn out and no longer accurately reflect the Earth's gravitational pull on your ass (such as we have come to measure it in pounds). Instead I will just say this: At the size of your ass, it's probably pulling on the Earth instead!

Dammit, sorry, that wasn't it either.

Forget the scale. It's nice when you're trying so hard to lose weight to jump on that thing and get some quick reassurance. But check out the mirror instead. When you can look into that and still smile back at yourself, no matter how much you weigh, that will be the only true thing.

Besides, how would you like it if someone your size stood on you twice a day?

Pigassus