Published in The Broomfield Enterprise, 1/13/08

Years ago, after daily morning affirmations, my girlfriend’s husband told her, “You know, dear, the fate of the world does not depend on the way you fit into your pants each morning.”In theory I agree with him. But alas…I must admit I get where she’s coming from.

Last week, after all the holiday revelry, my husband saw me go into the bathroom with the scale. When I opened the door, he looked at me wincingly and asked, “Is it going to be a good day or a bad day?”

I grumbled and went back in, closing the door behind me. I stood back on the scale for a minute. I got off the scale. I got back on the scale, but stood with my feet in a different position. I got off again.

I picked up the scale and held it for a minute and—I will have to be honest with you here—I jostled it a little bit. Then I put it back on the floor and gave it a chance to reconcile the information it had been giving me with the answer I was really looking for.

I stood on…I waited…I got off.

I peed.

I got back on.

I got off.

I left it alone with it’s thoughts. Maybe giving it some time to think about what it had just said would shame it into submission.

While I waited for it to change it’s mind, I took not a sip of water for fear I would swell and poof like a dehydrated meal lustfully drinking in it’s first drip of H2O. I made not a move, I lifted no heavy objects for fear of adding weighty muscle poundage. I merely passed the time in preparation for the answer I wanted.

I re-entered the bathroom and faced the scale for our last shot. It was it and me…alone in a “Marathon Man” moment—the scale being Dustin Hoffman in the dentist chair and me the sadistic, questioning doctor asking “Is it safe?” over and over again.

Alas, the scale did not provide the response I wanted. It was not, in fact, “safe”, and I left the room to go about my ruined day.

Years ago I laughed when my father brought home a new scale to replace their old, worn and tired one: after standing on it once, my mother told him to “send it back” with a finger pointing toward the door. But, now, I get it—I do.

There is no need for all this harshness–for the misery one piece of equipment bestows with it’s simple spurt of a few digits–I should be on a friendly basis with this little hunk of metal and lithium that resides in my bathroom.

Why not live a little like Michael Jackson with his “handlers” who tell him what he wants to hear, who tell him he’s doin’ A-okay? Why not have a scale that has a teensy little tendency for fibbing–or stretching the truth? I gotta say—I’m okay with that.

Hey–maybe if we all had a scale that made us feel a little bit better (especially after the holidays), the fate of the world—which does, in fact, depend upon how we fit into our pants each morning—would be in happier hands…