Mr Salter Scale, my aging baby boomer of an electronic bathroom scale, suffers from a mental condition or two. Depression? Sure. Antisocial outlook? Absolutely. Not to mention a pissy attitude that he does not hesitate to unwind and throw beneath my feet several times a day.
Mr Salter Scale is just not in the mood. Sorry.
Some mornings Mr Scale is bouncy and bright, with a bubbly outlook and sunny disposition, looking forward to a full day of healthy activity and mindful meals. “Good morning, Healthy Lass!” he whistles merrily as I sashay into the bathroom with or without a following cat.
Other mornings, he sighs sadly and mopes when I enter the room, turning his age-spotted crystal face toward the wall as if to say, “Oh, please. Not now. I’m just not… in… the mood.”
Mr Scale is intolerant of foodie flirtation
To be fair, there are mornings when I don’t want to talk to him, either. Morning-after mornings, when we both know deep down inside that that slice of cheesecake I stared at yesterday on my favorite cooking website transformed overnight into eight more high-carb ounces clinging to my hips.
“I was just looking. Honest!” I whimper, as Mr Scale blows out his wrinkly pale cheeks in disgust.
“Oh, really? And I suppose that trail of braised mushrooms on top of the spinach frittata just threw itself at you from that recipe-laden hussy of a cooking magazine? Hrmph.”
Well, yes. I did look. I did not, however, rush off to the kitchen and actually COOK the frittata or EAT the frittata. It was a harmless foodie fixation with the idea of butter-nuanced slices of white mushroom levitating across the golden brown top of a sharp cheddar-enhanced egg confection as light as an angel’s eyelash. Maybe a wee dash of tart balsamic glaze. A hint of minced basil in fat-free sour cream. A squeeze of lemon…
What girl could possibly resist?
Mr Scale exaggerates, but never lies… much
They say the bathroom scale doesn’t lie. That’s probably true. Scales don’t lie. They do, however, flatter the heck out of us when they think it’ll get them something they want — a day off, a little extra cleanser on the footsie parts, a fresh battery.
Lately, Mr Scale has been prone to episodes of… well, shall we call it ‘creative memory’?
Two times in one morning last week, he changed his mind. The first time, he subtracted 1.1 pounds from the day before, knowing full well this would set me off into a joyous jig. A mere hour later, he added that 1.1 back onto the tally AND tossed in an extra 1.7 pounds just to make his point. When confronted, Mr Scale gasped in mock shock.
“Did I tell you to double up on that roasted chicken last night? Hmm? Did I? NO. I did NOT. So don’t point your finger at ME when—” I closed the door in his face and let him vent.
Sure enough, two hours later, the reading was back where it should have been all along. (Oh, yes – and I put down the Kindle, headphones, portable phone and half-full water bottle this time. Ooops… my bad.)