For a Monday, things were not looking terribly bad. I woke up a few minutes before my alarm (having had a great night’s rest for once), and even though I knew I’d be busy this week, I was looking forward to the challenges ahead of me. With as much pep in my step as the early hour would allow, I trotted off to the bathroom for my morning ritual of weighing before I do anything.
The familiar red hexagon beginning with the instruction “Tap foot here” is where I gave my foot a gentle tap.
I waited a minute, and frowned. There should be… glowing blue (yes, it was pretty early in the morning). I tapped again.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
Oh no. Oh sweet merciful heaven, no!
My non-talking, sassy, no nonsense scale … really didn’t talk back at all.
I frantically rip open the battery compartment, jiggle the batteries, and back in they go.
My brain catches up to the battery jiggling portion. Triple-A batteries?! What the heck uses Triple-A batteries anymore aaaaaah, The Husband, heeeeeeeeeeelp!
|I don’t need life lessons! I need my scale!
(Full disclosure, picture from April 2010)
Okay, I think I’ve mentioned my significant character flaw quite recently. I am quite obsessed with weighing two things: portion sizes and myself. I do not lie, as shamed as I am to admit it. I’ve tried to ween myself off of so much weighing (of myself, portion size I think is acceptable), and with little success. I constantly want to know where I am, morning, noon and night.
This morning, I felt like a ship lost at sea. Suddenly, I was unsure of what to eat, how to exercise, what my weigh-in in three day’s time would be like… how am I supposed to live?
“Well, maybe,” The Husband offered helpfully, “this is a good opportunity for you to stop weighing yourself so mu-“
“Shuddupshuddupshuddup!” I stormed around in a little circle of uselessness between the bathroom and the bedroom. “If I was a Triple-A-powered-device, where would I be, and how many batteries would I have?” I wondered briefly if I should wear eyeshadow. I might gain weight if I do. I really wasn’t sure…
From the nether-regions of boxes we brought to the house when we moved in… several years ago, The Husband found batteries (another uncharacteristic display of morning time alertness in as many days). Triple-A. With an expiration of December 2010.
“It’s worth a shot,” he said with that annoying calm, logical voice of his, placing in the batteries. I hopped about impatiently, wondering how many pounds I’d just gained in stress weight.
The scale was back on the floor.
“Gyaaaaaa-oh? Is that the time?” Suddenly, there was the idea that perhaps I should actually get my day started and get to work. Worked out, went to the scale. Tap. Showered, got dressed. Tap. Ate breakfast. …Tap? Okay, out the door.
This was the last I thought about it. Work was busy, and there were people to follow up with, things to do. In other words… the same thing that happens every day when I’m separated from my vice. I lived. I even got home and lived some more (I did visit once, forgetting, but then got into my new Food Network Magazine, full of Italian food this month that I’m wondering how I can mod to work for me.
I don’t have to be broken, but apparently I choose to be. Because when a lesson should have been learned here… but when The Husband came home with the groceries, the first thing I did was grab the batteries and dash upstairs.
C’mon baby. We’ve had our ups and downs, but you don’t want to give up on me yet, do you?
I weighed, and went back to life. Heck, I may only do it once more before bed. Did I learn anything? I don’t think so. I don’t know, really. I want to be better about this. I just don’t know how, and I don’t think cold turkey is the answer. So I don’t have any answers, but I do have glowing blue.
Except I can’t leave it here, so here it is. I will weigh less… in that I will lose (a very little) more weight and I will not weigh myself as much. I’ll keep you posted how it goes. Perhaps I should work with the theory that if I use the scale less, the batteries will last longer… because really, who uses Triple-A?!