Friday, April 16, 2010

Letting the scales fall from my eyes

posted Wed, 11 Oct 2006

So SH, who claims he needs to lose five pounds to fit into his tux for the Bodacious Red-Headed Pediatrician’s wedding to the Cheese Guy in a couple of weeks, still found it necessary to sample the fudge at the Pink Palace fair. And get ice cream on Sunday. (OK, some of it was for me, so it wasn’t all bad, even though I need to lose like eight pounds to fit into my dress.)

The other day, I asked how his weight loss regime was progressing.

“Oh, I’m back to 160,” he answered offhandedly.

“It’s only been a week!” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I haven’t had any beer.”

“I hate your guts,” I told him. “Are you sure the scale is right?”

“I weighed myself after supper, but I think it’s OK.”

“You weighed yourself after a meal, late in the day?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Because everyone knows you only weigh yourself first thing in the morning after you pee but before you eat. Naked.”

“I dunno. I weigh myself whenever I see a scale. I’ve never owned one.”

You know what this means. He weighs himself at other people’s houses, at random times, while he is dressed.

Is he nuts? Doesn’t he know that gives a false reading? As in, high? No woman in her right mind would put herself through that trauma. No woman is going to let herself be weighed while she is wearing jeans or any other clothing unless a nurse is holding a gun – or a medical chart, same thing – to her head. I myself disrobe as much as possible when I’m at the doctor’s office, kicking off my shoes, shucking my jacket and taking off my glasses and jewelry. Every little bit helps. I even exhale.

And then there are guys.

“I don’t even own a scale.” “I weighed myself after supper.”

And the worst part: “I haven’t had any beer.”

God is a man. There is no doubt in my mind.

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