So, back in the day, after I realized that living in sin was causing the augmentation of my ass, I promptly went out and bought a scale.
I considered this to be a good idea, because historically, I tend not to notice that I’m gaining weight simply by looks alone. They say that you can, but it’s a talent that I apparently lack. There are a couple reasons for this—first, since I’m shaped like a guitar (or a viola, merci beaucoup to Man Ray), I tend to gain weight in places where I can’t see it right away. With a job to go to and bills to pay, it’s hard to remember that one must also diligently check one’s rear view in the mirror EVERY SINGLE DAY to make sure that one’s ass is maintaining a homeostatic size.
Hey, what's going on back there?!
The other reason, of course, is that I have no real concept of how large I am. To myself, I always look kinda fat, or at least, fatter than I’d like. (Issues? Well, sure they are!) I know I’m not the only one with this problem – maybe some of you have it, too? Don’t be shy! —but when your self-appraisal has been accompanied by thoughts of “God, I look like a pig” since age 12 or so, it’s hard to discern between the usual self-loathing and the actual, physical manifestation of extra weight… at least, until that physical manifestation is +10 lbs and an extra jeans size.
Thus, the scale. I considered it a cautionary measure – one that would let me catch any problems before they, y’know, ballooned.
Instead, the scale has overtaken my life. It is 1) haunted, and 2) my new favorite toy.
First, the haunting. As a longtime student of caloric math, I know that one must eat an additional 3,500 calories to gain one pound of fat. Therefore, gaining 3 pounds of fat overnight is a physical impossibility (unless one is to consume, say, an entire CAKE). Still, I continue to experience the following scenario:
1. I spend Monday thru Saturday being a careful eater, drinking black coffee for breakfast and taking tiny little bites of everything.
2. On Sunday morning, I weigh myself, and it is good.
3. On Sunday afternoon, I determine that I’ve been cautious enough to splurge on some beer and a few chicken wings.
4. On Monday morning, I weigh myself, and it is not good. It is 3 GODDAMN POUNDS of not good. Overnight, I have become the unwitting victim of some sort of psychotic, instant fat-ificiation.
I know that some of you are thinking, “It’s water weight, the sodium, blah blah blah”, but I’ll tell you what –fuck that. The scale is haunted. It is possessed by a malevolent force, or possibly, but the ghost of Edith Piaf, who was very thin and French and who would likely be amused by this sort of thing.
I’d throw it out, but for the other thing – the scale is fun.
So. Much. Fun. In a mad science-y way!
I’m not even kidding. I have been doing experiments. And without the haunted scale, I would never know have known that a hardbound copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows weighs 2.5 pounds. Or that you eliminate a full pound of water about 60 minutes after drinking two beers.