I gave in to my obsessive compulsive warped self image urges and bought a bathroom scale.
The stupid doctor's scale was 8 pounds heavier than normal the last time I was there, and I have been unable to console myself with the "muscle is denser than fat; therefore increased muscle mass and loss of fat will result in weight gain" argument.
Of course, the minute Tim steps on it he announces, "The scale is off."
"What do you mean it's off?"
"I mean it's off."
"Which way?"
"More."
"It says you weigh more than you do?" I ask excitedly.
"No. I weigh more than it says I do."
"I have a hard time believing that," I pouted.
"Well, the scale at work says different. Unless you think my work boots weigh 9 pounds."
"It must be the scale at work that's off, because I think it's perfectly fine."
"Did you get it at Target?"
"Yes."
"Then it's a piece of crap."
"Whatever."
He may be right, though.
If we go by the Target scale, I lose 3-4 pounds in my sleep every night.
And the Fat Ass Cat weighs 16 pounds.
Hmm.
Maybe the Target scale is not so far off after all.
I have three daughters and have decided they don't need to worry about scales, so I don't have one in the house. I judge my growth by my jeans---did I pass out while putting them on or merely get a little dizzy?
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