One of the most harrowing experiences devised by our culture is
Weigh-In Day. Now, this doesn’t mean the Monday you pull out the
old metal scale and weigh yourself on the bathroom floor.
No-sir-ee. I’m talking about the day you go out in public and step
on a scale in front of a total stranger who then records your
weight in some sort of permanent file.
One of the most harrowing experiences devised by our culture is Weigh-In Day. Now, this doesn’t mean the Monday you pull out the old metal scale and weigh yourself on the bathroom floor. No-sir-ee. I’m talking about the day you go out in public and step on a scale in front of a total stranger who then records your weight in some sort of permanent file.
Why would anybody in their right mind do this on purpose, you ask?
Well, I’ll tell you: it helps you lose weight. I mean, there’s something that happens deep inside you when a total stranger looks at your weight, shakes their head and clucks their tongue, and then documents your weight for the entire world to see. Not that the world would look, mind you. But THERE IT IS.
However, the funny thing about Weigh-In Day is that I always manage to block the whole ordeal from my mind until, well, that very morning. I’m not sure why this happens. I could blame my busy schedule. Or the fact that something weird happens to the time-space continuum that makes time speed up between weigh-ins. Or that amnesia is a natural response to trauma.
Whatever the reason, every week I vow to pay more attention and do better. And every week I look up, shocked, to find out that it’s Weigh-In Day ALREADY. Which means, simply, the gig is up. Instead of losing the two pounds I had planned, it will be noted that I spent the week eating ice cream sandwiches and swigging mocha lattes. Not that I’ll admit it, mind you.
So I do what any intelligent, modern woman would do: panic. Then I break out the treadmill.
Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s scientifically impossible to counteract a week full of fat and cholesterol in only a few hours, and that my chances of losing weight this way are perhaps better than, say, my chances of qualifying for Mensa. But not all that much better.
But, hey, these odds don’t stop me from trying.
In fact, as soon as I’m done with the treadmill I start in on sit-ups and power lunges. Then I cut off all solids and liquids, take a hot shower while jogging in place, and exfoliate. After that I pluck my eyebrows, clip my nails and trim my bangs just for good measure.
In my defense, this may seem like somewhat of a haphazard system, but let me just say that there’s a clear-cut strategy going on here.
Once at the Weigh-In Place, I strip down to my lucky slip and stumble on the scale. Then I give the woman my best I-exercised-everyday-this-week-look, but I can tell by the way she frowns while I hold my breath she doesn’t really believe me.
“Oh, you’re the same weight as last week,” she says eyeing my file. “And the week before that. And the week before that,” she adds, a bit meanly, I think.
This is when two options cross my mind. I could No 1. take off my lucky slip and give the whole thing, as they say, another go or No 2. yell in my best this-is-an-outrage kind of voice, “What? You mean you haven’t gotten these lousy scales fixed yet?”
But instead all I say is, “OK, thanks.” Then do what I do every week: order a pizza. Not because I’ve given up, mind you, but because I’m HUNGRY.
And sure, this might not be a particularly health-conscious or reasonable thing to do, but that’s OK. I have seven more days to work it off. Plenty of time, really.
