HUMOR

Getting a Smart Scale was Really Dumb

Pandemic Pounds are a Myth

Recently, I realized summer was coming and I wanted to wear something other than pajamas or yoga pants. That’s when I noticed my favorite jeans were super tight. Plus, there was something wrong with the zipper.

“It’s like it’s stuck,” I told my husband. “Look, it won’t budge!”

Sam glanced up and said, “You haven’t worn them for a long time. Maybe they just need to be broken in again or something.”

“No,” I said, “it’s like the zipper froze up over the winter.” I sighed and the button flew out of the buttonhole. “Oh, geez! Now there’s something wonky with the button!” I laid flat on the bed. My arms got a workout trying to get the button fastened again. I broke out in a light sweat. I sucked in my stomach and by the time I wrested the zipper up, I was panting from the exertion. I had to have burned 500 calories right there.

The lower part of my body felt like it was trapped in a straight jacket. I rolled over and pushed myself off the mattress, swinging my legs like an otter hoisting itself off an iceberg. My feet hit the floor and I wobbled. Head rush!

I pulled on a T-shirt and duck-walked back into the living room. “Look at this!” A strange roll of fat perched atop my jeans. I lowered my shoulders and bent my elbows. “It’s like I have a built-in arm rest now. What the heck?”

Sam did a double take, then jerked his head back to the TV. “Why don’t you order a new pair, honey? You deserve to treat yourself.”

I shook my head and zombie-walked to the bathroom. My knees wouldn’t bend against the tight fabric. A half hour later, I had peeled the demonic-denim-with-a-vice-like-grip off my body. No doubt the effort equaled a full cardio workout.

I stepped on the scale and screamed.

Sam came running, alarmed.

“How much salt was in that salad we had last night? I’m bloated like a balloon!”

Sam squinted his eyes at the ceiling. “Salad? Didn’t we have lasagna and garlic bread?”

“I mostly just had salad,” I snapped. “This is unbelievable.” I stared at the digital numbers between my feet. “I hate this scale! It’s stupid.” Hot tears stung my eyes.

Sam gave me a hug and patted my back. “We’ll get rid of it. No need for you to be upset.”

Sure enough, when Sam left for work the next morning, the scale left too. Good riddance! (To the scale, not Sam. Never Sam.)

That evening, he handed me a shopping bag. “I got a present for you on my lunch hour.”

I grinned and grabbed it like a chubby child going for a piece of fudge. I tore open the bag and looked up at Sam with starry eyes. “A smart scale? For me?”

“No more dumb ones,” he said. “And guess what? It syncs with your phone and tells you all kinds of information, besides just your weight. You can see if the fluctuation is just water weight or something silly like that.”

I threw my arms around his neck. “I love you!”

The next morning, I read the directions, and hooked everything up. The app on my phone said, “Please board now.” I laughed. It sounded as if I were about to step on a spaceship.

This is gonna be a helluva ride!

I tiptoed on.

I read the numbers and my shoulders drooped.

I must’ve done something wrong.

I started over and got the same result.

No way is this possible.

I backed off, turned tail, and raced up the stairs to Sam’s home office. Rifling through his desk, I found the battery bag and selected two fresh ones. I ran back down to the bathroom and noticed my elevated heart rate from the impromptu sprint. Kind of like a HITT workout. I figured I’d just burned about 300 calories. At least. And I hadn’t even had breakfast yet!

When Sam called on his lunch hour, I told him there was something wrong with the scale. The number was way too high. “We’re probably going to have to return it. It’s not smart at all. I think we got another stupid scale by accident.”

“Why don’t we give it a few weeks. It’ll get smarter, you’ll see.”

“I dunno. Okay. I guess.”

That afternoon, I fiddled with the app. My metabolic age was two years older than what I am. As if! My subcutaneous fat percentage was laughably out of kilter. My BMI was high. What does BMI stand for anyway? I decided it stood for, bite me, idiot!

That night, in between mouthfuls of ribeye and a loaded baked potato, I told Sam, “The scale is a dunce. A real moron.” I pointed at my plate with my fork. “I’ve been eating clean. Look, lean meat and a vegetable. There is no way it can be accurate.”

Sam cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He stirred his food around. “Maybe too many snacks or something?”

“Nope. No way. I don’t eat between meals, and my bedtime treat is a very small portion of dark chocolate. Dark. The healthy kind. Doctors recommend it.”

Sam stared at his watch as if he’d never seen it before. “Well, sounds like you’re doing everything right. Let’s just forget the scale. We’ll give it away. I think you’re beautiful just the way you are.”

I swooned. “Really?”

He nodded, smiling. “Absolutely.”

“Then it’s decided!” I said, pushing back my chair. “Let’s get out of here and go for a walk. I feel energized now! Just the weight of the scale being off my back is so freeing!”

“Agreed!” he said, jumping up.

We hit the street and breathed in the warm Spring air. Our hands clasped together like laces.

“Want to go to the park?” I asked.

“How ‘bout we go a bit farther tonight? Just a few more blocks?”

I bit my lip.

Sam shot me a wicked grin. “There’s a new ice cream shop I think we should check out.”

I squealed.

That’s when I knew I married the most wonderful man in the world. Bonus: he’s smart, unlike the scale.