All my life, I have heard men refer to objects as “she” and anthropomorphize them in fantastical ways. My great Uncle Fred, whom I adored, worked as a mechanic at a dairy concern somewhere in New York. His service vans were mortal enemies. Each one had personal attributes and names. He had a passionate love affair with his Edsel, which included loving meticulous care and ranting rages, and probably went some way towards explaining why he never married. Sea captains regard their ocean going vessels as women and they know that with the proper attention, the boats will bring them safely home. And so on.
I had always assumed that this was some misogynistic attempt to explain the improbable, since as every woman knows, when you take your car in to a mechanic, and try to explain the noise the car is making, not only does the car NOT make the noise, but the mechanic kindly shakes his head at you in a knowing fashion, as if to say, “yeah, right lady, we all know cars don’t make those noises, but we can fix it anyway…”.
And I’m actually pretty good with machines, I usually can figure them out, and make them work. My job pretty much depends on it. I often joke that a degree in bio-mechanics would have been a handy adjunct to my nursing degree, as surgery is as much about the equipment as it is about the anatomy some days.
This does not include computers, by the way. Computers are a horse of a different color. Everyone who knows me knows that I emit some strange electro-magnetic field which allows me to crash computers from thirty paces. Geeks usually exclaim, when asked to weigh in on the problem, “but computers don’t do that”, or “I’ve really never seen that happen before.” I’m over it. I generally just apologize in advance when I’m around other people’s computers for some reason. My husband jokes that the great campus of Microsoft has a photo of me with a circle/slash at all the entrances as a safety precaution. I wouldn’t be surprised. But I digress.
This is about my scale. It hates me. It really hates me. For the past four weeks or so, I have been faithfully following the Weight Watchers system. I’m doing the online version, because one more meeting would send me the sort of postal that ends in strait jackets and butterfly nets. I’m counting points, exercising, the whole nine yards. I’ve eaten enough fresh produce to make the local farm board swell with pride, and the City has called about the increase in water consumption.
My scale, however, is not on board with this. For the first two weeks, it stayed dutifully at _ _5. The next week, it dipped one day, but only one day to _ _ 4, and immediately back up to _ _5 again the next. One day I got it to budge by switching its location on the floor, but that, too, was temporary. I’ve had this scale a long time. I used it a decade ago to lose almost 50 pounds with the old WW system. I have tried trading it out, but the new one weighed heavier, which was depressing. I figured they were in cahoots. And it works for my husband, who is also dieting. So it is all about me.
Now, here we are another week later, and I have done everything you could ask. I come in under points. I don’t use my whole weekly extra allowance. I walk in the rain, take the stairs, park at the back of the lot, I even tried tantric snow shoveling. So help me, I’m eating breakfast, at the urging of my fellow group members. And I hate breakfast, because I hate mornings. So the only thing worse than having to get out of bed is having to also wake remote body parts which have no absolute need to be up. But here I am patiently eating oatmeal and fruit concoctions for the good of someone’s theory of metabolism. That theory and my scale are apparently not communicating.
Today was a typical day. I step on the scale, due for my weekly weigh in. It registers, at _ _2. I am exultant! I am so astonished, that I step off the scale to get my reading glasses, just to be sure I got it right. Now, the scale reads _ _5. I step off and on again without the glasses, just in case, you know, I have been secretly working out with cheaters and didn’t know it. _ _5. So either my fat has just beat the land/sea record for movement, or my scale hates me. We all know which one it is. But HA! HA! Mr. Scale! My jeans fit better, and the other night I wore a pair I haven’t worn in months, so the joke’s on you! Go ahead and refuse to admit that I’ve lost weight. As long as my clothes fit better, I’m going to be happy….
vodka straight up, club soda back, with a twist.
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