Don't trust bathroom scales lying around
BURTON W. COLE, Editor
By Burton W. Cole
I dislike liars. I particularly dislike liars that lie around all day.
I speak in this general sort of manner about my bathroom scales. They just lie there, so how can I trust anything they say to me?
I rediscovered the scales after my health care professional noted that perhaps I was a smidge heftier than necessary.
Well, she didn’t say “smidge” and “hefty” wasn’t the exact word that she wrote on my health assessment summary, but I’m sure that “hefty” or “sturdy” or “solid center of gravity” or some similar words are what she meant to say. None of those sounded nearly as rude as the word that taunted me in the report.
I went home and dug beneath some old towels, washcloths, books, a hat or two and a couple of empty boxes I couldn’t remember tossing into the closet until I finally found the scales of injustice.
At first, the digital display wouldn’t light up at all. The bathroom scales needed juice. Nourishment, as it were.
“I know, right?” I said. “That’s how I feel about ice cream. Don’t ask me to answer any questions until I’ve had at least two bowls of ice cream. With hot fudge. And a couple of brownies.”
I popped a fresh battery in place. The scales lapped up the energy like it was fries smothered in cheese. Sated, it blinked to life.
I stepped on board. Glowing red digits spun around the display screen. My weight lit up: “Ouch! Get off! You’re hurting me!”
“Stop that,” I snarled. “You’re bathroom scales. You were made for people to step on you.”
“Yeah, but only one person at a time, not three of you at once.”
“I am just one person.”
“Not from where I’m lying, bub.”
And that’s just it. How can I trust a device known for lying?
I knew my shirts were tighter, but I figured they’d shrunk in the laundry. Why not? Colors fade in the wash. Some even relocate. The red collar of one T-shirt now is pink — just like the formerly white socks.
So it seemed logical that the fabric itself was fading away, too, accounting for the stretching about the snaps and buttons.
My belts baffled me. They’d shrunk, too, even though I never ran them through the washer and dryer. My best guess is that whatever those two devious laundry devices did to my shirts and pants rubbed off onto my belts. A shrinking virus?
Therefore, it was easy to understand that the dryer or the laundry detergent or fabric softeners or something in the washer was to blame.
But now, here were my bathroom scales, suggesting another, fantastical explanation about what got smaller and who didn’t. The nerve!
I don’t think I can even count that high, so how could the number the scales flashed being anything I could possibly accomplish?
The scales snickered. “Believe it, big boy.”
I knew what had to be done. I waddled back to the closet and rooted around under more old towels, washcloths, books, a hat or two and a couple of empty boxes until I finally found my walking shoes. At least THEY hadn’t shrunk.
I’d heard a rumor that something called “exercise” was a good way to restore shirts and pants to their normal size, so I laced up the shoes and took a hike through town.
I passed the place with double cheeseburgers — well, not passed, exactly — then meandered a block further down the street through the lunch buffet, then across the road for a milkshake, and so forth.
It turns out that I’m very fond of this thing called exercise. I can’t wait to jump on the bathroom scales tomorrow to see how much weight I’ve lost.
Then again, I don’t know if I can trust whatever number or insults flash at me. After all, bathroom scales are known liars.
Send explanations of how exercise actually works to Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. He’ll take your knowledge under advisement — right after he finishes those three pieces of chocolate cake.