Me, like every other woman on the planet, have been fighting a war against the bathroom scale for several years now. I try to eat healthy, hide the snacks so I forget about them and don’t eat them, and try to keep eating out for special occasions (like Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sundays).
I drag myself out of bed and exercise–walk 2 miles along windy and exhaust-fume laden quiet neighborhood streets– three to five days a week.
I keep the tiny apartment clean, take out the trash and empty the litter box.
I play my violin and drive places.
I work out.
And yet the scale will not tell me what I want to hear: “You have lost thirty pounds! Congratulations and good luck with your next thirty!” If I’m lucky it will say: “your weight has not changed since the last time you stepped on me.” If I’m even unluckier?
Now, take my husband. He is a male, and that immediately gives him a leg up. He has way more natural energy than I do, which gives him another leg up–which he doesn’t need, since he already towers over me.
Michael doesn’t have to do much to lose weight. He can exercise for twenty minutes three times a week, and after two months will have lost twenty pounds. In the mean time, he can find and eat all of those snacks I have hidden, have about five servings of chicken Parmesan and half a liter of Dr. Pepper for every meal.
Over the Christmas holiday he exercised maybe three times in one week, and then ate half an anglefood cake in one night–and still lost two pounds in one night.
(It was a very good angelfood cake, and homemade to boot. If we hadn’t eaten it we would have had to throw it away, and that would have been a shame.)
Two pounds! And he ate half an angelfood cake? How did that happen? And why can’t it happen to me???
This is why scales are evil. I hate them. They should all be nuked and thrown away and never be made again.
Enjoy that? Join me next time when I talk about, “My Husband Speaks a Different Language Than Me.”