I’ve had a love-hate relationship with my scale for as long as I can remember … mostly hate … and so, when we packed up the house to move, I decided to simplify my life and see if I could live scale-free for a while. I’d been told that it’s much healthier to gauge your weight by how your clothes fit, rather than by how much you weigh. However, I’m pretty sure it was a skinny person who said that.

Still, as someone who has been scale-obsessed in the past, I thought it made sense to ditch my scale. This was a good plan, in theory, until I realized all my jeans had spandex in them and wouldn’t divulge my true size until I either sat and split them or I got reported to the ASPCSJ (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Skinny Jeans). The truth all came out when I went for a doctor appointment and they made me weigh in, at which point I told the doctor her scale was broken, or possibly possessed, but certainly not accurate and I was going to report her to the ASPCPD (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to People in Denial).

Eventually I accepted the truth and although I generally eat healthy, I decided to cut back on my intake of leftover Halloween candy and give up cheese fries. I went back to the gym, dropped a few pounds and my skinny jeans breathed a sigh of relief. All was well again in the world.

But then we entered that dangerous diet season known as the Holidays. Knowing that I had a propensity to gain weight during this time, I thought it made sense to suck it up and buy a scale again so I could make sure that I didn’t pack on the pounds one chocolate turkey at a time. Between the time I had bought my last scale and now, however, it seemed that scales had gotten a major upgrade. These new smart scales not only told you your weight, they could also measure your body mass index and bone density, as well as vacuum your rugs and pick up your dry cleaning. Many of them could also talk to you, tell you your weight and then berate you for the last Snickers bar you consumed. You could also program them to berate you in an English accent if you preferred your weight shaming with a British flair.

Since I was not all that eager to be fat-harassed by the Queen, and I didn’t need to know the fat percentage of my earlobes on a regular basis, I decided to just go with the cheap model that didn’t talk or multitask or co-function as a valet, a coffeemaker or a doula. But apparently, the old adage, you get what you pay for, was coined specifically for bathroom scales because no sooner did I set it up and step on it than it freaked out and told me I weighed as much as an NFL linebacker. Although I knew I had put on a bit of weight, I was confident that I hadn’t gained so much that I could get my own personal zip code.

I nudged the scale across the floor with my toe and then got back on. This time around it told me I had dropped 80 pounds and weighed as much as a Yorkipoo. Much as I would have liked to weigh as little as a Yorkipoo, I suspected this weight wasn’t right either and nudged the scale to yet another location across the floor. When I stepped on, the number again skyrocketed and I nearly had a stroke until I realized my 90-pound dog had his paw on the back of the scale, just to be funny.

I moved the dog and nudged the scale once more. This time it didn’t say I was too heavy or too light. This time the scale said I weighed 0.

I could work with that.

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