I Hope My Ass Smothers My Scale, Because I Hate That Lying Bitch

I Hope My Ass Smothers My Scale, Because I Hate That Lying Bitch

My scale lied to me.

Like, for real.

If it were Pinocchio, its nose would be 10 pounds long.

There's the long version of this story, which involves doctors and a contact case and a demon cat and a sobbing session and a really uncomfortable gym employee.

Then there's the short story, which is this: My cat knocked my contact case off of the bathroom counter, and the case got wedged underneath the bathroom scale, so when I stood on it, it made it seem like I was 10 pounds lighter than I actually was, but I didn't know the contact case was there, and I made it all awkward when I involved some poor personal trainer who oversees the super fancy scale at the gym next door.

So, yeah.

That happened.

And that sucked.

Here's the thing: Two weeks ago, I went to a super secret doctor's appointment, and during this confidential consultation, I was told that all of the weight I gained as a result of a thyroid tumor and polycystic ovarian syndrome was posing a big ol' problemo.

My doctor gave me a new diet plan, a command to sign up for and actually use a specific online exercise program, and a suggestion to lose 10 or so pounds before our next appointment (which is this Wednesday.)

I followed this specialist's instructions to the t. And by t, I mean, I ate fucking baby carrots instead of ice cream, okay?

All those damn vegetables were working, according to my pants. I donned an old pair of jeans that previously refused to zip, and THEY FIT. Like, I didn't even have to do that thing where I lay on the bed, suck it in, and then zip 'em up.

I was feeling pretty good, so despite my doctor's instructions to ONLY weigh at her office and NEVER at home, I stood on my home scale. TEN POUNDS DOWN! Obviously, I rounded up my cats, gave them instruments, and we had a "Mommy's-Slightly-Less-Fat" Dance Party.

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The next day, I got a less than lovely call from the doctor concerning lab work, and I needed a pick-me-up, so I went back to that magical scale to see that glorious number again.

I was 10 POUNDS UP! According to my whore of a scale, I gained 10 pounds OVERNIGHT.

Y'all!!!! Remember me talking about those carrots I'd been eating? Yeah, well, I was still eating them! And I wasn't wrapping them in bacon and swirling them around in buffalo cheese dip, although now that's all I can think about doing...

Anyway!

There's no way I gained a whole cat overnight. So, I got naked (because I convinced myself that my PJs were extra heavy) and summoned my husband, Chris, into the bathroom. He thought it was sexy shower time. Instead, I made him read the scale for me. Still up 10. There I stood, in my bulgy birthday suit, hyperventilating, as Chris assured me that the scale's batteries were probably low, thus providing an incorrect reading.

He lifted up the scale to do the deed, saw the contact case, and said, "Uh oh."

This is where things got weird.

I couldn't accept that the contact case had thrown the scale off and that I had never lost those 10 pounds in the first place. I wanted a professional scale to tell me that my Target-brand contraption was wrong. Unfortunately, I don't own a professional scale. Nor do I possess a membership to a gym with a fancy scale.

But I used to.

So, through my gulping sobs, I called my old gym and poured out my heifer heart to the unfortunate soul who answered the phone.

"I weighed yesterday, and * sob * the scale said I had lost 10 pounds, but today * whimper * it says I * blubber * haven't lost 10 pounds, and I don't * snivel * know what's right, and it's really important * baaaawl * that I know how fat I really am, so can I use your scale even though I'm not a member * hoooowl * but I probably should join again * waaaaaaaiiiiiiiillll * because I'm so faaa-haaaa-aaaa-t."

They were scared of me, but they said I could use their scale anyway. I got back in my PJs, hightailed it there, and their contraption confirmed that I was, in fact, 10 pounds heavier than my scale had initially said.

Because I'm not pathetic at all, I fucking boo-hooed and blubbered and burst a tear duct or two... in the gym... in front of the nice trainer who had agreed to let me use the fancy machine that tells you your weight, body fat percentage, and all that shit.

I'm serious right now. I cried for probably two hours. I cried on that scale. I cried leaving the gym. I cried in my car on the way home from the gym. I crawled into bed and cried. I got back on my home scale just in case this was all a dream, and it still said I was fat, and then I cried on the scale. I cried while my husband rubbed my back and said it was all okay.

Seriously, this was me, if those tears were congealed from all the FAT in my system.

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Anyway....that was a few hours ago, and I'm calm now. I think I might need to talk to my doctor about adjusting some of my hormone pills, because this reaction seemed a bit much, but other than that, I'm good.

I mean, I'm still eating those damn carrots, but I'm good.

(P.S. So, technically the post ended with that last paragraph, but then I found this on the Internet, and it made me laugh really hard, and today is Monday, sooo... y'all enjoy!)

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True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What is the weirdest thing you've done in pursuit of a better number on that damn scale? Do you often cry about your weight? Do you know how sad that is? Who should we blame for it? I'd blame the media, but that's all the rage now, and I want to be different, so I'll blame Nicki Minaj, because I want to be her. Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.