This morning, as I got on my scales, I wondered why I do it. I know I haven’t lost any weight, I never lose any weight, or gain any weight. The needle whips round as though magnetised to rest on the same line every morning. But, this morning, it was one mark away! One mark. One Kilo – oh my; I was stunned and had to lean closer, squint, blink as though I’d caught something in my eye, to check and double-check but that needle remained shy of its normal target.
Slightly stunned I stepped off to continue with my morning rituals, but I was smiling – which is not normal for me of a morning. Grinning actually. Before I’d taken two more steps I whirled back and stood on the scales, just for the joy of seeing that needle sitting where it hadn’t sat for over 8 years – and was disappointed. It had slunk back to its normal position.
It was mocking me! My bloody scales were mocking me. For the tiniest moment I wondered if the designer of the scales had been humiliated by a woman somewhere, sometime, and had implanted a secret device into the scales waiting to pounce on my insecurity. Then sanity returned and the persecution complex was shoved back into the fantasy area of my brain.
But I’m onto the scales. They’re definitely mocking me. Perhaps I knocked them with the vacuum cleaner, or ignored them once, or swore at them, or forgot to call…