Dear Kid,

Your sister has decided to kill me.

I know this because she has been doing the insanity workouts this summer and has decided I need to join her in these workouts.

Anything that includes the word “insanity” and is not immediately followed either by the word “chocolate” or “coffee” cannot possibly be good for me.

In order to preserve my sanity, my capacity to breathe, and my ability walk upright, I’ve decided to begin compiling a list of reasons NOT to do the insanity workout.

1. I have a hangnail.
2. I don’t have an Insanity Workout outfit.
3. My eyelashes hurt.
4. I sprained my eardrum.
5. I want to be able to work out tomorrow.
6. “Work. Out.” ‘Nuff said.
7. I have to cook dinner.
8. I have to write a blog.
9. I have to paint the garage.
10. I have to finish knitting a sweater.
11. I have to learn how to knit.
12. I have a date with a pillow.
13. I need to text someone.
14. I have to be home in case the political pollsters call.
15. I’d rather binge out on Oreos.

I don’t think she’ll accept any of those, but a girl’s gotta try.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Still having Fitbit issues.

As a fashion accessory, I love it. It’s chic, it’s purple, and it’s mine.

As a toy, it’s fantastic. I push the button and I get all sorts of data. Heaven.

As a tracker of calories, I’m pretty sure we have a colossal #Fail.

Lemme ‘splain.

I am what you might call “an active person.” For example, yesterday I did all sorts of physically active things.

I sat. I stood. I walked. I wandered. I showered. I sat some more. I baked. I ate. I drank. I watched TV. I ate some more. I walked the Puppy. I wrote. I read what I wrote. I read things I didn’t write. I cleaned (not really). I sorted. I tracked. I went to the gym. I worked out. I texted. I telephoned. I washed the Puppy. I glared. I growled. I grimaced. I grinned. I coffeed. I calculated. I computed.

In short, I used a lot of verbs.

According to my highly scientific assessment and calculations, I burned 4,827 calories yesterday. According to my Fitbit, I burned 62.

Just kidding. My Fitbit said I burned 1,628 calories.

Either way, do you see my problem? There is a HUGE discrepancy!

I prefer my methodology to Fitbit’s algorithm.

No, that’s not exactly true. I don’t really care which method we use. I just like my answer better.

According to my logic, I lost 8 pounds yesterday. According to my scale, I need to wear stretchy-waist pants.

Which means my scale and my Fitbit are in cahoots.

If those two little devices are collaborating, we are in really big trouble.

But being a generous kind of girl, I’m giving my Fitbit another chance.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

My arms got fat during the night. Specifically, my right arm got fat during the night.

Not a bug bite, not swollen, just fat.

My arms, which looked quasi-normal last night, look Quasimodo this morning.

Me: Do my arms look fat?
Dad: Huh?
Me: Do my arms look fat to you?
Dad (without looking up): You’re gorgeous
Me: Seriously, do my arms look fat to you?
Dad (sensing landmines): Gotta go walk the Puppy
Me: He was walked and fed an hour ago! Coward.
Dad (under his breath): You betcha
Me: My arm muscles are drooping and you’re evading the issue

The next sound was that of the door closing as he escaped the house.

I went back to the mirror. It lies all the time, but at least it doesn’t have the option of leaving the conversation.

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

I made a pump-your-bicep pose. All my fat cells applauded and then brought friends to watch the entertainment. My arms drooped 6 inches lower.

The mirror smirked. Showing great restraint, I did not throw a shoe at the mirror. I value my shoes too much. And I’m not sure my enormous arms would have let me.

I called my friend Bev.

Me: I think each of my arms gained 20 pounds overnight
Bev: I hate when that happens. I have racoons in my chimney

I have great friends.

Amazingly, my clothes fit fine. I glared at the mirror. It continued to smirk as I left the room.

You do not have a mirror that lies to you and smirks about it.

See how easy your life is?

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

My scale and I are back on speaking terms.

You didn’t know we’d had a falling out? Let me tell you about my scale.

Regular scales wait until someone steps on them, then the scale calculates their weight. No personality, no taking liberties with facts, no diabolical plans.

Not so with my scale.

My scale is alive. It can’t move by itself, but it definitely has a mind of its own.

And it’s stubborn.

It can’t be coaxed into showing the weight I want to be. Which isn’t surprising, since most scales stick with reality rather than sharing my view of the world.

But my scale isn’t really interested in reality as much as it’s interested in messing with me.

My scale makes a daily decision before I get near it. During the night, the scale sits quietly thinking of ways to inflict its own personalized torture. Then it picks a number.

Not an entirely random number. It has never suggested I weigh 7,000 lbs. nor has it ever guessed 6 lbs. Pretty much everything in between is fair game.

Some days, it shows numbers relative close to what I expect to see. Other days, not so much. Let me tell you what happened two days ago.

I got on the scale and yelped. What? I gained 7 lbs. overnight? No way. Then I realized I was still holding a book. Ah. I put it down, reset the scale, and stepped back on. Same number.

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

That book weighed about 17 lbs. It was enormous. It was practically dictionary sized (remind me to explain what a dictionary is). It was the weight of the first 5 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica (I’ll explain that one too).

The scale smirked ‘That’s your number for today.’

I stepped off the scale, walked down the hall, snuck back in (changing my cadence so the scale wouldn’t know it was me), and stepped on. Same number.

‘Told you.’

See what I mean?

I decided to snub my scale. I turned my back and walked out. The scale smiled. It knew it had won.

Fortunately, today it shows I’ve lost half a pound, so we’re back on speaking terms.

You have suggestions. I know. I can hear you thinking them.

Your first suggestion is that I get another scale. Not going to happen right now. I know how this scale thinks; I don’t really want to train a new scale. The scale you know is better and all that.

Your second suggestion is that I refrain from weighing myself every day. You might as well suggest I wear ugly shoes every day. Not going to happen in this decade. In fact, the reason I like my current diet is because it requires me to weigh myself every day.

The big problem (yes, I know it’s a big problem) is that my scale has control over me. It’s true, it’s unhealthy, and I have no plans to change my attitude or belief system. (Anyone who wants to tell me not to judge myself by my scale needn’t bother. I don’t judge myself by the scale. I judge my weight by my scale and I believe my weight is important. Without weight, gravity would have nothing to hold on to. I would just like gravity to have a little less to hold on to.)

Love, Mom

P.S. Please don’t try to explain that gravity causes weight. This is a blog about my scale and for purposes of this discussion, Oreos cause weight, not gravity.

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