Monday, March 8, 2010

Outwitting the Scale and Other Ninja Moves

I am currently engaged in a war of wills with my bathroom scale.

I'm pretty sure the scale is winning.

This morning, appropriately ENRAGED! at its numbers, I sat on the end of my bed, looking out the large window that overlooks our back yard, and did the mental physics.

Here's the word problem:

A 220 pound, more than slightly perturbed woman needs, desperately, to hurl her bathroom scale to its untimely demise from the second story of an ugly multi-level mid-1980s ranch. The trajectory of said scale, at its highest arc, will require the penetration of one, large Anderson window, at a distance of approximately five feet from the source of aforementioned hurlage. The woman has been working out, consistently, for over nine months, with significant weight reduction in the bustular and facial regions, but with little discernible effect on the mid-abdominal "Michelin Tire" territory. While her biceps are far from sundress ready, the feat will be fueled by sheer force of frustration.

Given these facts, please respond, in full sentences and with appropriate mathematical proofs accompanied by labeled illustrations to the following questions:

1. Exactly how many calories will this woman burn in the hurling process?
2. Into how many pieces will the giant window shatter?
3. How many stories will this woman need to concoct before arriving at the correct combination of ridiculousness and believability necessary to convince her husband that this incident was a freak accident?


So, I've hit a plateau.

A big, fat, ugly, plateau.

In early February, I hit 75 lbs down.

I've been jogging my fool fanny off ever since, but the scale keeps TOYING with me.

Seriously, it's like this evil piece of household equipment has taken on a malicious, sadistic personality all its own.

I swear I actually hear it laughing sometimes.

The numbers have been bouncing around between 218 & 223 for a month!

Last week, I thought I finally had it beat when I woke up to a 215. 8. I even announced the 80 pound mark to facebook world!

Now, this tool of Satan has made a social-networking-liar of me.

Really, though, I think the scale is finally catching on to some of my stealth, Ninja, weigh-in tricks, and has finally decided to fight back.

For the first 50 pounds or so, the weigh-ins were easy. Step on scale. Note weight loss. Smile. No. Problem!

At 50 pounds down, I started jogging. At first, the pounds continued to drop, but the losses began to slow and now here. I. sit.

Only I'm NOT SITTING! I'M JOGGING MY ARSE OFF! (Well, in reality, I seem to just be continuing to jog my boobs off, with my over sized arse still not-so-firmly in place.)

So, I'm relying on an age-old strategy: DECEPTION

After a long period of trial and error, I've found the "sweet spot" in the bathroom floor.

You know? That one spot where the gravitational pull of the Earth isn't quite as strong and a few ounces magically melt off the digital readout?

Once the scale is strategically positioned on the sweet spot -- a process that can take up to five minutes in the morning, since this requires laser-like accuracy -- I step on with ONE foot, whilst gripping the door jamb.

Safety first, right? I MUST use that door jamb for stability.

While the scale numbers bounce around a bit, I contemplate whether or not to actually drop the second foot to the surface of the scale. Usually, my lack of balance prevails, and I do, but I do my best to avoid upsetting the "daily low" until it has locked in on the digital screen.

Then, ever so slightly, I remove my hand from the door jamb and cross my fingers that the numbers don't change.

This whole process can take time, but it has become an important morning ritual.

A ritual my husband finds wildly amusing, mind you.

"You know, you can't TRICK the scale into making you any thinner," he chided one morning.

And that's how the secret got out. I'm firmly convinced that the scale actually HEARD my husband's comments, and has been fighting my deception ever since.

My husband SOLD ME OUT in our very own bathroom.

It's okay, though.

After all, he's the one that's gonna have to pay for the new window.