I stepped on the scale and saw the unexplained weight loss nearly every woman dreams of. I weighed 57 pounds. I knew that couldn’t possibly be right, so I stepped on it again.
Sure enough, 57 had been a bad read. The scale said I actually weighed 58.
Technically, I should be traveling in a car seat. That’s me, the one in the driver’s seat of an SUV strapped in a pink Cosco juvenile car seat with tilt recline and the side beverage cup holder.
The last time I weighed 58, I was probably in the fourth grade. I knew all my states and capitals then. I loved converting fractions, wrote a poem once a week, was a jump rope champion, had legible handwriting and enjoyed recess twice a day. My mother did my laundry and cooked all the meals and I could still overpower my younger brother. It was a good year, one I wouldn’t mind revisiting.
It was nice to weigh 58 again. It made me feel light, inside and out. My clothes fit better. My jeans felt loose. I felt healthier. More energetic. More vibrant. Maybe I’d swim a couple hundred meters. I’ve never been a swimmer, but why should that stop me?
Yes, it did occur to me that the digital scale was on the fritz, but I immediately put that thought out of my mind. Why let practicality ruin a wonderful start to a beautiful day?
We went out to lunch later and I had biscuits. I don’t eat biscuits. I don’t even like biscuits, but when you have unexpected weight loss, you feel entitled to eat biscuits.
Pass the butter.
I had ice cream, too. Not much, but a little. It’s been months since I had ice cream. It’s on my banned food list. But I was eating ice cream now.
As I poured a little chocolate syrup on the ice cream, I wondered if I should call the doctor so he could update my medical records. Maybe my cholesterol numbers had taken a dramatic dive, too.
This was the most excited I’d been about a failed household appliance in ages. I was disgruntled when one of the lights over the stove went out. I was downright surly when the hot water heater turned into Old Faithful. Don’t get me started about the combination digital clock/radio /iPod anchor with the alarm that goes off every day at noon and can’t be shut off. But the digital scale falls apart and I have a new a skip in my step.
Later that night the husband walked to the ‘fridge, opened the door and casually said, “I weighed 75 pounds this morning.”
“Really?” I asked. “I only weighed 58. You should go on a diet.”
We ordered pizza.
Life was good for a few days. We ate what we wanted, pretended we were both grossly underweight, and then it all came to a crashing halt.
We bought a new scale. We’re back to reality. The memory of biscuits lingers. In more ways than one.