Until last year, I had never owned a bathroom scale. I never needed one. I knew how much I weighed. I had no reason for daily affirmation. If my pants ever felt too tight, I stopped eating brownies. No big deal. Now it is a big deal. Now I lose and gain the same 3.5 pounds on a weekly basis. Now I know it is 3.5 pounds because I own a bathroom scale.
The bathroom scale dictates my mood for the day. One pound lighter makes for a good day. One pound heavier indicates the start of a bad day; on days that the scale reveals a weight gain in excess of two pounds, I should really consider staying indoors safely away from co-workers and the general public, for their well being as well as my own. I know this seems extreme but it was suggested for legal reasons after a near miss with a hurled cell phone in the direction of my unsuspecting assistant.
Based on the digital announcement made by the scales of in-justice this morning, today should have been an unbelievably glorious day. According to the Bitch-O-Meter, my weight was comparable to that of a super model. I am aware that the average super model is two feet taller than I am, but so what? There still should have been a love fest in Tobiville today. Unfortunately, that was not the case. All day I have been unreasonable, unruly, and unable to concentrate. Luckily, no one was injured.
On my way home from work I realized what the problem was. I was calorie deprived. I am obviously not cut out to be a super model. Being skinny makes you mean! All this time I thought genetics was responsible for my surly disposition. I am pleased to report that this may not be the case. I am actually charming and kind, I just never knew it because of my damn bathroom scale.
I pulled in to the nearest Dickeys Bar-B-Que and ordered the Hungry Man Platter. I ate the whole thing. Then I ordered another sandwich to send to Naomi Campbell. She needs to know about this. We super model types need to stick together.