When I get on a scale, I can immediately tell one of two things: Either the scale is right … or it's broken.

When I get on a scale, I can immediately tell one of two things: Either the scale is right … or it's broken.


If it shows a weight less than what I truthfully suspect it is, then the scale is right. If I am heavier than I want to be, I know the scale must be broken.


Interestingly enough, our scale shows a different weight depending on where we place it in the bathroom. So if the scale appears to be broken in one location, I can immediately “repair” it by moving it across the room.


How fortunate is that?


However, sometimes I forget that our scale can be temperamental, and I react to the first number I see. This reaction is similar to one somebody might have if they discover a 10-foot-long boa constrictor in their bed.


“AAAAUUUUGGGGHHH!” I bellowed one morning after stepping on the scale.


Assuming I had been attacked by a psychopathic bottle of shampoo or something, my husband came running into the bathroom to rescue me.


“What is it?” he asked breathlessly.


“Thhhe scale,” I stammered. “It’s lying again.”


I leaned against the bathroom sink for support.  “Everything is getting dark and fuzzy,” I gasped.


“You are having a panic attack,” he assured me. “Here, let’s move the scale across the room, OK?”


He nudged the scale with his foot and then guided me back over to it.


“Ready?”


I nodded. I stepped back on the scale. It was 10 pounds lighter.


“Hey!” I exclaimed. “I lost 2 pounds!” Grinning manically I stepped off the scale. “Your turn!”


Without taking off any of his clothes, shoes or belt, he stepped onto the scale.


“Looks like I put on a couple of pounds,” he said blithely.


“I can help you with that,” I gushed, pushing the scale across the room with my foot. He stepped back on.


“Nope. It’s heavier now,” he admitted. “Guess I need to take off a few.” He stepped off and moved to the sink to brush his teeth.


I stared at him dumbly.


“That’s it?” I wondered.


“What?”


“You gained weight. You’re not upset?”


“No.”


“You don’t want to throw a fit?” I asked.


“No.”


“How about a little one?”


“No. I’m good,” he said.


I shook my head. I didn’t have the faintest idea how to handle this situation. Faced with the reality of some unintended weight gain, my husband did not cry, scream, deny, or blame it on sleep-eating, hormones or age.  He did not immediately pick up the phone and call everyone he knew to discuss the problem. Any of those responses I could relate to and understand. But to nonchalantly say, “Guess I need to take off a few” was completely beyond my advanced levels of female comprehension.


I shook my head and looked at him with a combination of awe and disbelief.


“So what are you going to do about it?”  I wondered.


He shrugged. “Go on a diet. Want to do it with me?”


A moment passed as all the air got sucked out of the room. “WHAAA? YOU THINK I’M FAT?!” I wailed.


“HUH? WHAT? NO!” he stammered. “Argh, forget the diet. I have a better idea.”


“What?” I huffed.


“I’m throwing out the stupid scale!”


Follow Tracy on Twitter at @TracyinSuburbia.