Scale, scale on the floor – tell me the truth and lie no more.
I woke up one morning around 3 AM to go do what old people do at 3 AM - use the bathroom. On the way back to bed, I went into the kitchen. While in there, I spotted the scale on the floor so; I decided that since I haven’t weighed myself in about a month, I’d step on it to see what I weighed.
In the dimly lit kitchen it read 265. I was so upset. That’s a 15 pound-difference from when I weighed myself last month. How did I gain 15 pounds? I hardly eat enough now!
I was so upset that I could not go back to sleep.
Two hours later, still miffed, I got up again and stormed into the kitchen to have a word prayer with my scale. I told it that there was no-(cuss words)-way I had gained 15 pounds. I just wasn’t having it.
Before stepping on it again, I warned, one more time, that it better show me the right (more cuss words) weight this time or I would break it in half and throw it in the (even more cuss words) trash (I’m very well versed in cuss words).
The scale shivered in fear and apologized profusely. It admitted it had gotten the previous reading wrong and instead of 265, it was really 246.5 – At 3 in the morning, I failed to see the 4 between the numbers 2 and 6 or see the decimal point after the six.
That’s better! Now, I had actually lost five more pounds instead of gaining 15. On a more positive note, the scale and I have resumed our relationship.