Scaled Down

And by no means am I speaking of the aforementioned diet. I have since broken up with dieting. Or perhaps it broke up with me. I can’t be sure. One thing I can be sure of, the need for new scales. The old ones seem to be stuck. Aint that some shit? Trying to move Heaven and Earth and all that is me a little further south…can’t even get an ounce. I jump on, jump off, make a movement, jump on, jump off, pluck an eyebrow, jump on…nothing. They must be made in China or something. Can’t be sure. The Chinese are thin. They shouldn’t be allowed to make scales. They don’t eat cheese. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t eat cheese. We should only entrust such delicate numerical calculations to the SIF. The numbers would certainly be more favorable. There would be some sort of algorithm to allow for “Not so New Me Monday” and “Feral Fatty Friday.” Whilst I realize the Chinese are far superior in math, they are not well versed in fat. This is not something one can learn at MIT. No. You need hands on experience from FAT.

I’ve solved all the world’s problems. Or at least mine…for the moment. I purchased new scales. Talking scales. Yes, I really did this. They speak German, Spanish, French…and I think English. I can’t be sure it matters. My grand master plan to feel better about all that is me…have my weight recited in a language I do not understand. It’s fuckin genius. That’s what $64 will buy you…genius. And a lifetime warranty in case they start talking shit. I fear even 300 pounds will sound like music to my ears when Little Dutch Debbie yodels my fadigits in a foreign tongue. I need to figure out a way to wipe out the English bitch before she gets out of hand. You know how Americans are. Oversharers. There’s no room for oversharing at the international house of weight loss. Something about that last line gave me a craving for pancakes. I love pancakes. I once bought an entire gallon of strawberry syrup from IHOP so I could binge eat in private. Turns out the shit gets moldy unless you consume a stack a day. I could never do that. Wouldn’t leave any room for Taco Bell. I heart Taco Bell. Been there twice this week. It’s shameful. I realize this. I had to pretend there were 6 other people in the car in order to justify the caloric catastrophe that was being passed through the drive through window. Yes, I gave a fake shout out to the people in the back seat that weren't in fact there. Don’t judge. We’ve all done it. I digress.

Weighing ones options is always better than weighing oneself (bumper sticker material- noted). Bigger clothes or better scale? The choice is obvious. I already have bigger clothes. I like to refer to them as “my wardrobe”. One learns to never throw away such valuables. Just like my 80’s clothes, they remain. Hanging next to the clothes with the tags on them (also from the 80’s) that “New Me” will eventually wear. I can’t remember the last time I saw “New Me.” I think it was on a milk carton. Or maybe it was heavy cream. I can’t be sure. It’s quite possible I’ve never even met new me. She’s a shad elusive. I come from a long line of over eaters. “New Me” wasn’t welcome at our table. Bitch fuck around and get stabbed with a fork talkin about some “New Me.” Mother hid “New Her” well. I tried to get a peek at her once. She was holed up under a large green house coat stained with Heavenly Hash (Nectar of the Gods… random sign of the cross). Dad ripped that coat off her a time or two. I told myself he was overcome by madness at the thought of seeing “New Her”. Turns out he just wanted sex. Go figure. I guess multiple personalities need love too. And so she continued to hide 10lb bags of peanut M&M’s in my desk drawer. And I continued to fail math. Chocolate stains on my algorithms. Less than ideal. Perhaps I should have been a Chinese exchange student. No looking back now. Hooked on the cheese.

So I’m stuck with an hour glass figure with a few too many hours. What’s a girl to do? Kill time. Not as easy as it sounds when binge eating as a sport is your only form of entertainment. I could do things the hard way making everything good to me dead to me. Nah. I’m too smart for that. I’ve got a cousin losing weight hand over fork by putting some sort of pregnancy hormone under her tongue. I find this frighteningly acceptable. If I didn’t fear some sort of random offspring as a result of said drops, I might try it myself. But why? I am the proud owner of the solution to an international crisis. Whilst all you suckers graze on grass and jog, I’ll be frolicking with the French and dunking donuts with the Dutch. When in Rome…do as the Romans. When fat…buy new scales! It’s pure genius.

*** Dedicated to Lizzie and Laurie...may you smile again***