Bad Omens, Evil Portents and Other Signs I'm Doing the Right Thing

The Universe appears to be on my side in this decision to lose weight, though it has a sick way of letting me know. At least, that's what I'm taking from the two darkly comical events which have transpired over the last twelve hours.

From the Mouths of Babes...

First, Lorelei and Noelle are two of the best-sleeping toddlers I have ever known, twelve hours straight every night. However, on this strange, early morning, Lorelei decided that she was going to wake up at four and that she was staying UP. No way is she going back to sleep. She wants milk, and she wants it NOW. So, I take her downstairs for some "magical cow juice," which is what Beth and I have called it ever since Lorelei has understood the word "milk." I pop on the TV and flip through the channels, hoping to find anything that wouldn't tempt me to buy a leopard-print Snuggie.

"Roseanne" is on Nick-at-Nite, and it's an older episode, so I'm happy. That is, until Lorelei takes one look at John Goodman, points and says, "Dada."

"Really, Lorelei? Really? John Goodman. Really."

I think Mr. Goodman is a great comical actor, but the man had to lose weight to play Babe Ruth! I've got a long way to go.


Dead Scales Tell No Tales...

Then, later this morning, and according to my plan, I go to weigh myself in for the first time. About our scale, it weighs in tenths of a pound and give a body-mass index (BMI) number. This is what I'll be using to check my progress. The scale also has a function where we can program in our age, height and gender so that it can give us the most accurate reading as possible. Don't ask me where we bought this space-age wonder, but it's a shame I've been ignoring it for the past five years.

[Author's note: Beth has informed me that the "space-age" scale I so admired was purchased for less than $20 five years ago. Also, the second number it provides is NOT the BMI number, but rather a body fat percentage. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.]

So, I program my age (31), height (5'8") and gender (male -- most of you probably knew that one). The scale then gives me its prompt to hop on. (For the record, I did NOT hop.) After a few seconds, the scale tells me my weight. The horror, the hor-ror. We'll get to that shock-inducing number tomorrow, and I will reveal it to you, dear reader. But for this moment, I need to discuss what happened next. Just when I think things couldn't get any worse, they certainly did.

I had already decided to weigh myself twice at every weigh-in, just to make sure I get an accurate reading. So, in keeping with that course of action, I go ahead and hit the "Profile 1" button to show my stats and let me weigh-in again.

Nothing.

I hit it again.

Still nothing.

I try hitting every button on the scale to turn it on.

Nada. Zilch. Nothing.

The scale just sat there, lifeless. So, of course, one thought kept running through my head:

Dear Lord. The scale decided to off itself rather than have me step on it again.

I tried to rationalize this with other thoughts. Perhaps, the scale had become so lonely and upset from years of neglect that it decided to end it all and was waiting for the opportunity when someone would know what it had done. Or the scale was on its last legs anyway and wanted just one more weigh-in before heading to that big scrap heap in the sky. Or maybe, just maybe it realized that it had climbed Mt. Everest, nay, weighed Mt. Everest, and that there was nothing further it could accomplish in its life. Thus, it was a happy and honorable death.

Well, as it turned out, the batteries had died right at the exact moment between my first and second weigh-ins. Six double-As later, the scale was in perfect working order. Are you kidding me?!! Someone is laughing at me right now. You know, I mean besides you, dear reader. But like I said, at least I know I'm doing the right thing.

Tomorrow: Ten People Who Weigh Less Than I Do Right Now
Thursday: Baby Steps, or How the Hell Am I Going to Do This?