Last Tuesday was the initial weigh in for our company Biggest Loser contest, which may also be referred to as "Beth Is Getting Old And Needs To Subject Herself To Health-Driven Torture and Humiliation Due To High Triglycerides." I am not a spring chicken any more, this is true, and apparently my female hormones have decided they will no longer protect me from decades of bad habits. Rather, their sole purpose now is to bring out inherent personality flaws that I unapologetically blame on three days of labor-like pains, bloating, and general desire to blow up the world. YES, you don't need to say it...I acknowledge that my multiple personalities are oddly present the rest of the month. I was merely trying not to confound everyone with logic and reason.
The scales opened at 6:30 AM and I planned to get there early so I could get through the shame quickly and depart before anyone even knew I was even in the building. Like a Ninja, I crept out of the house in darkness with nary a hiccup in the snoring of husband and dogs and was hauling ass up the grand staircase in the lobby of my workplace by 6:25. With heart pounding and badly craving a Pop Tart, I proceeded nervously towards an early date with that sexy boy, Disgrace.
I was, in fact, the first one to arrive and thankfully no one else was around yet. Sandy, the wonderful cafeteria manager and volunteer weigher-in-er, was all organized and ready in her office so we quickly rounded the corner to a secluded alcove where not one, not two, but three scales awaited me. I thought, WTF? Did she know I was coming? Am I going to have to utilize all three, like a game of Twister, because a mere one of them won't be able to handle the G-force of my body? I will admit silent appreciation of the fact that she wasn't using one of those big gym/doctor's office scales where you slide the bar across until it balances. Just what I need is someone walking by the doorway while I'm undergoing the humiliation, suddenly noticing how far the cam extends across the bar, and uttering a "holy SHIT!" before they have time to stop themselves. Mortifying.
As I began stripping off any and all pounds-increasing items from my body, Sandy pulled out her secret numbering system spreadsheet and found my ID. Just before I was ready to break...er, I mean, step on...the scale, two other competitors walked by the doorway to the alcove. In reflex, I hopped back from the Platform of Death just in case they had superhero vision that could somehow read through my body and then at a 90-degree angle down to the floor where the digital readout sat silently laughing. Fortunately, Sandy had it under control and directed the contestants to wait around the corner. I hoped that they were far enough away to not hear the scale crack should my worst nightmare come true.
Attempt number two, this time for real. I stepped on the Device o' Judgment and exhaled hard, because it's possible that the air in my lungs might cause a 5-7 lb skew, much as my monthly menses have been known to do. Perhaps there is a God after all because miracle of all miracles, the scale remained intact (though the same cannot be said for my ego). I looked down and had to push back the vomit that was creeping up my throat in spite of the fact that I had not eaten breakfast (because a boiled egg and small bowl of Kashi might easily cause an 8-lb water gain, which I was trying to avoid to spare my pride). Sandy leaned over the counter to capture the numbers and gasped suddenly when she realized the Mount Everest nature of the three digits. Then I realized it was actually me gasping, as my lungs threatened to collapse from my earlier efforts to reduce my weight by .0004 ounces.
Sandy, the consummate professional, said not a word, went back to her super-secret numbering spreadsheet, and recorded the value. I wondered if she actually put the numbers down or just wrote "Orca" on the line next to my ID. But "Orca" would be difficult to use in a calculation, right? At the next weigh-in, she can't enter the formula ("Orca" minus "Did you even work out once?") divided by "Orca" and somehow come up with a percent....Excel just doesn't do that. Right?
But I digress.
The shame finally over, I put my weight-increasing articles back on and quickly left the building, making it back home before the husband and dogs even stirred. And then it occurred to me: I'm going to have to exercise and eat vegetables to make this work. Suddenly I wanted a cream-filled Long John. Box of them, actually. Wanted them badly.
This is going to suck.
And so it begins...
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