by Mary Clark

Created on: January 14, 2009

The talking scale and full-length mirror mock me. It is a conspiracy I tell you, a real conspiracy.

I admit that the svelte figure I flaunted when I was twenty inched closer to pudgy right about the time thirty crept up on me. A few clever clothing tricks covered up my little saddle bags and paunchy tummy and life went on. I could still flirt with the best of them but instead of being a mere waif, I was closer to pleasantly plump. The extra twenty pounds I carried did not hinder my ability to enjoy life so they alone were not enough to compel me to take corrective action.

As forty-five rolled in though, my scale's voice began to experience technical difficulties. It was hard for that digital messenger to convey the results of my weekly weigh-ins through its feeble attempt at laughter. I could never quite tell if that blasted machine was trying to laugh or simply humming a melody so that it could get the fat lady standing on it to sing. In any event, I could no longer communicate with the scale. That is when the mirror stepped in to be an interpreter; without compassion, and in short order, it relayed to me that I had in fact reached the point of critical mass.

Thank goodness, I was home alone at the time of this revelation because I remember stomping around the house shouting at two inanimate objects about how I refused to go through life with the words "wide load" tattooed across my backside. I muttered under my breath that I would not require a vehicular escort, complete with flashing lights and red flags to escort me through life's tight places. I worked up a good sweat voicing my complaints; unfortunately, it did not provide any cardio benefit so I did not lose a single ounce for my efforts. What I did do though was learn to poke fun at the weight issues that now admittedly hampered my ability to enjoy life as intended, and this issue required immediate action on my part to correct.

My triceps waved good-bye to the mirror as the screwdriver in my hand worked to loosen the screws that attached it to the wall. I may be carrying forty extra pounds on a frame far too small to carry that load with any semblance of grace and ease, but the mirror was the one that came unhinged.

With the mirror out of the picture, the scale came into my crosshairs, and I enjoyed the last laugh as that chatty fatty monitor groaned once before falling into eternal silence beneath the weight of the wheels of my F-150.

With the liberation that came from removing the two objects from my home that possessed the capacity to fill me with terror, inch by inch there is less of me.

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