TIVOLI JENSEN

Dear Mr. Scale,

I understand that you actually have no gender, yet I must assign one for this to be as cordial as possible.  You see, I have a problem with you.  I could have easily said Ms. Scale, Miss, Mrs., etc.– but Mr. seemed to fit.  I can yell at a lady, but to a gentlemen, I must be more clever with my arguments.  So, alas, a Mr. you are.

In short, Mr. Scale, I loathe you.

You, with your haughty numbers and monochromatic face.  I.  Loathe.  You.  For the past twenty-four years, you’ve been a thorn in my foot.  Whenever I walk into a bathroom and see one of your brethren sitting there (all aloof, mind you, because your set is so snarky), my toes itch to step upon.

You and I go way back, Mr. Scale, I do not pretend that we are acquaintances.  You have been there for the past two decades, in my parent’s bathroom, gathering dust, water marks, and the like.  You sit there, waiting for someone to stand on you.  You desire to say that I’ve somehow ‘lost’ weight, or that I inexplicably ‘found’ it again.

I remember, without fondness, the daily routine you and I shared.  Did it start when I was eight?  Or was it ten?  This could change the numerology, you know.  Let’s say ten and be done with it.

Thank you for understanding, Mr. Scale.

At ten, I discovered that one could weigh oneself outside of a doctor’s office or gym locker room.  It is at this age that I remember my weight vividly, since all the girls post-weighing at school wanted to know my number.  As a unit, all the flufflier, plum ladies of the fifth grade barraged me with whispered questions.

I answered them.

Half had smiles and sighs of relief, while the other half looked crestfallen.

On this day I went home, not having needed to ask their weights in return.  I could see it on their cherub faces.  160.  142.  158.  135.

Upon reaching home, I noticed a shiny new thing on the bathroom floor.  My mother, prone to dieting and eating, explained what you were.

I thought you were missing pieces.

You weren’t.

And then she left me.  And I stepped on you.  And you told me the same weight.

And I felt a gnawing of shame grow within my stomach, which aided in my not finishing dinner.

For ten years thereafter, we had the same routine, you and I.  Every morning I’d strip off my bedclothes and step upon you, recording the weight in my diary.  I’d then enter my day, recording what I ate (later adding the tabulations of calories to the mix).  At night, I would strip once again and weigh.

Oh, the years we’ve had!  You’ve seen the fainting spells, the drastic losses, the depression-laced gainings.  You, stoic as ever, simply told me the numbers.

I remember the day mother said you were broken, and then fixed you.  And then I was five pounds heavier and wanted very much to die, and cry, and eat chocolate, but I’d given up chocolate to appease you, so I couldn’t.  Crying, then, was the thing.

I put so much pressure on you, Mr. Scale.  I would have been so happy if you could have lied.  If you could have just said I was losing and not finding, and that I was perfect.  Is there a perfect number, Mr. Scale?  I’ve always meant to ask.

Well, at any rate, this is where I must leave you.

You see, this summer has be especially trying.  In January, you and I picked up our old habits.  Twice a day, morning and evening, like a clockwork appointment.

Only, I was not losing, only finding.  Which was so strange, Mr. Scale, I’m sure you agree.

And then I made a change, and the weight, quite literally, fell off.

You and I rejoiced, did we not?

And I began obsessing over that weight that finally came off, and I upped our appointments to a degree bordering (or crossing) obsessive once again.  I just wanted approval, Mr. Scale!  Is that not so terrible!  I wanted to rejoice in seeing those bones jut out again and contorting my body in the mirror to appease the mind viewing it!

Here is where we both sigh, Mr. Scale, I know.

I can’t do this anymore.

I cannot blame you for my problems, nor can I think it your fault for being so passive as well as aggressive in your numerically inclined mechanisms.

I’m breaking up with you.   I moved, you know, that’s why I haven’t been back.  And whilst shopping for new home essentials, the Husband asked if we should buy one of your half-priced brethren.  I shouted, “NO!” (in the middle of a crowded store, mind you).

Because I’m saying ‘no’ to you, Mr. Scale, as much as I am saying ‘no’ to myself.  I’ve no use for you.  Your numbers should not affect my days, nor my life.

This is where we part, Mr. Scale.  Because I do not want to be owned by you, nor do I want to own you.

Because I like feeling good about that woman in the mirror, and I fear that when you and I join forces, she is only saddened as a result.

So, adieu, Mr. Scale.  May we never meet again, and live all the longer because of it.

Cordially,
T.