Maybe it's a pointless ritual, since I often predict to the half-pound the numbers that come up. Nonetheless, every morning I step onto my bathroom scale -- twice, in fact, to confirm a good number or, more futilely, to stamp out a high one.
Lycra might stretch the truth, but numbers don't lie.
I used to think that my scale didn't expose just my weakness for the last slice (or two) of banana cake but also my spinelessness. Lower numbers fed my sense of well-being; higher ones extracted a pound of flesh. My scale seemed as temperamental as middle school friendships. Under my feet, the scale's model name -- "Thinner" -- fluctuated from a wish fulfilled to a promise denied.
Numbers are absolute when I exercise too. I could cycle from Buffalo to Boston, but I'll pedal past my driveway to get my mileage, because skipping two-tenths could easily become skipping two weeks.
I have plenty of company in my numbers fixation. We're a society hooked on measuring up: the 10-point Apgar test for newborns, SATs, baseball statistics, IQs, breast size and corporate earnings. We tally as though we're calculating digital representations of happiness.
My numbers complex became a family affair a few years ago when my healthy, athletic teenage son had his annual physical. He'd always been lean, but his weight gain was meager when he should have been having a growth spurt, so the doctor told him to gain weight. Meanwhile my teenage daughter, also slim, weighed more than her older brother did, which galled them both. "The numbers aren't the prime concern -- nutritious eating and health are," I said. They rolled their eyes.
My bathroom scale started bearing more traffic. My daughter conferred with Thinner. My son stomped on Thinner after he stuffed himself with turkey. The scale was becoming our family's oracle, offering answers to life's big and small questions. In the process, I felt as though Thinner was footnoting not only my weakness for treats but also my shortcomings as a parent. I recognized the absurdity of the scale's expanded role, but still I held my breath with each weigh-in.
When my son had gained enough weight, Thinner's oversized role diminished (for everyone except me). Now my family is interested in a different set of scales. My son is applying to college, so we've charted grade point averages and SAT scores. If those statistics don't add up, many admissions officers won't see my son's biggest assets -- his values, sensitivity, sense of humor, enthusiasm and leadership.
