It seems I’m forever punching in some numeric code and I can rattle off PIN, employee ID, and SSN as readily as my anniversary. Numbers–in the form of debit cards, addresses, phone numbers, birthdays, and more–not only surround us…they define us.
On a regular basis I’m asked to cough up digits and I never refuse . . .or even hesitate. There’s really just one number . . . one miserable three-digit number I won’t share. I’ve tried to reason with it, ignore it, and even lie about it.
Recently my husband decided our cheap little scale wasn’t cutting it anymore. He was preparing for a hike in Colorado-weighing his backpack, tent, and supplies. He couldn’t believe his backpack was so heavy. “Our scale must be off,” he reasoned. I quickly agreed with his assessment for reasons of my own–I had weighed earlier that morning and couldn’t believe I was that heavy.
Well, Hubby went to climb his mountain and I headed to Wal-Mart. The selection was fair. I deliberated for quite some time before finally making my selection.
My new scale was everything I aspired to be–sleek, slim, and tiny. I quickly tossed the product booklet aside and tore open the plastic wrap surrounding my new purchase.
The numbers were clear, crisp, and measured to the tenth of a degree~very important.
Uh oh. It seems my old cheap scale was accurate after all. Maybe if I just step off and on several times . . .
“Person 1?” I cried. “What? No, no . . . wait!”
Where were those instructions? I grabbed for them, reading and rereading.
My beautiful, wretched scale had betrayed me! “Can track the weight gains and losses of up to two people,” the booklet boasted. Muttering under my breath, I kept searching for some way to delete Person 1, that is, me.
“Good news!” the booklet said, “Your data will never be lost even when you remove our long-lasting lithium battery.”
Wanting to cry, I finally called my sister to come and render aid. We read the guide repeatedly, poking and prodding my new scale like the apes did the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I know, I know… most of you reading right now are too young to know this iconic scene.
Sigh. I wish I could tell you we found a loophole. In the end there were really just two choices. I could take a deep breath, act like an adult, and hope Hubby never stumbled upon the Person 1 mode . . . or . . . throw the traitorous thing out and buy a new one.
I’m very pleased with my second new scale and it has kept mum on my digits so far. And I have a couple more numbers for you. 5: the number of pounds I lost since the incident. And 44: the age I was when I finally, finally realized that I am actually NOT defined by any of my numbers.
As always, I wish you MUCH joy!
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