Against my better judgment, I have let a dominatrix into the house. I swore up and down that no abuse of this kind, particularly in on the emotional level, was tolerated within the confines of my abode. But for a reason that I will share later on, we have her in the house to stay.
My kids don’t see her as a threat or as a monster, and I try to keep it that way (oh, what delusions we allow our children to possess!). We don’t discuss her in derogatory or dismissive tones with the kids. They LOVE to report on any interaction with her. But I know better. She’s brutally honest, which is what I fear most. She can reduce me to tears in 2 seconds. But I keep going back for more.
My husband goes in to “consult” with her often as well and, before doing so, he sucks in his stomach to impress her (although I know for a fact she doesn’t care) and has even been known to strip down to his original packaging when in her presence.
Yes, ladies and male friends of the CGB, we now have a scale in the bathroom.
I finally reversed my decades-old stance on scale ownership because of my PE class. I need to turn in my final health assessment and I’m supposed to submit my weight. Before my doomsday purchase, I thought I might pop into the doctor’s office and ask if I could use the one they have, but I was afraid that I might be carted off to see all the Dr. Freuds and Dr. Frasiers in the institutional-style basement of the clinic and be forced to wear the backwards jacket and live in a room lined with gymnastic matting. What fat chick in her right mind would beg a nurse to let her in to see the scale, especially without an appointment?
I also considered asking a neighbor, but there too, I’m afraid of the consequences. Not only am I worried that people might sic their dogs on me if I were to start knocking on doors asking to use a bathroom scale, but my children might suffer as well. They would be teased at the bus stop: “Hey, I heard your mother likes to be WEIGHED! Does she wanna come over? We got a trucker’s scale!”
So I figured for the well-being of my kids, I’d buy a scale of our own, even if it means being tortured by honesty in numbers.
Oh, I know what you are thinking: How do I know the scale is a ‘she?’ Because if she was a boy scale, instead of hurling deadly insults at me every time I step on him, he’d try to look up my towel.