The Difference Between Pants and Scales

Dear Bathroom Scale,

You suck. I eat better, count points, ignore the existence of a love affair I'd recently begun with The Sugar Cookie of My Dreams. I sweat it out on the elliptical machine and treadmill as my shuffle's play list spins its songs out one by one. I spend my days discovering muscles I didn't know about until they fill with lactic acid after a harsh work out. I sit and stand slowly, deliberately so as not to disturb the wrong body parts as they recover; I refigure my body in strange contortions just to relieve the pain, and still, still you budge so little. I even say "ice cream" and you shift a pound ahead. What gives? You need to cooperate.

Signed,
The One Who Hid You in a Time Out Closet Until You Behave Accordingly

(If my scale actually read this, dear, sweet google image, rest assured that the explanation is clearly that some large appendage--or two--has been amputated from my body.)

Dear Jeans I Haven't Worn Since I Started Teaching,

You rock. I've eaten less, counted points, sweat it out at the gym and you, you glorious things, decide to zip up with ease. You spent the day with me yesterday and didn't cut off the circulation to my lower extremities even once. I truly appreciate the gesture. Please understand, however, that our relationship can only be temporary. There are other jeans with smaller numbers on their tags in a rubbermaid in the closet, each waiting patiently for their turn in the outside world.

Signed,
Who Needs a Bathroom Scale when She has You?