Since January I’ve been dieting, trying to trim back to a more modest size. To date I’ve lost twenty pounds. No, I don’t want to know where they have gone. No, don’t try to send your extra pounds to me either.
When asked how I did it, I repeat Jack Lalane’s advice. “If you put something in your mouth and it tastes good, spit it out.” Actually, it’s not that bad.
Recently, I’ve plateaued and became a bit paranoid. I began to think that my scales were part of an industrial complex conspiracy, led by Weight Watchers. How could I be certain that I really knew my weight?
Simple solution. I belong to a gym. They had one of those old fashioned scales with the weights and the arm, where you zip the weight back and forth. You know the type I mean. Doctors’ offices have them. I decided to weigh myself at the gym and then at home with the same outfit to see how close they were.
At the gym I stepped on the scales and it told me I was ten pounds heavier that I weighed at home. Now I was dressed and it was afternoon, so I did expect a bit of a difference, about five pounds to be honest.
As I left the gym, I remarked to the person at the desk how much I hated the scale. She suggested I try the one in the intake room.
This scale was a miracle of modern technology. I had to tell it my height and my age. In return it told me my weight, my percent of body fat, my BMI, and some other things I am not prepared to share. Then I came home, and weighed myself once more, in the same clothes.
The difference in my weight between the two scales was half a pound. The scale at the gym determined that I was heavier than the scale at home.
Now I am sitting and wondering. Which scale is correct?
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