I crank the little thermostat dial to somewhere between Death Valley and the face of the Sun. Two chapters later it's reaaaaaaly toasty.
Somewhat cognizant by now, I spy the scale crouched by the book basket, hunkered down low like the neighborhood dog that gets yelled at by everyone, even when innocent.
I get ready to step onto it, then realize there's a lotta prep work to do before I jump.
I check the floor with my hand. (The feet are still numb.)
Good. Floor's cold.
I'm the first one up, so no one else has been on the scale. Good.
I move it about 14 inches away from the wall to a triangulated spot equidistant from the Throne, the TP Holder, and the Book Basket.
There.
I got one shot at this.
Steadying myself with a hand on the towel rack, I step precisely onto the scale.
Toes almost touching the front edge.
Leaning forward juuuuuust a bit to get the weight more on the ball of my foot and toes.
Leaning ever so slightly into the towel rack.
There.
The electronic numbers are bouncing around. Now they stop and start to blink.
Huh.
Well. Less than a minivan but more than a compact car. And I don't get the mpgs per gallon of Elixir.
Just out of curiosity, I hop off, put the scale back to its usual haunt and get back on. Now the springs are warmed up and broken in. There's no special posture or placement. Just a normal weigh-in.
Whoa.
I don't like this kind of honesty.
5 more pounds. That much closer to a minivan.
I pout out to the coffeemaker, seeking solace in the alchemy of the gurgling, pungent Elixir.
After getting the woodburner re-stoked, I get a cup of the Elixir and watch the fire from the Chair.
The third sip brings a nagging sense of guilt. All the shenanigans I pulled to get a weight I wanted. Not the truth.
(Anybody else here Jack Nickelson right now?:
"Truth?!
YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH !!!")
Huh.
Why do I do that?
I guess I wanna be right, fine the way I am. Rather than being wrong and having to change.
And I'll do what I have to do to keep it that way. Doggone it.
I deserve to be happy, ignorant, and . . . right.
Right?
Another swig of Elixir reminds me that there's a celebration in Washington for hitting the 40th anniversary of "Roe vs Wade".
55 million erased lives later, people still trying to say it's okay.
Trying to feel right about being so wrong.
A thought hits me.
I get up and google the weight of a two month old fetus.
0.14 ounces.
Just a little thing.
By itself.
Then I multiply it times 55 million little things.
That's over 240 tons of life that never had a chance.
Man.
That's a whole lot more than a minivan.