Eight Pounds

Noticing my waistband seemed snug, I stepped on the scales.  To my horror, I was up 8 lbs in five weeks.  Now some people would just own it, but not me. 

There was just no way.  However improbable – or better stated, of vast biblical miracle significance, I must be pregnant.  I ran that past Terry, who, to his credit made no comment whatsoever. 

I then recalled my brother’s visit – not that I could possibly gain 8 lbs during his short visit – but that he is such a prankster and very capable of recalibrating my scale. 

I gave that some thought.  The only reason I wasn’t fully convinced it was Bruce was his behavior. He'd have been so delighted at his deceit, the prospect of me flipping out long after his leaving, he’d have been all smirky and I’d have suspected something. Brothers...

There is some history:  Grandmother Ethel weighing in on the bathroom scale and Grandfather Elmer sneaking up behind and putting his foot down for a little assist.  Grandma was beside herself at the rapid weight gain.  Elmer got caught eventually and Grandma  puffed up, mad as a wet hen.  Grandpa tried to prank us girls by adding 10 lbs to the scale; he didn’t realize any self-respecting teen girl methodically checks the scale is zeroed out prior to weighing in. 

I ran my Bruce scenario past Melissa, who agreed it was entirely possible.  She suggested a quick test – do a test weight on something around the house.  If it came up 8 lbs. over, then Bruce was the culprit.  Once she said that, it seemed such simple logic. I’m far more apt to take something incredibly simple and twist it around until it’s very difficult, but I likely would have gotten there eventually.  I weighed a bottle of water on the kitchen scale.  4 lbs 4 oz.  I weighed the same bottle on the bathroom scale.  4 lbs 4 oz.

Visuals of flattened pizza boxes and discarded tins of layered cookies filtered through my memory banks.  Ouch - I do have to own it.