“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only Ho-Ho.”
Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to snack with you again. These are the lyrics to the yet-to-be-produced Weird Al parody song being played at an eleven in my head as I blow the dust off my kitchen scale. A few weeks have passed since that dark, fateful day when the low battery icon on my proudly-made-in-China Taylor 3835 Kitchen Scale began to flash, I glanced around the kitchen to see if anyone was watching, and slowly and deliberately buried the scale in the mass grave of random household junk that is the left-hand drawer on my kitchen island. I can still hear the scale gasping for joules as I covered it with a ziplock bag of rubber bands, four copies of the same thai food take-out menu, and the owner’s manual to something I no longer own. What could lead me to such a depraved and senseless act of scale-slaughter? Was it the countless meals of chicken, broccoli slaw, mayonnaise, mustard, and Chex Mix, all carefully measured in consistent portions, that had slowly driven me to the brink of insanity? Or perhaps it was the PTSD (Post Traumatic Scale Disorder) I experienced every time I went out to eat with Wife and had no way of knowing how many calories was in that f***ing delicious duck confit panini. Whatever it was, it caused me to hit my breaking point, and, unfortunately, my kitchen scale payed the iron price. Well, actually, it was more like the protein, carbohydrate, and fat price, but I don’t want to be yet another nerdtritionist who lectures internet strangers on the importance of hitting macros. Not to worry—this sordid tale has a happy ending. I gained ten pounds, and the scale, blessed with a fresh battery, rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Now, who wants exactly one serving of Chex Mix?
Nailsbails 
‘Nerdtritionist’.. HOW HAVE I NEVER HEARD THAT BEFORE! A mental scale has been tormenting me recently. Maybe I should invest in a kitchen one too.. Or I could buy yours? I’m not sure. Anyway, I definitely liked this, quirky and subtly poignant, thanks!
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So glad you enjoyed! I’m afraid my kitchen scale is not for sale. Ask again in 20 years when they’ve finally invented calorie-free buffalo chicken bacon ranch subs.
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Thanks! That is high praise.
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Dude, I’ve got my own problems. Can’t muster much sympathy for you. Here in Chicago we have a place called the Donut Vault. Because, it is tiny. However, the donuts they sell are not. I swear the blackberry filled has an entire jar of jam in it. A few months ago their food truck caught me like an anglerfish while I skipped along to work, innocently thinking it was just another day. Now, my rear end reminds me of how that was a pivotal moment in how it all started going terribly wrong. I’ve tried playing mind games with myself, like “if I walk to the Donut Vault, and then to work, it will burn calories – like Jared walking to Subway. Yeah, just like that. He lost weight. More weight than I need to.” or, “Maybe if I just have half a donut. Oh wait, what’s that flavor over there? Hmm, maybe just half of two donuts…” I’m screwed. Royally, totally, dwarves-wrapped-up-in-giant-spider-cocoons-because-they-just-HAD-to-go-through-Mirkwood SCREWED. So don’t bitch to me about Chex Mix portions buddy, ok? *ponders whether there could ever be such a thing as a Chex Mix donut*
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Congratulations, this my favorite comment.
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Man, I haven’t even thought about Ring-Dings in decades. I don’t own a scale for the same reason all of the mirrors in my house are shoulders-up, I need to preserve some remnant of denial so I can have hold on to a vestige of self-confidence. And I don’t believe you, no one has eaten just a single, precise helping of Chex Mix ever.
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Going to have to disagree with you there, Pickleope. I have eaten many single, precise helpings of Chex Mix, often in succession.
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Is the backstory missing here?
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You mean my butt? No, it’s very much present and accounted for.
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