Do you all think my husband will notice if I take our scale and drop kick it out the back door? Because that is what I want to do with that malicious piece of machinery that measures the significant impact gravity has on my body.

Weight loss is already harder on women than men. Ryan decides to substitute the normal side of French fries at Red Robin for some bottomless broccoli, and he loses a pound. I meticulously weigh all my food, work out anywhere for 4-6 days per week, and do unspeakable horrors like order lettuce-wrapped burgers, and I gain 3 pounds. I’m sure there’s some science-y reason for this, like women’s bodies are hardwired to hold on to fat more or because our ovarian overlords choose to mess with our brains and hormones by warping math and physics. But it’s frustrating and makes me silently plot the demise of the small silver scale as I eyeball it from my perch on the green Craigslist couch.

I could smash it into a million little pieces. I am pretty sure I have a meat tenderizer that I’ve never actually used for that purpose that could probably make quick work of the glass and the gears. It’s only been used once or twice to mash potatoes before I bought myself a proper potato masher device, and it’s ready to shine as the destroyer of this digital demon. Hopefully, my clumsiness will not suddenly kick in while I’m trying to dispatch of my nemesis and end up with a broken thumb. Stranger things have happened though.

Or, I could be the first athlete to begin the scale discus throw and launch my square scale as far down my street as possible, watching in satisfaction as it flies through the air five feet before it hits the road with a gratifying crunch. I, however, would probably get dizzy from trying to duplicate the form I saw on seventeen different YouTube videos and fall on my butt. However, I still think I would get some significant satisfaction from watching it fly through the air those brief five seconds before it skidded on the pavement and scratched up the glass display.

And there’s always the possibility of taking its batteries out, hiding it away on some dusty shelf or in some cardboard box that I stow safely away in the attic where it will set for a half a century until my grandchildren happen upon it and puzzle over this strange contraption from the early 21st century. They will mock it and misunderstand its purpose, much like children today are confused by things like floppy discs and typewriters. It’ll have to endure the hardship of being called archaic and bizarre by tiny humans who probably have sunglasses that can take pictures and post pictures online without the need for anything as backwards as a smart phone.

Oh, we have that already. They’re called Snapchat Spectacles. Behold, the future.

But seriously, you guys, I’m tired of doing battle royale with the scale. I’m tired of my screwed up hormones and my PCOS body’s insistence on overproducing insulin and creating excessive fat stores every time I eat a bagel, causing me to gain weight despite eating less calories and working out. I’m tired of eating healthy all day long and being so hungry at night and wanting to inhale an entire box of cheddar Almond Thins because that’s the least healthy food in my house. I’ll freely admit that lately I’ve just not really cared enough to try to be healthier. I ate cookies in the break room. I ordered French fries at Red Robin yesterday. I ate a Reeses ice cream bar. It was all absolutely delicious, but the scale has reminded me that too much indulgence is going to find its way to my backside. I have to rein it back in.

For me, I have to figure out my relationship to the scale, to find something healthy so that Ryan doesn’t come home to work and find it under my car wheel, shattered into oblivion. But I don’t want to go back to the Sarah who didn’t weigh herself for 2 years and gained 70 pounds because she was in denial. I don’t have the answer yet, but for now, I simply give the dirty, silver screen my nastiest glare and eat a hardboiled egg.