I waited to step on the scales until the next morning since that’s when we supposedly weigh the least. The Health-o-meter snickered as I stepped aboard, and it flashed an almost incandescent “2-6-0”. I stepped off and removed my underwear as if the 100% cotton boxer briefs would somehow knock off 15 pounds. When I stepped back on the scales, for one split second the screen taunted me with “LOL” before quickly flashing to “2-6-2”. I stepped off, tapped the reset button with my toe, and stepped back aboard to “2-6-2” once again. I wanted to start a fight; I wanted to call the Health-o-meter names; I wanted to remind the Health-o-meter of its indecent past for no other reason than for it to suffer to mute the pain of the flashing numbers before me. In the end, I had to acknowledge that this was all my own doing. Well, Rebecca and Dawn’s too—I wasn’t about to take all the blame.
“Ok, I get your point,” I said. “I’m going to let this slide since this is pretty much my fault, but next time, we better be in a different place than we are now, or we may have to make some changes in our relationship.”
The next morning I ate one boiled egg and drank a Diet Mt. Dew. For lunch, I had a glass of water and sprig of parsley—no salt. For dinner, I had a 22 ounce portion of air, no butter, and only ate half of that. I had no bedtime snack for probably the first time since the Reagan administration. All in all, I felt pretty good despite the knots my stomach was twisting itself into.
I could hardly wait until the next morning, so much so that I slept fitfully like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. My feet barely touched the floor as I sprang from bed; I felt so light I virtually floated to the Health-o-meter and landed with the weight of the tiniest sparrow.
However, in giant Broadway lights, “2-6-5” lit up the sky, blinding pilots on their run to the nearby Coast Guard base.
Criminologists say that crimes of passion are not premeditated and that the killers lose control of their emotions and temporarily black out. All I know is that when I woke up slumped against the tub, Connor’s aluminum bat was sprawled across my lap, and bits of the Health-o-meter’s broken body were strewn across the floor, the counter, and even in the toilet. So I did as all those who commit crimes of passion do—I hid the body and went to work.
Perhaps, it was time to actually use the gym membership I had been paying for nearly a year at a rate of $45 a month.