Saturday, February 4, 2012


Dear Scale,

Thank you for always being honest with me, especially after the cruise. It is rare to find one who will be so frank but with never a glare or even a hint of disgust. You have guided me to good choices through that virtue of honesty with inspiring consistency. In that spirit of honesty, I hope to make myself understood. Please, be patient with me. While honesty is my modus operandi, there are difficult matters at hand.

Scale, I would apologize for a terrible infraction accomplished only last night. I was hungry, owing partially to having had no dinner, and (it’s embarrassing, but) partially to having expanded my stomach at the office pizza-karaoke lunch party on the same day. It was late evening; the children were gone to sleep, and I was in the kitchen alone. It is a terrible excuse, but both the chicken and the bacon were on the day of their expiry, and as a man of poor youth, I cannot bear to waste. Even worse an excuse is how tired I was. But nothing can excuse the incomparable irresponsibility of… I daren’t write it, but I must: frying the chicken in the bacon grease.

My embarrassment is superlative. I cannot imagine what I was thinking. I can only suppose I was not thinking. To be sure, there was no benefit by it to the flavor. The chicken-bacon-ranch sandwich with tomatoes was delightfully hot and cold, salty and sour, soft and crispy. But on such a caloric day as yesterday, I should have eaten a head of lettuce and thrown the meat away.
It is for this transgression that I write to beg your forgiveness. It is a difficult thing to do. Certainly you owe me nothing of mercy. No, the equity I’ve built in your sight is of an entirely different sort. As I stood at sundry times after parties, vacations, births and birthdays, receiving your righteous judgment in analog or digital and returning nothing, I regret that I have never found a way to give back, nor even tried. But you have been generous in the utmost.

Even so, I move to abandon my dependence on you. I’ve allowed myself to fear you and therefore to hate you, even if just a little bit. But how can I do this? I can look down at the depth of my belly button. I can try on my old clothes. I can try to hide beneath my children’s beds and notice whether my belly scrapes against the rail. I can gauge my profile in the mirror. I can count the notches remaining on my belt. In short, I don’t want to need you and I don’t need to need you.

I hope you won’t take it personally that I would consider it a dire failure if I make my way back to you in the future. There is no malice in this pronouncement. I must love myself more than I fear you. You must understand that. As I have entered and exited Certain Ranges Of Ten, I have learned a great many things, and I have all the knowledge and, hopefully, willpower required to untie myself from you. My dear cousin Stephanie, who I know holds your highest esteem, has been speaking much of late regarding one of your nemeses, “Paleo.” I have tried this Paleo for a week of lunches and found it to be completely viable as long as there is enough oil in the food. So, with a can of cashews and a cellophane bag of vegetables, I bid you a farewell I hope with all my strength is permanent. If you see me again, it will be in the gym. I’ve seen you waiting there. Don’t be waiting for me.

No Longer Yours.

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