Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The Truth, the Whole Truth, Nothing but the Truth


The bathroom scales…seemingly harmless, but inside lurks a rabid revealer of truth and the archenemy of fat cells. They spoil tailgate parties, wreak havoc on the economy and wreck blissful marriages. They are a cruel device.

Yesterday I pulled out my alligator belts, the favorites, the vanity ones with my initials engraved on the gold buckles. Gifts from my wife. Guess what…they had shrunk, all on their very own, wouldn’t fit. Curses. An enemy hath done this, I said.

Not good. I seek the scales for advice, knowing the result before I climb aboard. Ours is a fancy digital one, the latest technology. It’s connected wirelessly to the computer for ease of sequential recording of all miniscule changes in weight. Somehow it got hooked to Facebook last year, also not good. Divorce was mentioned.

Scales are like Baptist preachers, not content until they bludgeon us with the truth and remembrance of all carnal sins, past and present. Perhaps scales were invented by a preacher, one who advocated abstinence of all things pleasurable as the absolute anchor of salvation.

But there it lay, looking so innocent (like teenagers and dogs), a deaf-mute, minding its own business, guiltless of all guile. It waits patiently for me to approach its Throne of Truth, to lay myself bare upon it. I hear it say, “My son, sacrifice your pride on my altar, break up your hypocrisy and be rescued from your reprobate ways.” I cringe, bow my head in contrition, the craven coward that I am.

Of course, this is not what I want to hear from this cunning little digital incubus. But I’m now committed, no turning back. I think of all the money invested in alligator belts and gold buckles. What, with diabetes running rampart, Medicare running out and my life running ragged, I’m convinced of the error of my ways. The scales gloat as I stand before them. I hear a Wesley refrain in the distance, “…Calling, O sinner, come home….” Remorse consumes me.

I take a deep breath and exhale. Someone, probably a Rotarian, once said that exhaling would eliminate at least two pounds. So I grit my teeth and step on. I close my eyes, fearful of the wrath to come. I think of the last belt-whipping I received from my father for using the convertible car top as a trampoline. Scars of consequences remain vivid.

In my mind appear images of Hostess Twinkies and Moon Pies, tasty treats with less gravity than lettuce and grapes. I envision piles of fried pork chops, mounds of mashed potatoes and biscuits dripping butter. Seraphim and cherubim with flaming swords stand guard, daring me to return. Behind them an apparition with horns and dressed in a red suit tempts me to taste my last supper. I’m tortured beyond comprehension.

My future passes before me in slow motion. I’m standing on the precipice of a vast chasm, a Grand Canyon that separates illusion from reality. I see a gaunt man with hollow eyes and a vacuous stare, a starving street survivor redeemed to a Vegan Paradise. I recoil in agony. I see a buffet line, hear wild and boisterous laughter. Euphoric spirits feast to bacchanalian excess. Outside I grovel with a growling stomach, snacking on sugar-free Snickers. Oh, the horror, the horror.

Last year we modified our scales so as to pre-program our desired weight. If we came in under that weight, bells ring, whistles blow and John Phillip Sousa plays Stars and Stripes Forever. But if we went over, God forbid, Art Linkletter announced it with giant tubas that would blow a flatulent dirge. It seemed like a good idea at the moment, but then so does drinking a beaker of grappa…until later. I wondered what I’d hear today.

Even before I look to see the brutal truth of the wages of sin, I know what I’ll do today…add another notch to my alligator belts! Those reptile martyrs will not have died in vain, I will honor their last full measure of devotion.

Then my eyes open. I stare into the Cyclops eye of the scales, the Final Arbiter of truth. In the background I hear a still, small voice whisper, “My son, go and sin no more.” Ah redemption is sweet!

And so the drama continues, day after day, as millions tiptoe around their scales as if they were beds of hot coals, afraid of the truth.

The price of weight salvation is eternal vigilance. The road’s long, the way hard. Remember, you backsliders, that fat cells have memories…they want to go back to their old size. Oh, mercy!

Hang in there, Pilgrims.

Bud Hearn
February 20, 2013