Let the dog in!

My anxiety rises. It permeates the house atmosphere, even more than dirty dog smell. From my first waking moment until I go to bed at night, a low level buzz is present.

The end of summer blues? No. The start of school for Kid? No. DH’s constant travel-schedule-and-subsequent-assimilation-back-into-the-family stress? No.

You see, DH has a project replacing garage door openers. Which he did, but he also wanted to replace the springs. Why do I care about this at all? I mean, my car has been ousted from the garage by a variety of ever-constant house project materials as of this spring, so I have no need to ever go into the garage again, except of course to look for more popsicles in the freezer. Or to look for a missing spouse.

The thing is, as part of this project, he needed to know what the garage door weighs. He guessed way off and got the wrong springs.

So……….he bought a scale. A perky, shiny bathroom scale on which to lower the door and learn its weight (70lbs).

And me, I have not lived with a scale for years. They make me nervous. I think these household ones (versus the doctors’ ones) were created by Satan to make women go nuts. Get on it? No. Maybe. Well, okay, just this once….ugh.

Then, the next day: Oh, no, a pound more. Hmphf. Well, I did drink a giant mug of tea first and eat that toast. Yea….
Then, the next day: Oh, whew. It’s okay after all.
Then, the next day: Oh, crap! Better not eat anything today. Which attitude invariably makes me crave a couple gallons of peanut M&M’s and Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food. Together. And that’s just breakfast.

The rest of the day becomes filled with “should” talk in my head — “should eat that,” “should not eat that,” “should have that,” “should not even smell that,” “should be good,” “should not be bad“….. I go mental.

The scale looks all innocent and white and like you’d put it in your dollhouse. Digital and sparkly clean. Whatever. Don’t be fooled. It’s still evil in there. Lurking. With a menacing soundtrack.

I think I will put it away.

Maybe in the back of a cramped closet where it can whine at me, in that tone no one else hears, as I walk past the closed door. Maybe I should rip out its tiny, battery brain and leave it, blank-faced and mute.

Or, maybe smash it to smithereens with an ax. So I can relax.