Me, You & An Empty Field

There’s a great scene in the classic film Office Space where the three heroes of the flick kidnap a sadistic piece of office equipment, transport it to a field out in the middle of nowhere, and beat the living snot out of it.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  That film got robbed when it came down to handing out Oscars for the 1999 crop of cinematic debris which garnered statues.

To be honest, that little bit of nostalgia wasn’t directed to you as my beloved readers.  Instead it was constructed not as a veiled threat, but as a Magic 8 Ball like prediction of the very near future for my bathroom scales.

It all started earlier this year when the oppressive device started messing with me.  On any given morning, it would refuse to give me my weight without making me step on and step off of it’s platform a minimum of 3 times.  Every time I ever stepped onto the thing, it would give me an error message in the most mocking of manners.  That particular message gave me the sense that I was either too fat to be on that particular device, or that I failed to possess the ability to stand still for long enough for a stupid microchip to measure the effect of gravity on yours truly.

The error messages have continued throughout the year, however the results it provided to me after playing it’s stupid little game have been consistent with my expectations.

Last week, it would seem that the scales made a decision that it was bored with the little back and forth it was playing with me.  It’s constant demands to me to step on and then step off lost it’s excitement.  In an effort to mix things up a bit, it chose to start giving me my weight immediately after stepping on the first time.

Remember here that consistency is the key.

I’ll have you know right here and now that earlier this last week, in the matter of two days, I recorded an unprecedented 10 pound loss.  It was a pleasant surprise, however I was a bit dubious of the result.  Certainly I had recently thrown some muscle confusion into the previous days’ workout.  That may have been the reason for the loss, but I wasn’t going to rest my laurels on it quite yet.  I remained cautiously optimistic instead.

Friday then arrived, and lo and behold, I had lost an additional 13 pounds.

Just like that.

I can assure that wasn’t possible.  Certainly, I would love be down to the weight it reported.  At this point, I’m calling “Bullshit” on the matter.

Sadly, my suspicions were confirmed when I checked on the scales at the gym.

There’s the old cliché about things not being over until the fat lady sings.  My message to the bathroom scales is that there will be no singing.  This thing became “over” when you got too greedy in your efforts to mess with the fat man.

I’ve got a great pick axe in the garage with your name on it.  I’ve got an undeveloped field in mind which serves as a killing field for defective office equipment.  I may actually go download that rap song played during that particular scene in Office Space just to give the necessary props to the movie while I aggressively disassemble you via means which can only be described as blunt force trauma.

Even then, the TharpSter PounDown, all be it slow and sometimes frustrating, will press onward.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

Type something witty and eye catching right here: