Zero gravity

I don't like weighing scales.

If ever there was a contraption whose mere sight was enough to make me teeter on the icy brink of deep blue funk, it is that. Over the years, I've come up against many of their kind. From the uncertain pappa-gimme-a-1rupee-coin-no?-i-want-to-check-my-weight weighing scales to the heck-you-ARE-overweight ones lounging about at a doctor's.

The one I hate however, is in my gym. A friday evening, after a gruelling workout, when I step onto the offending machine, it says 53.2. I had the best weekend ever. I come back on Monday and it reads 55.8. Sigh. I don't starve myself (anymore) but I'm not that gutsy an eater either. Fishy is what is written all over that WS and all in all, I'm thoroughly justified in looking at the thing askance when I step into the AC environs which house it.

Today was no different. Workout wise I mean. After an hour's 'am-sooooooooo-dead' exercising, I gathered myself and started to crawl out of the place. I tried not to look at the weighing scale which had mysteriously appeared (it wasn't there when I walked in) at the entrance. But a gaggle of giggling girls had that machine at their mercy and its hard to ignore a gaggle of giggling girls at any rate. So I stepped into the circle. One girl said, 'I don't trust this scale an inch. I showed my weight as 53 one day, and the very next, 58'. I had company.

Wait time. My turn now. Weight time. 0.1kg. I get down, hit the thing and again, it shows 0.1 kg. Now I know that that's not possible. And yet, I think I'm beginning to like this thingy. I feel light-headed. Happy. I think ... I'm floating. Zero gravity, here I come.