There is nothing worse on this earth than a smug Swede.
So, yesterday, I was fully prepared to come to terms with the destruction that Thanksgiving had wrought. I was fully prepared to see a ten pound gain, because, let's face it, that mac-n-cheese that Mr. Karlsson made was DELICIOUS, and I didn't exactly get off my butt and move a whole heck of a lot. Yeah, yeah, yeah, shame on me.
I TOLD you: I congratulate my body on losing weight, it wants it back. I guess it gets lonely.
Anyway, yesterday before lunchtime I went to weigh myself. I went to where I had left the scale last Tuesday, and lo and behold it wasn't there. 'Hmm,' I thought. 'I guess I must've put it back where it's supposed to be. What a novel concept.' So saying, I trotted off to where it was usually hid, which is in my husband's shoe cabinet (don't even ask). I opened the drawer. IT WAS NOT THERE. Moderately annoyed with myself because I've been misplacing things for the last couple of weeks, I searched under piles of laundry (there's a system here, so don't judge me). No luck. I checked in the two places I first checked, and they STILL were remarkably scale-less. "OOOOH that man!!!!" I said to my black cat who was napping on my husband's desk. "He went and hid it!" Needless to say, I was not pleased.
I stood in his office, about to launch into a full-scale FBI-style ransacking of the place, when I was hit with a panic attack. 'Oh no! I won't know how much weight I've gained! How will I know if I'm making progress? I won't know if I'm doing the right things! How will I know how fat I've gotten?' I thought as I checked his closet. 'How dare he do this to me!!! He is trying to sabotage me!!! He knows I can't know if I'm making progress without that scale!!! Ooooooh, I am going to SHRED him when he gets home! As if I can't go out and buy another one! How DARE he!' I realized I really was having an anxiety attack when I went and looked for a third time under the bathroom sink. "What am I going to DO? I can't do ANYTHING without that scale!!!" I said to the cat.
Things went blurry for a minute, and I suddenly found myself staring into the refrigerator, rooting around for who knows what, with my little white cat at my feet hoping for some tuna. "Hang on, cray-cray! What's going on here?!" I said, and shooed the cat away before slamming the fridge door shut. I paced around the house, furious and wondering why the hell my husband would have the temerity to hide the scale from me, and I was composing an incredibly rude text message to my husband in my mind when I was suddenly compelled to take a deep breath by the following thought: "what part of this reaction is healthy?" I sat on the floor and was joined by a disappointed feline who was plaintively meowing for snacks. "Come on, chowhound. Help mommy figure something out," I said as I messed up her fur.
"He's done this because he thinks I'm torturing myself," I said to the cat. "He's done this because he's tired of me complaining about it and hating myself for it. Dammit! He's been skinny all his life! He just doesn't understand how important this is!!!!" My cat, meanwhile, purred and stood up on her hind legs to give my forehead a bath. My anxiety finally began to subside, and was replaced by the suspicion that my cat was trying to eat me again.
"Okay, self, here's what we're gonna do. We are not going to ransack the house. We are not going to run out and buy another scale. We are not going to send him hate mail. We are going to approach this like a rational adult and wait until he gets home and see what the hell is going on," I thought, and decided to let it go. I'm not gonna lie, it was both liberating and terrifying to do this.
When my husband got home, I calmly asked him where the scale was and he just laughed. He said, "I hid that last week! I thought you'd notice sooner!" I just glared at him and he did the Smug Swede Dance around the den and the kitchen. Noticing the Look of Death that his wife was giving him, he then explained himself: "I saw it sitting out when I came home three days in a row. How many times did you weigh yourself?!" Mrs. Karlsson did not comment, and Mr. Karlsson continued the Smug Swede Dance. "I can just go out and buy another one!" I said. "You can weigh yourself on the first of each month!" he said, continuing his Baryshnikov impersonation.
Let it be known that since Mr. and Mrs. Karlsson have been together for 17 years, there are a lot of things that go unspoken but not uncommunicated. There are a lot of things that Mr. Karlsson can say with his eyes that other people would miss, and this was one of those times. This is the only reason he is still allowed in the house.
And I shall leave it at that.