I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.

No, the numbers weren’t up this morning when I stood on it. But they weren’t down, either, despite having actually — gasp! — exercised four days this week, consumed more water than a fish, and watched every little bite that went into my mouth.

OK, except for last night but that dinner was so spicy that I’m pretty certain I burned off most of the calories flopping my hand around like a fan to keep my face from sweating.

Look, I wasn’t expecting the numbers on my scale’s dial to start moving downward so fast they’d set off radar detectors or anything, but I was expecting some loss. Even one little pound would have been nice. One measly pound. But nooooooo.

I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.