My scale died yesterday.

We had a nice little ceremony for it during which I held open the garbage can lid while my husband dumped the scale and its various pieces into the bin while I said a few thoughtful words.

I’ve mentioned before that I used to keep my scale in the kitchen, since there wasn’t a good spot in our bathroom for it. It had a good life there, for the most part, and seemed to enjoy its spot near the refrigerator door. Sure, there were times when my husband kicked it out of the way, but I always found it and brought it back where it belonged.

My son loved it deeply: being able to stand on the scale gave him the extra 2 inches he needed to reach the Popsicles in the freezer. Yes, sometimes he was overzealous with his affection, jumping up and down on the scale to watch its needle spin crazily, but those moments were so full of laughter I can’t really begrudge them.

Now, there’s no more laughter. My scale is dead and gone, and I’m in mourning. It’s too soon to think about replacing my scale, really, so I’ll be using my diamond rings to judge my weight for a while. I’m just going to have to try live with the memories of it, and hope that someday I’ll meet a new scale I like. Oh, it’ll never take the place of my old one, but at some point I’ll know when the time is right to bring another scale into my life.

And that one better lie like crazy, or it’s going to wind up in the trash bin right alongside it’s predecessor, damn it.