Having just been weighed at my doctor’s office for a physical, I knew my weight to within a pound or two. I don’t, as a rule, retain such knowledge but in this case, it was inevitable. So, I was surprised to see a scale in the bathroom of the hotel I stayed at in San Francisco. I avoid bad news like the plague which means that scales and such are just inviting a mild depression about the last french fry that conquered my conscious desire to not eat it.
After two days at the hotel, I thought that maybe I had been losing a little weight and that I should attempt the scale. After all, if I did not wear my glasses, I might not be able to distinguish the numbers and I could quickly jump off the scale if it appeared that the overage was well above the average suggested by my doctor’s machine. Blow me down, I was eight pounds under that machine’s calculation. Not only could I eat one dessert, but I could have several.
And then I realized something. The mini bar was the thing. Without a doubt, the mini bar and the scale were in collusion. Deceive a customer that their weight was down and a trip to the mini bar, financially ruinous as it can be, would not be disastrous in the regions where a Snickers is most likely to stick. But common sense prevailed for once as I connected the dots on this insidious plot by the hotel to garner more change at the expense of a vacationer’s lapse. After all, everybody needs to go on a diet after a vacation, don’t they?