When the bathroom scale lies, fight the lithium devil

Abbey Road West, a.k.a. Wisner Boulevard.

By Peter Finney Jr.
Clarion Herald

So, the bathroom scale continued to lie.

Its power source, a wafer-thin, CR2032 lithium battery about the size of a quarter, obviously was gasping for breath, down to its final, mocking electrons.

What used to be a four-digit number (including one decimal point) displayed on the scale in all its pettiness was now blinking “Err” – meaning, “Houston, we have an error code.”

Certainly, the scale had to be in error. A quick trip to Walgreen’s would fix that.

Folks, whatever you do, do not trust lithium.

When I slipped new wine (lithium) into old wineskins (the lying scale), the invisible hand on the scales of justice lied like a 2-year-old, serial cookie thief caught with crumbs on her hand and chocolate on her lips.

Those numbers couldn’t be right.

Right?

Finally, the thought struck me: Could I be the one living the lie?

So, if you wonder why I’ve started walking early every morning before dawn – every day – it is to one day rejoice in seeing a soulless machine responsible for so many personal indignities humbled into submission.

That’s not very Christian of me, for sure, but I’m sorry. My scale’s lack of remorse deserves far worse.

Here’s the routine. Since I live close to City Park and in a former life played a lot of golf, I thought a rousing motivation for me to get out of bed each morning would be to relive some of the Polaroid memories of my childhood – the dew covering the grass like silk, darkened only by the footprints of a mother duck and her eight ducklings waddling across the rain-soaked grass and plucking the ground for worms; the mist over the bunkers guarding the second green on the South Course; the sun peeking over the cypress trees on the banks of Bayou St. John.

OK, enough of the Hallmark card.

Walking every day isn’t the most glamorous way to get back into reasonable shape, but it does pay homage to my knees and other body parts that are not quite as supple as they once were when playing 45 holes of golf a day in the July heat was like, well, a walk in the park.

In 10 consecutive days of walking so far – as we like to say, “at press time” – here are some early results, courtesy of my Runmeter app, which, unlike lithium, does not lie:

Distance covered: 38.82 miles

Average distance: 3.88 miles

Walk time: 11 hours, 43 minutes, 24 seconds

Average walk time: 1 hour, 10 minutes, 20 seconds

Calories burned (not sure if this is a lie): 4,046

Average calories burned (depends on if the lie is the truth or a lie): 405

Average pace: 18:07/mile (which is about as fast as the turtle I saw on the creek in front of the 10th tee on the North Course).

Extrapolating from these literally pedestrian figures, there are glimmers of hope:

► No. 1, I haven’t missed a day. Ninety-nine percent of life is showing up.

► No. 2, in a mere 10 trips, I have shaved my average pace from 21 minutes per mile to 16:04. As extra motivation, I have tried to hone my skills of observation. I’ve picked up three shiny dimes and three nickels off the street – it pays to stay in shape.

Even better, while walking on the edge of the golf course, I’ve picked up nine golf balls from right inside the post-and-rail fence – five on one bright, shining morning when the balls were just sitting there like Easter eggs, waiting for a new owner who doesn’t hit 250-yard duck hooks.

I call that my 5-under-par round.

Two other pedestrian observations.

► No. 1: More than a few people in New Orleans are shameless litterbugs. The amount of discarded chicken bones, beer and soft drink cans and trash left scattered on the grass after a weekend family picnic is a stain on our common humanity. Make your Momma proud – or at least develop an iota of guilt. Pick up your trash!

► No. 2: I always seem to run into a group of about 15 teenage boys, probably from Holy Cross, who are preparing for the upcoming season. Fourteen of them run in a fairly tight pack with their coach. But there’s always No. 15, usually hundreds of yards behind, bringing up the rear. The point is, No. 15 is there every morning with the other 14, giving it his best.

Champions are made of that.

At the moment, my scale remains dispassionate, unmoved – repeating the same lie in its haughty assurance that one day I will shrug my shoulders, capitulate and stop putting one foot in front of the other.

That’s the lithium devil speaking. The scale will lose.

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