Weight a Minute

"Put the mirror on this wall," was not the brightest command I ever decreed.  The arrangement of my cubicular master bathroom is such that the only space big enough for the giant mirror is the wall facing the toilet.  This is also the only logical home for the bathroom scale.
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once.  (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.)  Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like,  "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail.  What happened to my face?  Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale.  It's not like I'm motivated to diet.  I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight.  I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway.  I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can.  That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror.  Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend.  There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye.  Is that a sandwich in my hip?"