"Well, at least we know how much it weighs now..."

I have to interrupt the history lesson before I forget this story....

One thing you'll need to learn about Meg is that she hits...me...a lot. It's not really her fault and I don't mean that in the 'abused child of an alcoholic' way...I mean it in a 'you would hit me, too' kinda way. She has these spontaneous spasms when I'm in peak smartass mode that cause her to smack me upside the head...usually in the car...and, mind you, I drive about 90% of the time.

That said, Meg and I recently started paying more attention to our health, what we're eating and the financial side of eating out so much (easy with the jokes, buckaroo). We've both have some success with Weight Watchers in the past so we joined a few weeks ago and have been doing great so far. I promise this will not turn into a weight loss diary (not that there's anything wrong with that!). Tuesday nights are our usual weigh-in night so we headed down to the southside of Indy. We park and I start stripping in the parking lot...cell phone, wallet, keys, hoodie...taking everything off I can so that I get a consistent weigh-in each week. Smart, no?

Last week, Meg weighed first and turned around with a sassy and competitive grin when she heard her loss....going so far as to say 'I totally beat you this week'...and was promptly crushed by 2.8lbs. So, it was my turn to face the firing squad first; it was a respectable showing but nothing like the prior week...we'd both cheated a bit with different social events (mmm, crème brulée ...). I wander off to read the nutritional labels on the WW pretzel bites (1point, OMG!!) and turn to see Meggles with the most pathetically dejected look I'd seen since she'd realized there really are people that support Sarah Palin. I look at her card....a gain of 3.2.

I, of course, start sputtering about heavy clothes and how we'll just try harder next week all the while thinking how in the hell could she have gained 3.2 unless she really wasn't peeing in the middle of the night and instead having a heated affair with a nocturnal pizza-delivery guy! We get back to the car when she nearly shouts 'WAIT! I was wearing my purse!!!' and tromps back in to order a re-do. I nearly peed.

She stood and watched me strip down as near to my skivvies as I possibly could...exfoliating so not to be weighed down by dead skin...questioning how many ounces my myopic frames cost me...and she gets on the scale with her ginormous purse on her shoulder. This ain't your anorexic girlfriend's clutch, either...this is like your mama's purse where you wade elbow deep to find anything from chapstick to tampons to the phone number for the nocturnal pizza-delivery guy. This purse is serious business and she didn't even think twice about stepping up and letting that black demon of pleather push her into a weight-gaining pit of despair.

So, how does this factor in to the patterns of abuse we're establishing in this relationship's infancy? I almost made a joke about being sure to put her purse down before she got on the scale...but I was too scared of retaliation. I just hope she can see what her lack of backhanding control has gotten her.

Oh, she lost .8....That's four pounds of purse, folks. Just in case you needed a non-dykey reason to carry a wallet.