Hi-tech cheek

2019-03-11 09:38
Stephanie Saville.

Stephanie Saville.

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Technology is moving fast. Sometimes, it feels too fast even.

I know this because hi-tech is the new normal and I now have a bathroom scale that connects to an app on my phone via Bluetooth. This scale does everything except give me a root-canal. It’s a little scary.

A recent trip to the Joburg relatives revealed their new find. They had bought the same scale first. Joburgers always discover these new things before we do.

“Can I weigh myself?” I asked.

I’m always very interested in my weight, and it seems my weight is interested in me too, because I can seldom shake off a few kilograms.

Sometimes I manage to lose them, but they always find their way back to me and cling on like a toddler with a bad case of mother-fixation.

Take Christmas, for instance. I had slyly given four of the cling-on kaygees the slip. I thought they hadn’t noticed and I could skip through the festive season without them, lighter and happier without them.

But then, the little buggers found their way back soon after New Year. I woke up one morning and there they were, returned in all their glory; snugly cuddling my tummy and hips, happy to be back, latching on with all their might.

I cursed my bathroom scale — the old digital one that had stopped playing nicely when the unwanted kilos returned. It may as well have given me the finger, the way it revealed my new weight. (And no, I’m not telling you what it said! Nice try ...) Anyway, I swore at it loudly and it’s been stubbornly refusing to shift in the downward direction since. It got attitude and I got mad.

So when I saw the sexy little slimline scale at the relatives’ place I fell in love. Surely it would be kinder?

Surely it would recognise all my self-denial in the biscuit department and acknowledge my efforts in the gym and show me some love?

Getting back to my question, “Can I weigh myself?”, “Sure,” came the response. “You’ll just have to go to the Playstore, find the app, download it, sync it with the scale, measure your height, enter all your particulars and hop on.”

Hmmmm. Okay then. It’s a Bit of a Procedure. After fiddling around for a while, everything synced and sorted, I climbed on.

My *** Marelize! This was worse than I thought! It turned out that my old digital scale was not so wrong after all. It had been registering what was in fact a few kaygees shy of what I allegedly really weigh. Despite climbing on about 26 times during our few days in Joburg, the hi-tech scale did not back down.

It kept telling me I was not thin. I refuse to use the F-word. You know that horrid three letter one.

Despite telling myself it was the altitude, the weather, or any other variable I chose, I finally had to accept its word as truth and, chastened, returned home to my low-tech one. It’s lower weight kept me satisfied for some days until I realised I was just kidding myself.

So off we went and purchased the hi-tech one, the replica of what the relatives have. It cost an arm and a leg, but we reckon it’s an investment in our health.

That was Saturday morning. By Saturday afternoon it had not yet been unpacked from its box. We did not have the courage to do it.

Perhaps we could just enjoy our weekend before the intimidating and no doubt depressing weigh-in. But, by Sunday afternoon, we knew we had to do it. The scale beckoned.

We synced it all and weighed in. It was so depressing. A glance at the updated data on the app showed I had not entered my gender originally in Joburg and my previous reading had been for men. Now I was a woman, my “metabolic age” shot up by four years older than I am in real life. Damn cheek of it.

My visceral fat is within acceptable levels (Yay!), and my muscle mass and bone mass pass muster according to the app (Whew!).

However, I am low on protein and skeletal muscle, and my body fat levels are unacceptable.

Now I feel like my new slimline scale is judging me every time I climb on its stylish frame. I know my fridge has Bluetooth too, but I’ve never figured out how to use it.

Let’s just hope the fridge and the scale don’t start talking to each other. Imagine if they conspired to lock us out of the fridge, denying access to ice cream, chilled Chardonnay and cheese.

Perish the thought and pass me another lettuce leaf, darling!

 

Read more on:    pietermaritzburg  |  opinion and analysis
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