The notches slide left

****In the way back machine we go, circa 1999. Cue funky time traveling music.****

"Matthew?" The nurse announces my name as a question, not a statement.

Why did Mom make me come here, I think to myself. Like no 16-year-old ever had a head cold before. Well, at least it's just a sniffle and I won't have to get on the scale.

"Alright, first things first. Let's get you on the scale."

You've got to be kidding me! "Do we really need my weight if I'm just here with a runny nose?" I ask, pathetically eyeing the device located conveniently in the middle of the hallway, next to where a gorgeous young nurse is standing.

"Doctor needs it for the chart. You haven't been here in quite a while, it seems." She's smirking at the horror that's coming over my face. I know that look she's displaying. Get on the scale, tubby, and stop you're bellyaching.

Oh, crud. She's actually challenging me. I remove my shoes, then my wallet. I take the keys out of my pocket, then my asthma inhaler, and remove the watch from my wrist. Not satisfied, I take the glasses off my face, and hand everything to the nurse. Can't write on your precious chart if your hands are full. But the joke's on me, as usual. She hands the chart to the hot nurse. "Allison, would you take down his weight. Foiled again!

Deep breath, swear inaudibly, and the inevitable small step up. The nurse slides the little metal frame to the right, then further to the right, the 50s adding up. She stops for a second, then starts sliding the smaller measure designated for single pounds.

Right, right, right, right.

And slide the big frame again. Another 50 is added, then she mercifully records a horrible number. The mean nurse hand me back all my things and sends me to a small room. "Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly." She smirks again, places all my possessions on the little table, and leaves.

(Editor's note: His name really wasn't Dr. Schwartz. Names have been changed to protect the cruel and malicious).

Did that number really say that? It couldn't be that high! What the heck! I can't really be that out of shape, can I?

A brief knock, and Dr. Schwartz enters. He is armed with the chart, a disapproving look already on his face as he reads.

"Long time, no see, Mr. Engelhardt. What brings you here today?"

"I've had a cold for about a week," I say through a stuffy nose, bringing a tissue to my face to emphasize my illness.

"The cold we can take care of. What I'm really concerned about is your weight."

You son of an orangutan's mistress! Guilt overcomes me, and I slump into my chair. "What's that got to do with the sniffles?" I mutter, beaten.

"You're going to have a whole lot more to worry about than the sniffles if you don't get your weight under control, Matt." In my head, I have Dean Wormer from "Animal House" giving me a lecture. Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son. Of course, I wasn't drunk. And I wasn't stupid, but the effect was the same.

The rest of the visit passes with me melting into a puddle of shame. There are six doctors in this practice, and I get the one with the bedside manner of a 5th grade bully. He prescribes me something for the cold, hands me the chart, and I walk back to the front. I hand the nurse the folder, which she opens to check Schwartz's notes. I see what he wrote, and the shame continues to melt me down. Preexisting conditions: asthma, obesity. There it was, the "o" word. I was 16, and the one thing the doctor wrote legibly was that I had crappy lungs and a weight problem.

I go home dejected. And, as much pity as I allowed myself to feel, the numbers on the scale would continue to slide right for years to come.

**** Present day, after a hard workout. Cue "Chariots of Fire."****

The scale in the men's room is identical to the one that tormented me as a teenager, the same that has prevented me from returning to the doctor's office unless there's a true emergency, like a cotton swab stuck in my ear canal. It's midday, and the locker room is crowded, but I don't care. I'm getting on that scale. I'm sweaty and tired, but unhindered. Once again, I remove my shoes. My wallet and everything else is locked safely in a locker, so no reason to go through the whole production again. This time, however, the glasses stay on.

Deep breath, and the inevitable step. Out of force of habit, I slide the bigger frame over several sets of 50s, then look up. I've overshot my weight. I begin sliding the smaller frame to the left.

Left, left, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!

There's nowhere further to slide. With a satisfied "clink," I slide the larger frame left, 50 pounds left, to be exact. At last, the scale is level.

I nearly high five the old, nude man sitting on the bench. Er, maybe not. I haven't been this light since my freshman year of high school, two years before that dreadful visit to Dr. Schwartz. Since then, I've gone out of my way to make sure if I need to visit the doctor, I get someone else in the practice.

Even though I feel perfectly healthy, I'm thinking it's about time to schedule a physical. And I'll make sure I book Dr. Schwartz. Hell, just for good measure, I'll try to see if the nasty nurse is still working there too. Let her slide the scale to the left. It's about time that smirk turned into a smile.