“Honey,” my husband said one morning, “The scale is broken. It says I weigh three pounds more than I should.”

I walked into our bathroom and stepped on the scale. “You’re right!” I gasped. “I’m five pounds over!”

I drove to the store and bought a new scale. I hopped on first and grumbled, “It still says I’m five pounds over.”

I stepped off and kicked the side of the scale. I stepped back on with just one foot.

“It needs some adjusting,” my husband said as he pulled me off and stepped on the scale.

He sighed, “Two faulty scales in one morning?”

I commented, “I think the only thing that needs adjusting is our portions.”

With that said, we began our new life as middle-aged dueling dieters with metabolisms that have been absent from our bodies for so long they should be listed as “missing” on the side of a milk carton.

The first day went terrific. The egg white and banana shakes I made us for breakfast filled us up for 12 minutes. As a result, lunchtime arrived a little earlier than usual. By mid-morning, we each ate a salad with two ounces of tuna.

“This is delicious!” my husband exclaimed as he licked the salad plate clean. “I’ve only consumed 650 calories today!” By 3:00, we had finished our broiled chicken breast and broccoli spears.

I rubbed my stomach, “I’m not even hungry at all!”

At 6:00 p.m., my husband said, “Ready to turn in? After all, there’s no point in staying up if we can’t snack.”

We went to bed. I dreamt that my pillow turned into a hot fudge sundae. The next morning, my pillow was in shreds and some of the shreds were missing.

I muttered, “I wonder how many calories are in pillowcases?”

I glanced at my sleeping husband. He was feasting on his arm like it was a chicken drumstick.

By day 15, the situation had turned precarious. Small and boring portions had been consumed without any significant weight loss. After dinner one night, my husband said, “I’m going to the convenience store to put gas in your car.”

“But you just put gas in my car last night,” I retorted.

“I’ll be right back,” he answered as he ran out the door. A few minutes later, he returned with a smile broader than my hips.

“How’s it going, honey bunny?” he asked sweetly.

“Let me smell your breath,” I demanded.

“ “I’ve done nothing wrong, ” he grinned guiltily.

“Your teeth are covered in Oreo cookie crumbs!” I shouted.

“So!” he yelled back, “I can’t survive on bean sprout sandwiches and rice cakes for the rest of my life. A man needs his meat and potatoes or he’ll dry up and blow away and then who will kill big bugs for you?”

He had a point.

“I’m getting a drink of water,” I announced. I felt his eyes following me into the kitchen as I reached in the cupboard for a glass. He turned back to the television as I tried to quietly unwrap the piece of candy I had hidden inside a coffee cup. It was like trying to unwrap candy during communion in church. The neighbors two houses down heard me. Suddenly, my husband was standing behind me.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded.

I whimpered, “It’s just a caramel nib.”

“They’re called caramel nips!” he shouted, “Like Nipsey Russell!”

I quickly started chewing my candy.

He bellowed, “Stop that chewing. You’re making me hungry again!”

I sat my husband down. “Tell me again why we’re dieting? I’m too delirious from hunger to think rationally.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve only lost inches from my ear cartilage.”

“I lost half an inch from my big toe,” I gloomily added.

“Your big toe looks great,” he complimented.

I brightened up. “I think your skinny ear lobes really thin out your face.”

“Oh stop,” he glowed.

“Let’s just accept our bodies for what they are and stop this silly diet,” I said as we embraced. “I love you just the way you are,” I whispered near his lean ear lobe.

He placed his big toes on top of mine.

“Careful,” I warned with a smile, “They’re so petite now.”

We came to a silent agreement that night as I held on tightly to his love handles and he firmly grasped my broad hips -– a scale could never weigh the importance of unconditional love.