“What did it say?” my wife asked.
“What did what say?”
“I heard you step on the bathroom scale.”
I answered with my own question. “You never tell me what you weigh, so why should I tell you what I weigh?”
She just gave me the look… “That’s different,” she finally said.
“You never ask a woman what she weighs.”
“You just don’t.”
“Then fair is fair, a woman should never ask a man what he weighs either.”
“That is just plain silly,” she said, then gave me her look of concern (the look that says my well-being depends on her knowing how much I weight). “Now tell me,” she said, “what did the scale say?”
“It said I am down three ounces.”
At first she accepted this – but she knows me too well.
“And the pounds?” she asked.
“I figure, if I take care of the ounces, the pounds will take care of themselves.”
“C’mon, ‘fess up, how much weight have you gained over the winter?”
I refused to tell her.
I am not comfortable that she can keep secrets from me but I cannot keep secrets from her, especially about things that I am reluctant to divulge – even to myself.
I realize there is no such thing as a completely honest relationship. How could there be? We all tell little white lies and withholds crucial facts. Everyone does this but it is not something we do out of malice, rather we do it out of love.
Face it, our little secrets are what make us more attractive to each other. Because nothing can be more alluring than what is left to the imagination. It is why Victoria keeps her secret. Even leaving as little to the imagination as she does – because what little she leaves holds the greatest power of all.
With me though, things work the other way around. She keeps telling me I reveal too much.
“Don’t tuck your shirt in so tight,” she scolds.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it make your belly look big.”
“My belly is big,” I tell her.
“But the world doesn’t need to know that,” she says.
So there you have it. I get nagged for revealing some things then nagged again for not revealing others.
Still, the wonderful thing about secrets is the joy in trying to uncover them – and I came very close to knowing how much she weighs once.
We were at her brother’s farm, walking along the drive that runs between his grain bins. I was trailing about twenty paces behind, gawking at the machinery, when she stopped suddenly and spun around to face me.
“Nice try,” she said.
That’s when I noticed.
Her left foot hovered over the truck scale. The scale is a large steel platform that weighs grain trucks before and after they dump their load. It can handle tens of thousands of pounds and reports what it finds on a big red screen above the scale – and unlike the one in my bathroom, it is scrupulously honest and accurate to within a pound.