“What did it say?” she asks.
“What did what say?” I ask her.
“I heard you step on the bathroom scale.”
“You never tell me what you weigh,so why should I tell you what I weigh?”
She just looks at me. “That’s different,” she finally says.
“You never ask a woman what she weighs.”
“You just don’t.”
“Then fair is fair, a woman shouldn’t ask a man what he weighs either.”
“That is just plain silly,” she says. Then she gives me her look of concern. The look that says my well-being depends on her knowing what I weight. “Now tell me,” she says, “what did the scale say?”
“It said I am down three ounces.”
At first she accepts this – but she knows me too well.
“And the pounds?” she asks.
“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 refuse 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 so little to the imagination works – because what little it leaves possess 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 driveway that runs between the grain bins and the corn dryer. 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. It is a large steel platform where the grain trucks are weighed before and after dumping 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.