ZoNi

I was called a Zoni for the first time today.

I got my drivers license.

But that's not the funny part.

The funny part was that I went in knowing I was going to falsify information when I filled out the application to get my Arizona drivers license.

Of course, I was going to lie about my weight.

I can't remember if when I got my very first license if I lied about that weight; I would hope that I didn't. I probably didn't. I was probably scared that I would go to jail, and there probably wasn't a need to lie about my weight. WAIT! There isn't a NEED to ever lie about weight in the first place. What kind of PERSON AM I?

Anyway, my Illinois license has a definite incorrect weight on it. It says 150 pounds. LIE LIE LIE LIE!

I was 150 pounds hmmmm... possibly, maybe at my wedding? I think at the very best at my success at Weight Watchers I was perhaps 162 or oh yeah, that time I met goal and then puked in Mr. Manic's car and ended up throwing up in my thong (last time I wore one) later that night where my dad helped me through the night (they were in town), yeah, I got to 158 that night. So, 150 on my Illinois drivers license was a definite LIE.

So, is it safe to say that we women have a penchant for exaggerating a bit in our favor when it comes to sharing our weights on drivers license? Come on, everyone, stop for a minute and take out your licenses -- look at them. Is that an accurate weight? Was it an accurate weight when you got your license?

Some of you may be lucky enough to live in a state where they do not require weights on the drivers license, like when I lived in Pennsylvania. Boy, did I jump for joy that day I went to the DMV to get that license and discovered I didn't need to share that 3-digit number with them!

And what's a cop gonna do when he pulls ya over? Handcuff you for telling a little fib? For shaving off a few pounds in your favor? If nothing else, it's a little inspiration to see a nice number on your license. Something to work toward, right?

So, when Mr. Manic came home the other day from getting his Arizona license and he told me that they don't expire for like 25 years, I had an idea. I thought, "Why not put a significant number on my license for my weight? A number that is meaningful to my family, a reminder that I am loved and cherished all day long, every day? An inspirational number? A number that our family loves? A number that means LOVE in our family?

And yes, I've talked about that number on this blog before and yes, that number is a number that there is no way I will ever attain it on the scale lest I chop off a limb or two, but HEY, if I can get that number on my license, how cool would THAT be? Even if it means defying the laws of Arizona, tampering with the truth, and downright lying on the application?

Because come on, only the skinny ones tell the truth!

So I did it.

I put down 143 at my weight. Because 143 is significant to our family and means I LOVE YOU. I(1) LOVE(4) YOU(3).

Yeah, pick yourselves off the floor now. It's only like 50 pounds from the truth or so. But it was the idea of the challenge of not having someone say, "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME ON THIS WEIGHT THING, RIGHT?"

After I wrote it down on the application, then I kinda got freaked, cuz I looked around at the people who take the apps. They looked intelligent! They looked like they would be able to see right through me! I sat in my chair and waited, hoping I would get like a really fat woman, or a dumb guy, or some Spanish speaking person (no offense to you bilingual readers, and I have no idea why a Spanish speaking person wouldn't know how to tell if I was really fat or not?).

When my number was called, I sucked in my gut and turned to meet my fate. I GOT A GUY! An older looking gentleman! Surely he would not challenge my weight on my application. I greeted him and smiled, sucking in my chubby cheeks along with my flabby gut, and trying to sit with very straight posture. "Think thin, Manic, think thin," was my mantra as he checked over my application.

"House or apartment?" he asked.

"Home." I answered.

SHIT! Wrong answer, and he looked up at me.

"House. Sorry."

I guess he could even tell we haven't made this house into a home yet.

He ran through the info and I tried to make a joke about never having to shovel snow again but then thought I should shut up because he could come back with something like, "Well, maybe if you shoveled more snow, you could lose some weight and actually weigh what you CLAIM to weigh fatass!"

HAHAHAH!

Finally, he said, "Twenty bucks Steph."

He called me Steph!

Anyone who calls me Steph is a friend. I just really like when someone calls me Steph out of the blue. It's like they like me automatically. That, and Stephie.

So, I pay him, and he says, "You're a Zoni!"

And I bet in his mind he was thinking, "And you're a lying fatass too!"