Disclaimer: Dudes will probably not want to read this as this post leans a little yonic. If you are of the male persuasion, I can't guarantee this'll resonate. It may even make you feel a little icky afterward. Consider yourself forewarned.
Yesterday was D-Day: the annual trip to the OB/GYN to make sure everything south of the border is working properly. You'd think that I'd be a wee less apprehensive about the exam after 10 years of annual visits. Not to mention that I was a little, um, exposed to about 15 strangers during the whole childbirth experience. Basically, I've made peace with the fact that it's just one of those things I have to do as a responsible adult woman, like paying bills on time and popping calcium supplements.
My doctor is a tiny woman. A teeny tiny woman. Every time I go to visit her, she tells me that I need to lose weight. One time she said, "You should not try to gain any more weight." Um, I wasn't exactly trying to gain the poundage that I have. It's just that living a sedentary lifestyle has resulted in my hourglass figure transforming into a different kind of glass figure...say, a beer stein.
Like a ninny, I scheduled this appointment three weeks after the holidays. So I know I'm packing an extra pound or five in addition to the extras I've already been lugging around. To compensate, I dressed "light." I actually held my clothes before getting dressed to determine which outfit weighed less. Obviously I was gonna kick off my shoes before climbing onto the scale, but they don't request you to strip. And since the scale's in the hallway leading to the exam rooms, it wouldn't exactly be appropriate.
The breezy outfit didn't help, though. I stepped onto the scale, and the physician's assistant moved the blocky metal weights up the bar. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Oh, yuck. Not a good number. I am hovering at a pregancy weight number. This is not what I am supposed to weigh when all I'm carrying around is me.
After the weigh-in, I stripped off the appropriate articles of clothing, draped myself with a gigantic purple paper towel thingamajig, and climbed on the table. The doctor entered, we exchanged some pleasantries, she performed the exam, and told me to meet her in her office after I've dressed. Gulp. As I zipped, buckled, and buttoned up, I thought I might be off the hook vis-a-vis a weight lecture. Why? Well, part of my exam chit-chat was telling Dr. Tiny that I've begun an exercise regime (which is true), and she applauded me.
I go into her office, and she asked me how tall I am. I gave her the number, tacking on an extra half an inch for good measure. She scratched a couple of numbers onto a pad of paper, looked up at me and said, "Someone your height should weigh X. So you should really lose about 40 or 50 pounds." Good Lord, 50 POUNDS! She might as well have told me to grow another foot.
And then she sent me on my way without so much as a leaflet as to how I'm supposed to shed nearly a third of my mass. And I know I'm being coy about my actual weight, but the mathletes among you can figure out what I weigh based on all the algebraic clues I've given you.
Truth be told, I'm all good with losing weight. Post-New Year's, I've cut out a whole lotta dairy, sugar, and refined flour. And I've been movin' and shakin' a lot more. So I'm on my way. Maybe not to me minus 50 pounds, but I'm on my way.
2 comments:
Losing weight sucks! I have been battling it for years. I wish I could have an eating disorder, it seems easier than watching what I eat and exercising.
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