Today was my annual oil and lube job at the gynecologist. It's certainly not the appointment that every woman looks forward to, but not for the reason you might think. The worst part of the whole thing is usually the first thing you have to do - the dreaded weigh-in on the scales.Today was certainly no exception. Since I have been on the "cruise diet" for the past few months, I was not looking to knowing exactly how much cruise food had gone home with me in my hips and waist.
So I decided to go in, loudly proclaiming exactly why the floor trembled when I walked on it. Unfortunately, the patients waiting in the waiting room weren't interested. I decided to hold my excuses until it mattered. I didn't have to wait too long.
Nancy the Nurse called my name and off we went to the scales. I tried to tell her how much I probably weighed so she needn't bother weighing me, but I think the nurse police are pretty tough and would probably arrest her if she didn't perform this delicate procedure. So up I went on the scales - hoping I wouldn't break the thing. Of course, the whole time I'm blabbering on about how many cruises I went on, and how there's food everywhere, and how it's all free, and blah, blah, blah. Nancy, who is very nice, probably wasn't buying a word of it, but moved all those little weights hither and yon and gave me a number. Which was not pretty.
Anyhow, next I went to the lavatory to give a "sample". When I came out, Nancy directed me to my exam room. There I changed into the Kleenex robe and put the tissue paper cover over my lap. These garments are not made for a woman my size or age, and the next 15 minutes were not spent waiting - they were spent trying not to sweat so that the delicate paper will not dissolve in the important places. I somehow managed this, but only by holding my arms out like I was flying. I considered going ahead and putting my feet in the stirrups to keep my nether regions from sweating and dissolving the rice paper underneath my ample derriere which would create some tricky maneuvering when I am asked to "scoot down". But since I am facing the door, I figured this is one sight Dr. N probably didn't need to face when she opened the door. Nor did any stray passersby need a peep show.
Dr. N came in with my chart and we engaged in witty banter. Of course, I repeated my cruise/food/poor me recitation. I'm sure somewhere on my chart, Nurse Nancy had recorded by weight gain. I was a little nervous, especially since last year Dr. N was so happy about the two pounds I had lost in 52 weeks. But you know what? Dr. N didn't say a word. We talked about cruises and San Francisco and stuff like that. Not a word about weight.
Maybe it's because Dr. N figures I have at least half a brain and can figure out that I need to lose weight Maybe it's because she figures there are other things to worry about health wise, and she'll focus on those. Maybe it doesn't matter - she doesn't see the weight, but the person who is somewhere down in all those fat folds. Maybe she figures she will just leave it up to me.
That's where the thanks comes in. Thanks for not mentioning it, thanks for taking care of the stuff that needs taking care of, thanks for treating me like a person and not a number on the scale. I left feeling that I wanted to lose the weight and look and feel better - for me and not to achieve a number on the scale.
Suddenly it mattered, because to someone it didn't really matter at all.
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Today's blessings: Back to butt camp; lovely gyn appointment; Red Lobster lunch with Molly; sticker shopping; Lindley time at the playground in the park
