We who are about to don paper gowns salute you - UPDATED
I don't really know how to tell you this...so please, friends, brace yourselves.
Everyone sitting down, preferably with the beverage of their choice?
I...I'm going to the doctor tomorrow.
What's that? WHY am I going to the doctor? Well, for a routine check up, but still.
WHAT? Are you (like my beloved) calling me a wimp?
I'll have you know that doctors and illness are very tightly associated. I'll bet I could work up a study that PROVED that an extremely large percentage of people who seek medical attention experience some degree of ill health. I bet I could even get government funding for it.
We've all read the inspirational articles about women who have battled their way back from some horrible illness, right? And how do they begin? "Sue woke up one morning with a headache. She ignored it for a while, but when it wouldn't go away she saw her doctor, who informed her that she had contracted a rare, virulent form of brain eating monkey." And WHAT do all these stories have in common? Exactly.A trip to the doctor. So it seems pretty likely that if I actually GO and SEE a doctor, I will be struck down with a terrible illness. And then I'll have to bravely fight my way back to health, blah blah blah. Honestly, who has that sort of time?
So, as if doctors=ill health weren't enough, there's the whole SCALE issue. As in, they are sure to have one. And to expect me to stand on it. And then the nurse will write down a number in with her heartless little clicky pen with the name of some pharmaceutical emblazoned on the side of it, she will write down the number and she won't look at me, but SHE WILL be thinking derogatory things about my belly. And possibly thighs. But not my butt, because it is awesome, and I dare that snippy nurse with her clicky pen to say otherwise. Bring it.
Where was I?
Oh yes, the scale. Hate the scale. True story: the last time I got a physical I was NINETEEN and was having health issues, and so I ended up having to go back to this whack-job old man doctor at the student health center for one hundred thousand follow up appointments. Or so. And every single time I graced his paper-covered table with my gown-covered behind, he opened the visit with this question, "So, what are you doing to lose weight?"
The three worst things about that were;
1) I had never asked about weight loss or implied that I was interested in the subject.
2) I was nineteen and sort of stupid and didn't have the sense to kick him in the head firmly request that he direct his attention to the health issue I was there for.
3) I actually weighed about 14 pounds LESS than I do right now, which is to say I WAS NOT FAT.
No, I'm not going to tell you what I weigh now. What are you, a clicky-pen-ed nurse? STEP OFF.
Sorry. Where was I, again?
Other than the aforementioned problems (doctor=ill health, THE SCALE), there is also the blood work. They'll be testing for cholesterol, blood sugar, milk of human kindness, things like that. The fact that my actual blood will be scrutinized makes me THINK that I should be eating nothing but salt-free beans topped with oat bran in preparation. But it makes me WANT milkshakes and steak. With cheese. I just ate a fistful of almonds. Don't you think that I should get some sort of credit for that? Am I the only one who crams for a cholesterol test?
Well, wish me health. I have to go eat the rest of the food in the kitchen in preparation for twelve hours of fasting, lay out my lightest-weighing clothes and shoes, and write my will. Just in case.
Not ONLY am I not dead, I have been declared completely free of virulent brain monkeys (can't blame me, Joss). My doctor, whom I adore, did not only refrain from weight loss discussions, she actually said, "You, madame, are perfect." Actual quote. AND she was palpating my ovaries at the time, so one has to assume that she knew whereof she spoke. AND I don't even know what the evil scale said, because the display was way up on the wall, and I opted to look at my pretty toes instead of it, whilst the nurse wrote with her clicky pen (which said Gardasil).
I discovered a long time ago that writing of the small things of the day, the trivial matters of the heart, the inconsequential but near things of this living, was the only kind of creative work which I could accomplish with any sincerity or grace. - E.B. White
I felt that I was packaging something as delicately pervasive as smoke, one box after another, in that room, where my only duty was to describe reality as it had come to me – to give the mundane its beautiful due. -John Updike