He’s keeping up with me pretty strictly because I just started on a new blood pressure medication, which apparently can eat holes through your liver if you don’t watch out. Anyway, four or five weeks ago when I was in, I weighed 266*. Part of his prescription for me then was to walk briskly 45 minutes, 4 times a week. This I have been doing fairly well.
In all honesty, I’ve been doing it 3.5 times a week because the regularity of every other day is easier for me to maintain. But that’s beside the point. Thing is, I’ve been doing it, which for me is a minor accomplishment in and of itself. So I’m pretty eager to see what I weigh several weeks later. My shirts are fitting better in the neck, and on some days I can actually hit hole 4 on my fat belts, which is down from hole 2 at 266.
I’m there for a very early appointment, so early in fact that his nurse isn’t even there yet. So my doctor gets my chart and walks me over to the scale. I get on and he starts moving the counterweights.
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Pooh, not as much as I’d hoped. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn denim.
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Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have had sesame chicken the other night.
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Crap! I guess all the keep-warm food I ate when the power was out has taken its toll!
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Huh?
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This is where I was like 4 months ago! He double-checks the number from last time. 266.
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You’ve gotta be shitting me!
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Stunned silence.
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Lots more stunned silence, tinged with fear.
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He doesn’t even bother moving the big counterweight over to the 300 mark. He looks at me, I look at him. “Any chance this thing is broken?” sez I. I step off. He steps on. He shifts the counterweights around a bit. “Yeah. This thing’s way off. Let’s go take your blood pressure.”
Thank you, God.
But … now I don’t know what I weigh.
- Yes, that’s a bunch. It’s considerably more than the 249 I had gotten down to a while back, but it’s still a lot better than the 309 I was for a while. So ease up, 'kay?