Background:
11 years ago, a spritely, slightly doe-eyed 26 year old certifiable nearly hot chick with the girl next door kung fu grip attachment and a nice figger, decided to take my not that bad ( not nearly as bad as it is now) body into the Doc’s for a physical.
At 5’3 at 125-130 pounds on a small boned body, My then HMO Doctor told me a) I was overweight and I had high cholesteral at 249.
Being that I worked out 3-4 days a week (because I wanted to) I considered myself in respectable shape and I slunked out of the doctor’s office convinced I was on the Verge Of Certain Death ©.
So, I enlisted a workout buddy ( who had abs of steel and was a hot bodied guy friend of Mr. Ujest.) and worked out diligently 4-5 mornings a week, cutting back considerably on fast food.
I go back in to get my blood tested 3 months later and my numbers have gone up in the chlosteral department. My weight stays the same because I am getting stronger, as muscle weighs more than fat blah, blah, blah.
Even more depressed and more convinced I was now cordless bungee jumping off the Edge of Doom ©, I worked out 6 days a week, ate clean ( no junk food at all) and went back in 3 months later for a check up. My numbers were higher by a couple of points.
I don’t think I could have been more depressed. I worked so hard, got up so early in the morning (5am) worked out for 1.5 hours every freaking work day and then came home in the good weather to bike ride or walk my dog. I’m even trying garlic supplements and eating oatmeal like a feind because of those damn Quaker Oat ads.
What more could I do?
In total defeat, and the glaring fact that my work out buddy moved back home to some stupid place called OHIO I’ve only just started to forgive him since his wife has told me he’s porked out lately. I gave up the will to care.
I went back to eating fast food. Gave up the Rat Race, Had kids, Found the Internet, and slowly gave up the work outs until #2 child was born, watched my once thin and exuberant dog grow plump along side of me, and have made Ramen Noodles the choice food around here.
If my body had a clean food ( veggies or fruit) once a day, it would probably go into shock. I don’t eat the junk food ( cake,cookies or ice cream) like I use too, so at least I got that going for me.
So, here I am, tipping the scales at about 168. The hot little body went south with my metabolism. My gut has stretched out in a pathetic pooch from bearing children.
My only physical exercise in the last year, and I am not kidding on this, is a) going bowling and b) walking from our table at bowling to the snack bar to order a Nacho Grande ( with extra chili and onion.) Okay, and a few laps of swimming when I can get there in time before the pool closes and I am not pooped from my day with the kids. ( Not physical pooped. Mental pooped. They are like Prisoners from Hogan’s Heroes. Always plotting. It’s wearying.)
I’ve torn muscles in the arches of both my feet and walks take too much out of my dogs to even contemplate that. Not to mention taking a walk in a rural area with swamps to the left of me and wetlands to the right is just asking to bring the Human Buffet Table to the Mosquitos. Bug spray alone is vomitous and gives me a headache, but a necessary evil to keep myself from being sucked dry before i reach the end of my drive. And my kids, no matter if they walk or ride their bikes are either 1000 yards ahead of me or have just fallen off a bike on the gravel and refuse to ever get on their bike again and I am 1 mile from home and have to carry said bike home at the pace of a snail because said injured child with the boo-boo knee is crying melodramatically the entire way, limping for affect while my other child is whining about the bugs, the bug, the bugs and how they are going to eat her/him alive! And the dog is happily eating some other dog’s shit. GAH!
Oh, and I’ve buried three brothers in 10 years (Two in the last three. One a year ago yesterday.) and have had to deal with My Mother and her random assorted Spazms, In law issues, a husbands insane workload that would probably crack a lesser man, two major car accidents,9/11 attacks, self induced debt, preschool moms, Longeberger Basket Parties From the Depths of Lower Hell, mismatches socks and a garden that has weed control issues. I’ve had a few pity parties with me and Ben & Jerry.
Other than feeling pudgy and hurting feet ( and the migraines) I am perfectly healthy and haven’t felt better and considering the Valley of Shit © that I have had to trudge through, emotionally, I am in a great state of mind: Left of Normal.
Naturally, being raised how I was raised. Happiness is Not Normal and THIS MUST CHANGE.
SO, for some strange reason that I cannot figure out, I decide to go to our new family doctor for a phyiscal. Not an all-body-check-out-the-naught-bits kind of physical. Like I want to tell my new GP that I am a loon during my period. It will weird him out. I save it for my OB/Gyn, who is use to such stuff and will readily write me a script for some happy pills that make all the jerkoffs in life disappear that magically show up during my period. Where these tards are during the rest of the month, I don’t know, but I strongly suspect they chart my monthly time on their calendar and decide what assinine things to talk to me about during those 4-5 volatile days.
Besides having three nurses work on drawing my blood. I have small veins that roll, apparently, like the fat on my gut, I now have three bruises. One on each hand and one in the elbow crotch, where they finally able to get the job done. I discovered the nurses were just focusing heavily on jargon such as ‘outer ventricle’ and missed my funny remarks, which I cannot remember to amaze you with here, my faith followers ( all three of you.) The fact that I didn’t faint from fasting for over 12 hours and had no coffee either, just goes to show you what a trooper I was.
My xrays were good. (I smiled for the camera!) and the EKG says the ticker is just fine.
I get a script for migraine stuff and scammed a bunch of samples and scooted out of there to barrel my Econoline right up to the Burger King drive through window to get a #5 with a large diet coke.
I knew what was coming.
I didn’t need the music in the background foreshadowing Impending Doom©.
I ate bad things last night, like peanut butter chocolate ice cream and chips ( left over from a party.) and a half dozen chocolate chip cookies I made for the party.
I ate like a Death Row Inmate’s Last Meal.
I got the call that I knew was coming.
My doctor’s perky medical assistant called me to tell me that my chlosteral level was high.
After years of posing happily as Inertia Woman, I had to restrain myself from saying, * No Shit, Sherlock*. Instead, I bit back a chuckle and tried for a serious tone. " What’s the number?"
11 years. Two kids. 30 pounds. Countless cartons of Ben & Jerry’s. I figured I was nearing 400. Angioplasty Here I Come! Maybe I could get a handicap parking sticker out this self induced gluttony of sheer laziness.
" 236." the Pretty Young Thing on the other end tells me in a serious voice.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!” I dropped the phone in pure hysterical laughter, giggling myself into such a fit I ended up coughing up a lung. " I lost over ten points by *doing absolutely nothing *!"
Oh, the Irony!
The PYT did not understand anything, how could she? She’s about 22 and has her whole life ahead of her to do Important Things and Make a Difference. Somewhere in my gleeful cackling I was told I needed to " Eat a low-fat diet and exercise."
I’ve done that route before. Medically induced Guilt. Honey, if I survived an Irish-Catholic Mother and say to to her guilt-fests. Think of what I can pshaw from the Medical establishment. " Sure, sure."
I hung up and grab a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
Low Fat Diet. Excerise. Live Longer. Pay more taxes. Die Anyway.
Over my dead body.
(To them, not you!)