My scale is a bad fat liar and a bastard. Not the good kind of liar, like when your friend says, “That person who took your old position at, say, that ski resort where you used to work is nowhere near as fun, interesting, or as smart as you.” Or, the kind of liar who says, “Your haircut isn’t too short. You look just like Mary Stuart Masterson!”
My scale is the kind of liar that, when I ask whether my pants are too tight, it says, “I’m thinking about ham.”
My scale is the kind of bastard that yells across the beach when I feel just fine in my bathing suit, “Nice beer gut!”
Despite my efforts, my scale claims I have lost no weight during the entire month of November. This can’t possibly be true. My pants are falling down. My collarbone has emerged from its snug little downy comforter of fat. I can actually see a waistline forming.
Other than Groom, who is legally obligated to tell me I look like I’ve lost weight, only one person has commented on my weight loss. And she’s 98. And she was heavily medicated at the time.
I suppose I should be flattered that nobody is noticing. It means my fluctuating poundage remains unseen when I feel like I resemble the hanker for a hunka cheese guy. But, that’s cold comfort.
So, imagine my surprise when I visited the doctor this past week to get my numbers checked. I was certain I would see very little change in my cholesterol. I was so positive my veins were still filled with molasses and butter, I couldn’t concentrate–I was wearing only one earring and I know I forgot to put on underwear.
After a tense “How are you feeling” and an ominous “Have you seen your lab work results yet,” my doctor revealed that my cholesterol has dropped an overall 78 points since late September. Those other two numbers? The LDL (bad) and HDL (good) have dropped 73 points and raised 13 points respectively. AND, I am within the “better” and “near ideal” ranges.
The vegan nonsense is paying off. The doctor did ask whether I could keep up this lifestyle and I answered with a resounding YES! He was happy for me, but honestly I sort of expected…I don’t know…I wanted applause and balloons and show girls and confetti and I really thought a banner would drop from the ceiling reading, “CONGRATULATIONS!!”
Come on, man. I just took your advice and got the results we were looking for! Shouldn’t you be excited?!
As it turns out, no. What the hell does the doctor care? While it’s probably nice for him to have a patient he doesn’t have to lecture, it’s also not his body or his life. It’s not his problem that I am genetically and habitually inclined to have heart disease when he has a building full of hacking smokers’ coughs, renal failure, heart attacks, and flu. In the medical community, I’m considered young and mostly healthy. He doesn’t have time for young and healthy.
I’m going to let that sink in for a moment. Young. Healthy.
Speaking of young and healthy, I’ve spent most of my day prepping my post-op recovery room for the week after my cervical spine surgery on Tuesday. Groom is insisting we purchase a 50″ plasma television with TiVo and streaming Netflix and Hulu even though I have insisted for years that we don’t need a TV. The bastard.
