I had a doctor’s appointment this morning because I’ve had wrist pain for months. It turns out that when I called to schedule the appointment, the person at the clinic scheduled me for “breast pain”. That could have been very, very awkward.
After we cleared up the reason for my being there, I was asked to step on the scale. The dreaded scale. I decided to woman up and hop on, telling the nurse that I should be between !*# and !*@. But when she got to the high-end of my suggestion, she kept going. And going. And going. A whole ten pounds higher than I had expected. TEN POUNDS.
I shrieked like a child of the 80’s who just learned that Jem was canceled, and hopped off the scale. So much for taking it like a woman. “No fucking way. No way. No fucking way!” She looked at me and suggested that she zero out the scale and we try it again. “Fuck.” It landed on the same spot. Fuck, indeed.
I stayed as calm as I could while she was doing the consult, trying to keep my eyes from popping out of my skull. I weigh, like, two Olsen twins. How in the fuck did this happen? With the exception of Foster’s party, I’ve been so good lately! I stay away from Whataburger and McDonald’s, and I haven’t had a candy bar in I don’t even know how long. My mother would like me to have my thyroid checked, since both she and my grandmother have problems. (My mom’s are severe enough that it drastically impacts her weight.) I’m thinking that it isn’t my thyroid that’s a problem. My body is just a finicky pain in the ass.
I left my appointment knowing I needed to grab lunch before going back to work. And since I had been fasting since the previous night in case she needed to do any blood work, I was famished. Nothing I could think of sounded remotely healthy, so I ended up at a grocery store. As I walked around looking at racks of freshly baked cookies, boxes of sugary breakfast cereal, and aisle after aisle of food that had helped get me into this predicament, I found myself becoming more and more pissed off.
How dare they? The companies that make food purposely create absolute crap. Crap that tastes amazing, but is resulting in my beginning to resemble that chick with the bad eyeshadow from The Drew Carey Show. And I re-fucking-fuse to go down that path. Not that I have any idea of how I’m going to correct the situation I’ve gotten myself into … but at least I know that there’s no way I can go home and ponder it over an ice cream cone. Unfortunately.
January Was Here 
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