So, Monday is my doctor’s appointment. I haven’t been to the doctor in about five years–not since the dreadful illness and the gynocologist who told me that god doesn’t want fat women to have babies because they cannot protect their children from angry elephants.
Anyway, I was sitting at the lawyer’s office earlier in the week with my dad and he’s all “You know, the doctor’s going to tell you that you have to lose weight. She’ll tell you what I’ve been telling you, that there’s nothing she can do for you if you don’t lose weight.”
Silence for a while.
“Hey, do you hear that? What’s that noise?”
“It’s you. How long have you been making that noise when you breathe?”
“I don’t know. For a while. Sometimes I snort or make this snoring noise, too.”
“Well, it sounds terrible. Don’t forget to mention that to the doctor.”
I don’t care about losing weight. I just want to be able to do the things I could do at this time last year–walk the dog around the neighborhood in twenty-five, not forty minutes, sleep through the night instead of waking up every two hours, breathe without being heard in the next room, walk around the park, not fall asleep during the day, etc. I don’t feel bad, but I feel like it’s been almost a year since I felt really good. I want to feel good again.
But I dread going because it always becomes about the weight. I was fat last year and could breathe and move how I wanted. That’s all I want from life.
Anyway, I thought this post over at Shakesville was very interesting. It’s a series of pictures of people and their BMIs.
Here’s the thing. I hate how doctors tell you that you’re fat and that you have to lose weight like you’ve never heard that before, like no one in your family finds it necessary to point out to you every time they see you, like strangers don’t come up to you in a bar and say things like “Look at you eating!” Like somehow, it’s escaped your attention.
See, I haven’t even met this chick and I’m already feeling defensive and hostile.