Gut check

Up until today a trip to the doctor (aside from pregnancy) went something like this: “You have strep throat/ bronchitis/ pneumonia / vertigo”, “I will write you a script for antibiotics / manipulate your head so the invisible crystals in your ears recalibrate”. Then I went to the front desk and handed over my debit card. Since my last trip to the doctor was a bust How long can you possibly wait? I realized it was time to branch out and find someone closer to home who might get me in closer to the agreed upon appointment time.
No one tells you weird little tidbits about adulthood like how it can be hard to make friends and how further awkward it is to ask things like “can you recommend a good doctor”? For some reason this seems easier with regard to a pediatrician and harder when it comes to a personal physical that needs to take place. However, I did ask around and one came highly recommended so toady I went.
Any other time I have gone to the doctor I have filled out a generic form asking things about my medical history (it’s pretty short) and if I have ever shared needles with strangers (I haven’t). Then I step on the scale and look away (as I have been doing since I was about 12) and wait to hear how excellent my blood pressure is (108/72).
You know I stay honest with you guys and I have put on some weight My big fat post, but I thought I was still on the not-so-noticeable side of erring. Turns out, the scale at the doctor’s office has a different take on the matter. Also, fun fact, the incredible sundried tomato, Kalamata olive and marinated artichoke heart and feta chicken BOWL of pasta I ate for lunch today (on top of breakfast annnnnd a pop tart) was not the best combination of food choices I could have made before weigh in. Highlights of my weigh in included the nurse asking if I wanted to use the ladies room first (SHOULD HAVE TAKEN HER UP ON IT), then kindly starting the sliding weight at 100 (as if we had less than 50 pounds to add) and finally asking if I was currently fasting (after she weighed me. I looked at her blankly and said “You are kidding me, right? – She was not. Clearly nor was I).
I was gently and helpfully guided through about 100 other questions – not just did I smoke but had I ever (Like, EVER EVER?!) and when the doctor came in he was cordial and kind and warmly thanked me for trusting him with my care (I think he might have even briefly bowed his head ever so slightly). He reviewed my medical, social and health history and without malice said “there is only one thing in your entire profile that causes me any concern” and I thought oh, so we aren’t going to pretend the scale thing never happened…
I am not in an interruptive phase of my life so I allowed him the opportunity to explain BMI’s and how they don’t give a full assessment of health (Note: I am not overweight because of my side gig being a profession female body builder) and the importance of nutrition accountability and exercise (Wearing both a Fitbit and a Garmin, oh and I have it connected to MyFitnessPal on my phone…). I had to ask what my ideal weight should be and he again reiterated that it was a range and dependent on several factors including muscle mass and body fat and somewhat reluctantly told me that to achieve an ideal body weight I was looking at about a 49 pound weight loss. Oh.
Well. It was almost like he was saying all the hamburgers and steaks and ice creams and beer (and that one pop tart) had caught up to me. I guess denial is NOT just a river in Egypt… Maybe those size mediums that used to fit hadn’t shrunk in the wash and those size 12 and 14 shorts I bought “temporarily” for my “water weight retention” days hadn’t either.
This is a fork in the road (not to be confused with the fork that I have heaved over and over to my mouth – and not with fresh green vegetables) where shaming myself does no good and crying doesn’t either and the only way out of this is through it (again, AGGGGGGAAAAAIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNN?!). Here is my truth: I love my body, I am proud of my body and I have not done right by my body in months now. Starting a diet “tomorrow” won’t get me out of this any more than starving myself and hoping my willpower will set the cruise control for me (I am good at fasting for maybe twelve hours and then I feel like smoked salmon eggs benny and champagne is in order) and dinnertime is rapidly approaching. Guess what works, every single time – a sensible food choice and 30-60 minutes of exercise every single day. This means I can rise to the occasion or rise from “overweight” to “obese” both of which are brackets I have spent more of my life living in than out of. I choose the occasion.


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