I have an insurance-mandated physical on Thursday, which has already succeeded in sending me into a whirlwind of panic. In my experience, the only reason doctors or nurses EVER want to see you is if there’s an above-average chance that you’ll die and they can make some money off of your impending demise by prescribing you random $#!+, and not the good $#!+ either.
My fears are not totally baseless: left to my own devices, I’d subsist on a not-so-strict diet of egg-on-toast, supplemented by an all-day cup of coffee* for a grand total of like, 418 calories…which would eventually result in my death from malnutrition.
However, My Fella is a superb cook who insists on preparing and eating actual food. We’ve leveled up over the years, becoming CSA super-customers; we eat, literally, bags full of kale and arugula. And did you know you can make a curry out of turnips and that’s it? It’s true! We have done it! Also, stir-fry the f*ck out of any vegetable you can name, the weirder the better. Kohlrabi: pwned.
Thus, most of our meals come out of produce boxes these days; and when we shop, we do so like grizzled old prospectors, wandering around the supermarket aisles and stocking up on coffee, dried beans, and tortillas.
Certainly my diet is better than it’s ever been, nutritionally speaking. For example, I now consume real meals, instead of just eating mustard straight out of the jar and calling it dinner because f*ck it, I’m lazy. (Admittedly, this often means walking across the backyard to the chicken coop, grabbing a couple of eggs, and calling it dinner because f*ck it, I’m lazy.)
So…I’m 5’8″ and 160-odd pounds; I “know” this because we’ve got a wonky bathroom scale that I don’t entirely trust, because it cost less than $10 and came from Target** (For good or ill, said scale hasn’t really budged in forever, so it’s not as if pounds are piling on or sloughing off***)
I think this is an OK size to be? At any rate, people don’t shout nasty things at me while I’m walking down the street. Also, I’ve never sat on anything and had it collapse under me.
Judging by these very limited metrics, I am a fairly average and unremarkable size…I think?
See, I can’t even discuss the issue with anybody because people smaller than me say things like “If you just tried a little harder, you could definitely get rid of that disgusting flab,” while people bigger than me snarl, “Skinny b!+C#, you have no problems SHUT UP!”
Nevertheless, I am terrified to go to the doctor because they’re going to shake their heads, poke my belly pudge, and tell me to lose weight. JUST LIKE LAST TIME.
That’s tough, because there’s not a lot of give in my current lifestyle. It’s not as if I’m lounging on the couch all day, sucking corn syrup from a length of surgical tubing connected to a cistern. I mean, I’m not running ultra-marathons, but I’m also not completely sedentary.
I walk a few miles per day, thanks to the wonderful world of public transit. I do house- and yardwork as needed, and gardening when the weather cooperates. I even go to the Y when time permits — although lately, I have little desire to do so, as it’s been taken over by skeletal blondes in designer yoga pants and moisture-wicking tops. (I have NO idea where these people come from; clearly they do not live in our neighborhood, which is not that sort of neighborhood.)
What else? I don’t smoke. I don’t drink, unless it’s a special occasion/social event — and there are precious few of these in my life. I have the personal hygiene of a cat (minus the rectum licking). I am a paragon of sexual fidelity. I am not involved in any high-risk activities — no Evel Knievel stunts for this girl. No gang affiliations. What else? I don’t know. Basically, my lifestyle does not send up a lot of red flags.
AND YET, I’m losing sleep over a few pounds of belly chub. I may very well be insane. I guess we’ll find out, on Thursday.