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Saturday, October 23, 2010

Shorter, Fatter, AND Inflamed

Nothing makes me more aware of the swift passage of time than the due date of the Annual Medical Physical.

You've just barely inhaled the last of your cigarette from the last assault, and it's time to strip down to your birthday suit and do it all again.

Sitting on the edge of a cold steel bed in the early evening hours on the cusp of the weekend provoked me to remind my Doctor Man; "just remember. This was your idea, not mine."

Clearly, it wasn't my idea to march down that long hallway and be commanded to board the unforgiving scale, with it's bits of metal making industrial, judgemental "clunk, clunk, snicker, snivel" sorts of sounds. A heavy sigh from the assistant while she reads the condemning number aloud; "One-hundred-eight-zillion-and-seven-pound-something-or-other. Humph."

A full three zillion units heavier than I am at home, stark naked, four AM, without food or water in twelve revolutions of the planets.

After that, she brings the measure-a-doodie down to see if I'm still five foot seven inches, like my drivers lisence has so accurately stated since 1984. I've never given it a second thought, except that in recent years, my daughters have disputed my height. Know-it-all show off-ers that they are.

Minutes later, shivering in the "privacy" of my own metal chamber, I eye the measuring tape mounted to the wall. Knowing that the Doctor will likely be doing numerous cataract surgeries, heart transplants, and lesion excisions before he remembers my thighs wrapped in transparent blue, I decide to hop down and do some measuring of my own.

I've apparently shrunk.
I'm not 5'7" at all, but 5'6".

Beginning to suspect that I'm evolving into a bouncey dollar store ball without any bounce left, I slither over to the meanacing scale in the corner.
Climb aboard.
Pile my various rolls and straying bits around me and glance down at the numerical sentence.

Holy $%#@.
Shorter.
AND fatter.

Roughly around the time that my road map of blue-ish veins begin to crystalize in the subarctic walk-in closet that I find myself in, the Doc makes his heroic fully clothed appearance. I have by this point, searched through his cupboards for mints, lotion, menthols, and/or sedatives. And come up with
Nothing.

And there's still the full invasion to look forward to.

But then I remember how I really like that low lamp that Doctors favour in their cozy metal offices. The ones with the swivelly heads that can be twisted and turned to shine in the most ingenious places.

I love those super long Q-tips that they employ.

The cold jelly.

The latex gloves.

And in the midnight hours before turning forty-three, I just love hearing words like "inflammation".

Ah, well. I was about to say that it could be worse, but that already happened last year.

9 comments:

Rosa said...

Funny I could hear your voice say inflammation when I read that. Great piece Joyce. I am sooo there with you on this one. Just this week after seeing myself in some recent photos I contemplated the idea of loosing weight. I thought for a full night than realized that could make me even more cranky with my family and well that just wouldn't be responsible mothering.

Anonymous said...

responsible mothering!?!
hmmm I like the equation.
thighs and mothering...
count on my favorite people for perspective.
BB.

Donn Escapeons said...

If only you had outdoor plumbing like us guys. Of course we only go to see a doctor if we're on a stretcher or lodged in some sort of apparatus that has gone awry.

I used to be about 6'4" in high school, now I'm the same height as you. Then again, guys worry about shrinkage a lot more than you do.

Anonymous said...

Oh Joyce....you put a whole new light on "going for my physical"...hilarious, as always : ) L-lew

Judy said...

I didn't go last year (i saw my doctor every morning in the hospital with my dad). I'm not going this year (i saw my doctor in restuarant having breakfast with his wife). Quite possibly I won't even see him next year, as I just might be dead.
But if anyone asks if I've seen my doctor this year, I can honestly say, Yes! YES I HAVE!

Karla said...

It's just the damn fibroid. You know it, baby.

joyce said...

ohmygosh, Karla. I'd already forgotten that I HAVE a fibroid!! sometimes being a complete knob has its benefits. So much less to worry about when you can't remember your own conditions!

Judy, that's the way to see your Dr. So much more dignity in that. And please don't die this year, I like you.

LL- I bet you just want to rush to the phone and make that appt, don't you?!



donn- ha ha. Weren't you on the basketball team? We chics don't envy your plumbing. Nope, not us.

rose and bb- so much combined wisdom between us three. Even if we're the only ones who believe the stuff....

janice said...

I went for an annual physical and a mammogram this year - first time in 10 years. Did not get me anything except uncomfortable.

I don't know how much I weigh and how tall I am. I am shorter than my brother, 2 sisters, daughter and father.

I think I feel 'inflammation' - don't like the feel, I am sure I would not like the sound.

Heather said...

THAT WAS FUNNY!!