by Melody Bowen
Deck the Halls With Poison Ivy...
Fa La La La La... La La La La...
Come to think of it, I seem to be spending a lot of time at the doctor's office lately. I returned from Pittsburgh last month in one of those traveling germ factories we call "airplanes", where it apparently only takes one passenger with a cold to infect an entire flight full of people, thanks to the recycled air in those flying petri dishes. My vicious cold became a Typhoid-Mary-esque-sounding cough that sent me to a doctor, who pronounced me a victim of bronchitis. (Curses on the airplane passenger who brought this plague aboard!)
This doctor was a newbie for me; I'd never seen him before. For reasons I can't identify, I really liked him, despite the fact that he pointed out some things I didn't want to hear (no matter how obvious they were... or are). He examined me and wrote a prescription to treat the bronchitis, and then he mentioned that I should consider having a complete physical. He pointed out the obvious (if terribly inappropriate to mention) fact that I've gained, like... twenty pounds this year. He pointed out that I've never, ever had my cholesterol level tested. He pointed out my family's legacy of diabetes, thyroid troubles, heart disease, and stroke. He gave me a speech (that obviously had been repeated time and again to other patients as well) about smoking ("four-hundred-and-eighty-thousand preventable deaths each year... two-thirds of which are caused by three things... smoking, obesity, sedentary lifestyle... blah, blah, blahhhh...."). His eyes were rolled upward toward the ceiling when he spoke. He pointed out that I haven't had a full-scale bone density test to look at my rapidly disintegrating spine since 1999 when I was diagnosed with osteoporosis. He pointed out that I'm very nearly 35 years old (the bastard!). He pointed out that I'm apparently skipping down the path toward a heart attack by the time I'm 40. In a nutshell, he told me I was fat, lazy, old, and on the brink of clutching my chest like Fred Sanford screaming, "I'm comin' Lizbeth... this is the big one!"
It worked. He prescribed the drug Wellbutrin to help me stop smoking. (I know, I know, you're thinking "yeah, right... didn't we try this earlier this year?") He set me up with a bone density scan of my spine, which later revealed that my spine is, in fact, continuing to disintegrate. He convinced me to come in for fasting blood tests to look at my blood sugar, thyroid, cholesterol, hormone levels, and whether or not I've been flossing with any degree of regularity. He convinced me to come in for a "complete physical".
A "complete physical". That's where it all went bad. When I hear the words complete physical, I picture the doc checking my height, weight, age and overall level of fitness. Maybe a few blood tests, looking at my tongue, asking me to "say ahhhhh", whacking my knee with one of those little rubber hammers. Maybe I walk on a treadmill hooked to some electrode thingies, then he tells me to get more exercise and sends me on my way. In fact, that's the sort of picture that the doc painted for me when convincing me to come in for the physical. When I got there, however, the doc spoke to me for a few minutes (no tongue depressors, no little rubber hammers), gave me the same eyes-rolled-back speech on smokin' and being a fat girl, then gave me the teeny tiniest robe and sheet and told me to get ready for... well, you know. Hmm, how to characterize this? To put this in an automotive metaphor: He convinced me to come in to get my tire pressure checked, then insisted that he be allowed to crawl under the hood and do a lube, oil, and filter while I was there. (Gah! Gah! Gah! The bastard!!!) I told him I wasn't even wearing matching socks. I also mentioned that I didn't think this sort of exam was appropriate without several dates, some nice dinners, and at least three cocktails. He chuckled a little; the nurse laughed out loud. They both threatened to page an announcement to the entire clinic that the redhead in the pink sweater wasn't wearing matching socks if I didn't cooperate.
I endured the indignities, listened to the good doctor tell me once again that I was a lazy little chubette and I needed to get more exercise, go on a diet, stop drinking sodas that are leaching the calcium from my bones, and I had to quit smoking (dammit! I love smoking!). I'm still waiting for the results of my blood work, and I'm prepping myself for the inevitable news that my cholesterol is so off-the-charts bad that my blood is basically as viscous as the crap bubbling up from the bottom of a lava lamp.
Sigh.
So, I'm eating less "unhealthy" (translation: delicious) stuff. I've given up Dr. Pepper (mostly) in favor of H20. I'm taking the Wellbutrin so I can stop smoking (again). And I'm getting more exercise.
Which is what led to the geocaching. Which is what led to the hiking in the woods. Which is what led to my aforementioned reward: a scorching case of poison ivy (with an added bonus for my fiance', who got an even worse case of poison ivy than I did). Maybe it's fate telling me I should just get used to being... um... "curvy", and I should pop open another Dr. Pepper and have another cigarette.
Note to my pugs, who are home with my Mom hundreds of miles from where I sit in my fiance's house in Nashville this weekend: I miss you, my freaky little snorterinas! Be good for Grandma, and don't harrass the cat. She's bigger than you, and she can kick your little curly-tailed asses.