He's such a sweet man. Really. It's a shame I dislike him. He's done nothing to deserve it, really. All he's done is tell me the truth. And the truth is: I'm fat.
He's tall and thin, with brown hair and I think he has eyes. I'm not sure, because I cannot look this man in the eyes. Never have. Probably never will.
There are reasons for this: there's so much ELSE to look at in his office, scales, blood pressure equipment and the endlessly facinating poster of "Lifeline - your blood's biological journey". I've stared at it so many times that I can practically tell you...nothing.
Because I'm sitting in his office, with hands and knees tightly clenched as he delivers the news about my weight gain in a somber, gently chiding tone. "You were HERE in Feb. 2005, and now, you are HERE", he points to an appalling number.
"Uh-huh." this is from me.
"And we need to get you down here", he points again, the patient, chiding tone never varies.
"hmmmm." me, again.
Strangely, I'm annoyed, not by the task of weight loss ahead of me, but by the plurality of it all. "WE?...we??" Will "we" be turning down cake, and rum and cokes, and morning muffins and lattes? Will "we" be going to get chicken nuggets for the children and not snitching so much as a french fry from the happy meal? Will "we" see the beer stacked in the fridge for my dear husband and not crack open even one? Will "we"? No, no "we", but me.
It was meant to be supportive and I'm appalled, properly so, by the cattiness of my response. I know the whole "we" thing. "I'm in your corner, it's us against the problem"....yada, yada. Right at this second it sounds insincere, degrading and demoralizing.
'Cause, when it's right down to it, it's going to be me that finds the self-discipline to lose the equivalant of a human mountain.
Onward the interrogation goes:
"Do you drink coffee", he glances at me and I smile slightly. Nooooo, I don't drink it, I'd mainline it if I could. Give me the right porportion of caffeine and milk and sugar and I could take on the world. But the coffee gets set down while I deal with my son's homework folder, my daughter's hair bows, my youngest's need to cuddle. By the time I find it again, it's cold, with a distressing and unappetizing film on top.
I pour coffee, I mix the sugar and milk in it, I sip it once, maybe twice; and then.... No, I don't drink much coffee. It's the holy grail and I only am able to drink a full cup all gone when I'm sitting in my sister's kitchen in Dayton.
"Do you drink alcohol?" Tough question. I never USED to like to drink. Now, unfortunately, I do. Coconut rum and Coke is delightful. White wine I have a genetic disposition for. I find myself having to watch myself (something I NEVER had to do before) that I don't over indulge. Two glasses on the weekends. None during the week, due to grading papers and such. Students take a dim view of GUI, grading under the influence.
"Do you exercise?" Ahhhh, there's the crux. No. I don't. Period. End of story. No excuses. No trying to extrapolate calories burned from worrying, fretting or child caring. No cardio points for multi-tasking. No bonus for walking the dog, when we do NOT briskly walk, rather I meander, and Black Jack bounds forward and back on a generous 20 foot leash. Heck, he could be around the block, and I'd just be turning the corner.
Still, numbers don't lie, and this latest number has put me in a dreadful category. It feels AWFUL, truly mind dredgingly awful.
It's a weight, not just of fat, but of shame and depression as well.
Not only is my body under a load, but my heart and spirit are too.
yuck.
He's tall and thin, with brown hair and I think he has eyes. I'm not sure, because I cannot look this man in the eyes. Never have. Probably never will.
There are reasons for this: there's so much ELSE to look at in his office, scales, blood pressure equipment and the endlessly facinating poster of "Lifeline - your blood's biological journey". I've stared at it so many times that I can practically tell you...nothing.
Because I'm sitting in his office, with hands and knees tightly clenched as he delivers the news about my weight gain in a somber, gently chiding tone. "You were HERE in Feb. 2005, and now, you are HERE", he points to an appalling number.
"Uh-huh." this is from me.
"And we need to get you down here", he points again, the patient, chiding tone never varies.
"hmmmm." me, again.
Strangely, I'm annoyed, not by the task of weight loss ahead of me, but by the plurality of it all. "WE?...we??" Will "we" be turning down cake, and rum and cokes, and morning muffins and lattes? Will "we" be going to get chicken nuggets for the children and not snitching so much as a french fry from the happy meal? Will "we" see the beer stacked in the fridge for my dear husband and not crack open even one? Will "we"? No, no "we", but me.
It was meant to be supportive and I'm appalled, properly so, by the cattiness of my response. I know the whole "we" thing. "I'm in your corner, it's us against the problem"....yada, yada. Right at this second it sounds insincere, degrading and demoralizing.
'Cause, when it's right down to it, it's going to be me that finds the self-discipline to lose the equivalant of a human mountain.
Onward the interrogation goes:
"Do you drink coffee", he glances at me and I smile slightly. Nooooo, I don't drink it, I'd mainline it if I could. Give me the right porportion of caffeine and milk and sugar and I could take on the world. But the coffee gets set down while I deal with my son's homework folder, my daughter's hair bows, my youngest's need to cuddle. By the time I find it again, it's cold, with a distressing and unappetizing film on top.
I pour coffee, I mix the sugar and milk in it, I sip it once, maybe twice; and then.... No, I don't drink much coffee. It's the holy grail and I only am able to drink a full cup all gone when I'm sitting in my sister's kitchen in Dayton.
"Do you drink alcohol?" Tough question. I never USED to like to drink. Now, unfortunately, I do. Coconut rum and Coke is delightful. White wine I have a genetic disposition for. I find myself having to watch myself (something I NEVER had to do before) that I don't over indulge. Two glasses on the weekends. None during the week, due to grading papers and such. Students take a dim view of GUI, grading under the influence.
"Do you exercise?" Ahhhh, there's the crux. No. I don't. Period. End of story. No excuses. No trying to extrapolate calories burned from worrying, fretting or child caring. No cardio points for multi-tasking. No bonus for walking the dog, when we do NOT briskly walk, rather I meander, and Black Jack bounds forward and back on a generous 20 foot leash. Heck, he could be around the block, and I'd just be turning the corner.
Still, numbers don't lie, and this latest number has put me in a dreadful category. It feels AWFUL, truly mind dredgingly awful.
It's a weight, not just of fat, but of shame and depression as well.
Not only is my body under a load, but my heart and spirit are too.
yuck.
Comments
You know Roger and I joined WW about 3 years and BOTH of us lost 100 pounds EACH, and, most importantly, WE'VE KEPT IT OFF. It's the best program you can be on in my opinion, and it still SUCKS OUT LOUD. Not eating whatever you want, whenever you want should be against the law - but unfortunately it isn't.
AND, one more comment on your doctor's advice...let me point out that I did NOT do ONE SINGLE bit of exercise to help me lose that HUGE amount of weight...nope, not a bit - not so much as putting my feet in the pull and kick-splashing...so the "You need to exercise to lose weight" thing is, in my opinion, pure myth.
Let me also point out that when I DID start exercising to prevent Layla, the Monster Dawg, from destroying my house, I actually GAINED two pounds, presumably from muscle.
Anyway...WW is your best bet, IMHO, and I'll help you anyway I can...but it's still gonna BE ABSOLOUTELY HORRIBLE..I can promise you that. *smooch*
I'm gonna be screaming by Wednesday.