How Many Pounds to Go?

How Many Pounds to Go?


Back in January I had to go to the doctor. Now, I can face major surgery, or minor surgery, or even needles with barely a blink of an eyeball. The doctor can be named Frankenstein, and I probably would ask how his grandpa is doing. But take me down that long, dark corridor to the scales, and you might as well just cut an artery for me.

"9-1-1? We got an emergency here at Dr. Darkkillme's office. Yeah, bring your heavy duty gurney and the ambulance with heavy shocks. She's out cold. On the floor. Bleeding and stuff. Fat."

I have had four kids, fer crying out loud. Don't weigh me! What for?? I avoided the doctor's office for five years merely because I didn't want to get on the scales.
Anyway, in January I had to go to the doctor. It wasn't any big deal. In a month I was over the surgery and back to whatever setting of normal I can manage. On the way home from my follow up check, I pulled into a local gym and walked in. I think I was crying and mumbling, because immediately this kid, who looked to be the age of one of my boys, walked up and asked if he could help me. (Yeah, buddy. Help me pull the plug.) His name is Josh.

I mumbled some more about weighing on scales and about weighing the most I had ever weighed in my life, and something about how I used to be a P.E. teacher, and could run circles around Mary Lou Retton. He smiled and bobbed his curly head and pulled out contracts, saying something about,"I've seen worse. You're not so bad."

Soon I was figuring out what a transporter was and flirting with the old guys who worked out on the weight machines ahead of me. Josh would smile big and bright and ask me how I was doing.

"How do ya think I'm doing? I hate working out!"

And he would smile and say, "Hey, you're looking great! (for an old lady.)"

I counted out popcorn for my snack. I ate one square of chocolate and ate salad until I had nightmares of being chased by a Giant Spinach Leaf with Tomato. (And I used to like tomatoes.) Doing a low glycemic diet, I was told my cravings would go away. Yeah, they go away. When you finally are so thin, you don't need a coffin for your funeral. Just put me in an envelope and mail me to God.

(Potato chips call me every night at 10 p.m. just in case I have forgotten them.)

Well, believe it or not, I lost 20 lbs. I look at myself in that mirror that lies to me and think I need to lose 20 more. My boys tell me maybe 5 more. I'm not sure what motivates them to suggest that number. Probably they are as tired of my diet and exercise routine as I am. They whisper to each other about white bread and chips and real Coke, casting me sidelong looks.

As far as I can tell, being thinner, like I used to be, just makes me more easily depressed. And what is more important than losing the weight, is keeping it off until I go back to the doctor in January of 2007,so I can show a nurse ,who probably wasn't even there before, that I'm lighter on that scale.

One thing dieting and exercise has taught me: I hate it. Forever. Stick a carrot in your ear, because I'm really grumpy now.