So the exam.
Not so bad, actually. Dr. Perky had taken down all of her dog paraphenalia because apparently they are moving to a larger, grander, more expensive office where the art is being selected for them. Thus, no doggies any longer. I guess I’ll look at modern art splotches and lines at my next visit. I kind of liked the dogs, actually, because they were so goofy.
Dr. Perky is actually an excellent doctor and I’m ever so glad that I found her. I’ve had a rather traumatic past history of that damn pelvic exam, thus I feel rather blessed in that she is so very painless and quick about her task. What is more, she’s funny and actually had me laughing on the table. In stirrups. God, sometimes I don’t even recognize myself.
Oh, and the weighing. I haven’t been weighing myself at home, just relying upon the doctor’s scale, but I knew that something had happened because the jeans are fitting. So I was all sorts of excited to get onto the scale (Who is this person? Does anyone recognize me? Seriously? What the fuck?). The nurse wrote my weight down on the chart (it’s one of those scales that are weird and I can’t read them… all sorts of weird counter balances and whatever) and when we went to the room, I peeked at the number.
According to the number, I had gained. Gained A LOT.
“That’s NOT right! That’s wrong!”
“That’s what the scale said!” She countered.
“I don’t care. I have jeans, I tell you, JEANS! Denim doesn’t lie, sister! You go back there and check it again!”
She pursed her lips and disappeared out of the examing room to check the scale, which was still set to whatever crazy scale logic they were using. Then she came back.
“Oops.. subtract fifty.” She mumbled.
OOPS?!?! I’m sorry, but FUCKING OOPS!?!? That’s not an “oops!”. That’s a “Oh my god, I am so sorry, please let me name my firstborn child after you, even if it is a boy!”
But still… it meant that my grand total of bulbous ass lost: 26 pounds.
My ass is getting decidely less bulbous, actually. My curves are getting a bit more fluid.
I was actually a bit disappointed. I have diet inflation. When I’m doing good, I start picturing very grand results. The better I do, the more weight I envision that I’ve lost. “Wow… I just eschewed that Big Mac and ate some low fat cottage cheese instead… that’s gotta be five pounds right there.” I can talk myself right into size 4 jeans. Not that I WANT to be in size 4 jeans. I mean, I’ve got the body of a farm girl. I’ve got big bones and big childbirthing hips. I’d just be happy if I could walk into Victoria’s Secret and wear something other than their LOTION.
Dr. Perky was very excited about the loss though. And she complimented me on my blue fingernails and even thought that perhaps I had purchased them at a Nail Sweat Shop or something. And then she made a joke that she’ll never be able to grow long fingernails because I probably wouldn’t want her poking around down there with Dragonlady talons…. and she is more right than she knows.
Thus, despite my original shock at the false scale reading and then slight disappointment at only having lost 10 pounds in two months, I was embued with newfound motivation. I went home and ate two cheese sandwiches on whole grain diet bread for dinner and then, while watching The Real World for motivation, I did 25 crunches before my gut muscles cried out for mercy. That was rather pathetic, but it was a start. At one time, I was up to 150 crunches a night. My goal is to get to 100 by next weekend.
And then this morning, I got up at 4 a.m. and went for a walk. And then came home, ate some Special K Red Berries while watching Buffy, then made myself a snack of sliced pineapple, strawberries, and banana to munch on at work.
God. What the heck is up with ME? I HATE people like me. Maybe my system just isn’t accustomed to all of these extra vitamins. Someone needs to start checking my room for an empty pod or something. Maybe Richard Simmons is behind all of this.
If I start trying to convince y’all that plain lettuce tastes good, will someone please come and smack me around with a nice greasy stromboli or something? Because this just isn’t right.
Tomorrow is the beginning of my thirties.
Ok, so really, I turned 30 last year when I had the best birthday ever. But you know how the year 2000 was really the LAST year of the 20th century? And the millenium didn’t start until 2001? Yeah, well, technically, I am still in my twenties.
Weak, isn’t it? But it’s kept me sane for 364 days, so just humor me, ok?
But tomorrow… tomorrow I have to start acting my age. Or something.
In honor of this, I have thrown away the Silly Putty that I keep on my desk at work. It was getting a little iffy anyway.
Don’t panic. Donnie & Marie are staying up. So are my little legion of plastic dinosaurs. I’m not a robot, people!
My thirties are NOT going to be pretty. I can tell already. I’m going to be 31 and I’ve got rock star hair and electric blue fingernails. I’m going to be freebasing Metamucil and hitting on teenage boys by 35. I can just feel it.
Ok. Maybe I’ll take my Silly Putty out of the garbage and just hide it in a drawer. Sniff
Just an fyi: if you’re anxiously awaiting pictures of my rocking red streaks or our Karaokepalooza, never fear… they are coming. The pictures are on my stupid camera and we’re encountering technical difficulties. Please stand by.
